I’m not kidding! Really! Look it up!

From today’s Science Daily: “…sex workers studied in Nairobi, Kenya, appear resistant to HIV infection…evidence suggests that certain biological factors in their vaginal fluid may play a role in resistance…“

Gay guys wanting innoculation are going, “Uh-uh, hell no, I ain’t drinkin THAT!” Pucker up to the hairy snare, pretty boys! The first fluffer to send me a fabulous foto of him drinking a refreshing glass of Snatch(TM) wins a free t-shirt with the nipples cut out!!!

My favorite coffee brand is Meth Coffee because it doesn’t taste burnt like Tarbucks, it has a mellow smooth flavor, and the super-caffeinated Arabica beans and Yerba Mate buck my ass up without the nervous shakes. Plus they’re a supporter of drug and alcohol recovery groups like the Comedy Addiction Tour. If caffeine is your favorite drug, try it.

If you’d rather drink poopoo and kaka, pick up a bag of Paradise Coffee, which is made from beans that’ve been eaten and shat out of an Asian Palm Civet’s butt. I’m serious. Civet coffee, a.k.a. Kopi Luwak, is the most expensive coffee bean in the world at $160/pound, and who can resist? Just read the alluring description on the Paradise web site:

“It has a rich, heavy flavour with hints of chocolate . . . the body is almost syrupy.”

Damn straight—it plopped out of a mongoose rodent’s ass!

Yum. I know what I’ll be drinking the next time I watch 2 Girls, 1 Cup.

The two Georgia men claiming to have found Bigfoot’s body last week came forward today to admit it was all a hoax. In truth the carcass they unveiled was just a rubber Sasquatch costume filled with . . . wanna guess?

Possum roadkill and slaughterhouse leftovers.

Think of it: these guys could’ve filled the suit with anything—old rags, pillows, even dirt. Any of these would’ve been convincing enough for a grainy photograph. But they actually opted for decaying animals—even though nobody but them would know there were carcasses inside. That’s dedication, people. Deadication.

Makes you wonder what Star Wars’ costume maker stuffed into Chewbacca.

“So, did you give the wookie a heart?”

“No. Pig intestines!”

I wish I were a reporter on the scene—I’m so filled with questions I could burst! Is fat roadkill better than flat? Do tire tread marks add structure? I can totally picture those good ole boys driving around Georgia backroads looking for roadkill: “There’s a possum, Jeb! Stop the truck! I’ll get the shovel!” Scraaape.

And what, pray tell, are ‘slaughterhouse leftovers’? Spleens? Hair? Teeth? That must’ve been some nasty-ass dumpster diving.

“Thank you for calling MovieFone. Press 1 for Deliverance: The Early Years, starring Hannibal Lecter.”

Now the men are being threatened with lawsuits, which is sad. The “Blowoff”—carny slang for the bonus attraction at a sideshow where you’re charged an extra quarter to see a woman with a hairy spider legs, a three-legged fetus in a jar, or some other display you know is probably faked out—is a great tradition of traveling American and English sideshows dating back to the 1820s, and still exciting today. That’s all these Georgia bubbas are guilty of.

A lawsuit? Come on. We all hoped it was Sasquatch, but did anyone really believe? Really? Truly?

Ok, maybe this guy did. And boy, does he look pissed.

try walking san francisco’s financial center downtown at 8 a.m. and see if you don’t get run over by 300-pound corn-fed businessmen pulling their briefcases behind them on little luggage carts.  it’s no wonder america’s gotten soft—its men can’t even carry their junk. you’d think they were hauling forty bricks or hiking a hundred miles or suffering a broken arm, but noooo.  these paunchy lady men may look fairly robust.  they stop to buy snacks. they wave to fellow financiers. they puff on cigars. but then they put their bald heads down like bulls and charge with their little effete dollies rattling behind them over curbs, cigarette butts, passed-out bums….  

“sure,” they grunt. “we can put down half a pig and a bottle of chateauneuf while grabbing the lunchtime waitress’s ass, but sometimes that 2-pound briefcase gets a little heavy.  it’s the working man’s burden.  our cross to bear.  hell yes it is.  heh heh.  suck my balls.  grrr.  now. where did i put my hanky?”

maybe they just like the feel of pulling something behind—it adds length to their girth on the sidewalk. fuck viagra.  or maybe the act of folding up the cart when they get to the office makes them feel important: “hold on, larry, i’ll ride up in the elevator with you right after i fold up my big-ass samsonite all-steel roller here.  yessir, she’s a nice one.  almost as big as my cock, heh heh.  wait, hold on, i’ve gotta spit.”  

and i’m sure it’ll get worse.  next it’ll be their wallets.  then coinpurses.  ”hallo, mr. homeless person. i am a big spätzle-eating german businessman.  you want to touchen mine frankenfurter?  it iz quite large!  ha ha ha. no i only kid you.  vut iz dat? you vant a quarter? sure, let me bend down here and go into my little four-ounze coin purse i am pulling back here on my gertzheimerlund all-aluminum pully pully. oh! i am out of quarters. you vill take a euro, yah?”

This past weekend I traveled to Bodie, California’s only Gold Rush ghost town. Nestled in a grassy meadow in the high Sierras about 75 miles from Lake Tahoe, the town stands frozen in a state of arrested decay with clapboard buildings spitting nails under a blisting sun.

1800s gold miners braved isolation, fires, disease, -40 Farenheit winters with 20-foot snows, dynamite accidents, gunfights, and stabbings to work their claims worth $35 to $100 million in total, depending on whom you ask. The clothes, hats, boots, beds, blankets, dry goods, cans, bottles, dishes, games, toys, false teeth, glass eyes, tools, horse-drawn carriages, art, books, magazines, and other belongings of the miners and their families lie right where they left them as they fled violence and firestorms…or died.

The town is still. The leaning houses & outhouses, church, town bank, hotel, bar, general store, cemetary, morgue where you can see tiny coffins lined up for babies, and Chinatown where murdering gunslingers smoked opium, gambled, and screwed hookers stand in eerie quiet. All you hear is wind in the grass and your boots in the gravel. Several times I peered through a dusty window and could swear I saw movement—a shadow, maybe, or a face darting from view. I loved it though it smelled of death.

E.S.P. overload.

Photos are posted here.

whore  {   } 
pregnant  {0}
virgin  {x}
bushy  #{#}#
deep  (({}))
diseased  {:::}
probably too young  .
transsexual  }{
homo lying on his side  o8–

Um…maybe I have too much free time at work?