Tag Archives: bukkake

IT’S EDUCATIONAL

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Mr. H turned 33 the other night, and as we were in the car returning from dinner, he asked what I’d gotten for his birthday. This was kind of a joke, because I suck at arranging birthday festivities for him. One year I gave him a free kitten. Another year, I broke up with him just to avoid his birthday. This year, I am still the laziest person on the planet, and we’re perpetually hungover from celebrating our week-long anniversary, so I said “I arranged a bukkake. The new neighbors will be dropping by later.” They happen to be senior citizens. That really stirs the pot.

He said “What’s bukkake, anyway?” After I finished choking and sputtering and howling, I ascertained that he really did not know. So after more kicking and twitching and inability to breathe, I told him.*

“Well!” he said.

So that was his 33rd birthday present. The gift of Knowledge. Inspired by this recent Achewood installment, I started rattling off other vile juvenile terms, and found he was also remiss in his understanding of the terms “donkey punch,” “Cleaveland steamer,” and “the shocker.” He did know about the Dirty Sanchez and the blumpkin, though. I guess the variance is the product of the local public school system. I went to private school, and that’s how I knew all that stuff.

*A fantastic bukkake resource: The Archive of Inadvertent Bukkake.

The hopeless romantic

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Friday night’s Boston Common “theater in the park” production of The Furtive Masturbator brought new meaning to the term “ham fisted.” The audience barely noticed as the protagonist, played by a previously unknown Latin actor, entered from stage right. The audience went so far as to continue conversation loudly even after the performance began, but this is understandable owing to the abysmal lighting conditions which failed to illuminate the action.

The acting was clumsy at best, the actor beset by a lumbering physicality that somehow managed to remain wooden. The costuming can only be described as bland and unappealing, shades of beige doing little to flatter the complexion. The audience failed to engage with the subject matter in the least, prefering to natter away incessantly. The actor responded with increasingly breathy vocalizations which demonstrated his total lack of skill in projection, becoming plaintive and insistent.

Finally, completely frustrated by the audience’s utter disregard for his craft, the actor left his position and stormed off into the wings. Audience members examined their fingernails and applied more lip gloss.

***

That’s right folks, when Lambchop and I clear a room, we really clear a room. First we dispatched tourists trying to read the giant monument where we were perched with a snarling “what are you looking at?” Then it turned out that even a needy pervert is no match for our withering self-involvement. Of course we do owe a debt to Stephin Merritt for writing the lyrics that Lambchop loudly recited to ruin our intrepid friend’s special moment.

On the way home, a woman projectile vomited on the train. Attempted auto-bukkake and actual vomitola all in one night? The universe arranges itself expressly for my amusement!

-xxoo

Burden

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Hulk hurt self bulk shopping. Hulk not lie to you. Ouch.

Also, I am morally outraged because it turns out that Netflix does not stock pornography! What the? I mean I just assumed that they would when I forked over $20. It’s not like it’s a number one hobby or anything, but this is America! If I want to settle in with some microwave popcorn for “Weapons of Ass Destruction,” who is Netflix to turn down my hard-earned unemployment dollars? I wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t been looking for “Something About Mary.” This reminded me to always try Keyword: Bukkake. No dice. I am drafting an angry letter right now.

-xxoo

Kitty Dukakii, Karaoke, and Bukkake

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I am so sure you are all following along at home our adventures with a brand new drink, sickness the Ktty Dukakis. This weekend we unleashed Kitty on an unsuspecting crowd at my house. They smelled her perfume and the glow of her cherries, treatment and were lulled into guileless drunken bliss. Which explains the impassioned duet of Careless Whispers I did with my roomie. Or it explains my adventure in the broom closet, I know not which.

-xo

You turn to us

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For:
kitty winn

bukkake

alien souveniers

antoinette k-doe

ass-bear

bad kitty skulls cat

cat anal leakage –sex

crawfish drive thru new Orleans

do dachshunds wheeze

g-l-a-m-b-o-y steve strange

heather morgan god

how do goths lose weight

kitty winn rumors

louis vuitton on newbury street

marabou christmas tree

And Heather and I are happy to serve, for we love our audience.

Actually, we are a smidge appalled by some of those investigations. Most importantly, Louis Vuitton is in the frigtastic Copley Mall, not on Newbury Street. I should know, they made the bags under my eyes this week. As an aside, hard work is really bad for my appearance.

Also, I am just kidding, I wouldn’t carry a Louis Vuitton bag if my life depended on it. Unless it were free, in which case I’d write MY name all over it. Or possibly if they managed to make one without gold-toned hardware. I will admit to fleeting temptation when the Murakami bag came out, but it’s just not me.

Some of the other searches make perfect sense, especially the marabou Christmas tree. If I had any inclination to celebrate Christmas, I’d order one right away. Maybe I’ll settle for a non-denominational wreath. What is a better symbol of pagan fertility than pink marabou? As for the rest of the terms, I am sure you have your reasons, but please do not tell US about them.

Back to the steppes of Hell. Er…work.

-xxoo

I love you like a fat kid loves cake

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It’s a slow news day. Boston is under a blanket of white stuff….much like the one under which Vomitola staff frequently finds themselves. I was toying with the idea of a post called “Things I have spilled on my desk.” Last week it was chowder. Corn chowder, not man chowder. Heather. A co-worker walked into my office and said “Aw man, I missed the bukkake.” A few days later, marinara sauce. Same co-worker walked in, he of impeccable timing, and said “Aw man, I missed the placenta!” The moral of all this? I’m a saucy girl? Bukkake is always amusing? I don’t know what to tell you. I’m ashamed of myself, really. And I do clean it up, it’s not like it festers for days! Surely that’s more important than the snow out there. I feel for all those poor Fox news bastards shivering out along the highway in their parkas. “It appears to be snowing, yes, quite a bit. I’d stay inside if I were you. Don’t walk on the Charles, morons!”

That out of the way, I should explain the title of the post. It’s from the song “21 Questions” by 50 Cent. 50 is a numerological cipher, he is! He is really on the pulse of America’s damaging love affair with food. Witness 50’s take on the obesity epidemic:

Fat, fat, them Snickers got your ass getting fat, fat

Those cookies got your ass getting fat, fat

That Cake got your ass getting fat, fat

Bitch you grown, that ain’t baby fat, fat

In the gym I see your ass up on the Stairmaster

But you got it on level two bitch go a little faster

Look girl, I ain’t gonna lie, I’ll tell you how I feel

They should handcuff your big ass to the treadmill

He’s really on to something, huh. The secret to weight loss is definitely to reduce intake while increasing activity. I’m not sure diet experts would agree that one should handcuff him or herself to gym equipment, but I’m sure 50 cent was speaking in metaphorical terms, citing willpower as a virtue. In fact I’m inspired to get a personal trainer! Brawny Hans will have me lithe and limber in no time.

xxoo