Dawg Daze

Why, yes–I am back.

For the moment at least.

I’ve been buried in a story about this dead gal, and while it’s been quite the education, it has also taken over my life for the past month. I’m done and now I wait.

Yeah..yeah..yeah…I know we’re in the Dog Days of Summer and my three readers are probably either on vacation in Branson, or in prison. See, I figure that it’s been a while since I’ve paid any attention to this blog, it’s best that I don’t jump in–tits first–since most of my writing for the past month has been about serious stuff. I don’t know what’s funny anymore.

Fortunately, I have my fellow humans to once again prove to me that we live in a world that is always chock-full of weird and wacky shit. So, attention must be paid.

You know what? Sleep is so overrated. It is. Eight to 10 hours of shut-eye a night is for pussies. I’ve been an insomniac for years, and I’m not *quite* sure why my body/mind doesn’t require sleep, but I have a damn good idea as to what might be one of the many causes.

All I can say is HOLY FUCK.

New Spider from Laos Named after Actor Dominic Monaghan

I don’t give a red rat’s ass that there’s a spider named for some actor, it’s the fact that Mother Nature has decided that this world needs another fucking spider. Why a spider? WHY, DAMN YOU?!!? Is a new species of spider *really* necessary? Why not something harmless like a new horse species? Or an even hedgehog? (like that’s possible)

I’m off to buy a hermitically sealed house.

Oh… this kid needs therapy. Peepee whacking in this case should be done by someone with sharp stick. Yes, I understand this is what young lads do, but there is something fakakta about a ‘tween jackin’ it on mom’s Martex towels she got on special at Macy’s.

Yeah..yeah..yeah…Anthony Weiner. Big whup. You’re a choad, not because you were sexting (I mean really, who cares?), but because you said you weren’t going to do it anymore after your last very public “oops.” Plus, you think that New Yorkers are stupid, which we all know ain’t the case. True story–New Yorkers will always be the first ones to tell you just how smart they are. *YAWN.* What I love about this story is how the word ‘slutbag’ is now part of the McCrabass vernacular. The said thing is, Barbara Morgan will probably get a new job before I do.

I like this hed better: “Monkeys throw poo at selfish people.” Too bad the story isn’t about poo-flinging because that would be something I could get behind.

Finally, I am a journalist because I hope to cover a story like this someday soon.

Passenger said he only wanted to travel together with his ‘beloved’ pet
Screen shot 2013-08-02 at 8.48.17 PM

Aaaand I’m done.

 

Hands Across My Labia

(WARNING: NSFW)

There’s a new movement afoot to get women to love their labias.

Why? Huh?

Because we women are supposed to feel like shit about our physical selves–even when we don’t–so some twink somewhere (probably a plastic surgeon) makes up a new neuroses for us gals to glom onto. Of course we do this since we women are also major people pleasers AND this society is allllll about promoting beauty over brains and brawn. What happens next? Our self-esteem takes a major hit, and we’re looking for the next beauty miracle to make us perfect instead of, oh I don’t know, maybe reading a good book that will make us a scosch smarter/wiser. Help us, Judy Blume!

Now, I was taken aback by this new love thyself no matter what proclamation because I had no idea that some women hate their labias.

Wait..clarification desperately needed here–90% of men don’t know what the LABIA is (no, it’s not the latest Italian sportscar, although most men ride it like it was –HEY O!), so I will do the honors of explaining to the menfolk just what AND where the labia is.

From FreeDictionary.com:

labia

[lā′bē·ə] sing. labium

Etymology: L, lip
1 the lips.
2 the fleshy liplike edges of an organ or tissue.
3 the folds of skin at the opening of the vagina. labial, adj.
Here’s the perfect graphic for show n’ tell: And to the dudes who read this blog–commit this image to memory–with particular attention paid to where the clitoris is. *AHEM*
(Courtesy of The Mayo Foundation)

(Courtesy of The Mayo Foundation)

Apparently, the hot trend these days–labiaplasty–is for women whose twats have had quite the workout birthing humans, riding horses, doing the splits during their Nadia Comaneci phase, and well, just by being a modern woman. That shit gets stretched out, see, and some women are uber-self conscious about their labias looking like elephant ears.

Huh?

Really?

This is where we get into trouble.

Ok, let’s walk through this one, mmkay? So, some woman, who has done her fair share of living (see above graf), suddenly feels like CRAP because she’s seen what the porn goddesses have and decide that them gals are the new high standard in pussy perfection.

(Side note: I’m sure most of this myth is perpetrated by men who never leave their parents’ basements.)

Yes, even though the only folks who will actually feast their peepers on her vajay, are her doc (hey, she/he has seen ’em all & they don’t care), her significant other, her lover, her mistress, and perhaps her waxologist–but she’s still quite self-conscious. Let’s be honest–any dude who is THAT LUCKY to get close to a labia–would be wise to shut his yap-yap about what it looks like or he’ll find that he is no longer welcome in that fleshy, magical, wonderful kingdom.

Apparently, and thanks to the world of social media, there are blogs, blogs and tumblrs & more tumblersand whatnot dedicated to celebrating the labia–no matter the size. Bravo to those broads who are all about putting puss pix out there for all the world to see. <golf clap>

This is what has me flummoxed: Women do the crux of the living and breathing in this society, and our bodies are the physical evidence. We’re the ones who keep this world from sliding deeper into the shitter. However, even though we are the ones made of sterner stuff, we’re still made to feel like shit if we don’t look absolutely fucking perfect all the live-long day.

To that nonsense I say “What the entire fuck??!”

In short, there is nothing wrong with you–you’re perfect.

Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Picture 3Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

ffym

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

2012 — Your Year in Choads

2012 will be noted in the record books as one of the choadiest years ever. Why oh why would you make such a proclamation, Julia? Not only did we have one of the oddest years in human behavior, but the election shenanigans put the ‘crap’ in craptastic choadiness.

2012 was ugly from day one and it just got uglier and uglier as the year progressed– especially in the political arena. Needless to say, the folks on the following list not only embarrassed us the world over, but they sure did a bang-up job of making the human race look like a big pile of chunk-filled dung. (Note: John Boehner, Rush Limbaugh, Eric Cantor, Mitch McConnell, Bill O’Reilly, Hannity, Newt and the NRA are already in the Choad Hall of Fame, so mentioning them here would be redundant.) The vetting process was brutal and I know I’m missing some choads, but I’m sure they’ll be on my 2013 list.

So, without further adieu and in no particular order, I present to you–my loyal three readers–Your Year in Choads.

The Donald.

(courtesy of examiner.com)

(courtesy of examiner.com)

The thrice-married Trump never ceases to amaze me. He inherited millions from his father, then felt the need to continue to dumb down society with his tee vee shows and tomes. He has even sullied my city with a multi-floor steel phallus with great views, and overpriced units. That was a Trump I could live with–out of my league financially and matrimonily–but I never bought into his bullshit so ignoring him wasn’t a chore at all. However, he had to go and ruin it for me and everyone else by opening his fat yap about how the President isn’t a citizen and how the country was robbed during the election (even though Obama won the popular vote) with a series of ill-timed and uber-choady Tweets–which he promptly deleted. Oh and early in the campaign, he was actually a candidate. But, never fear, Trump will be back in 2013, and will be a bigger choad than Donald Trump. Notice how I didn’t even mention his hair?

Sheldon Adelson.

If Citizens United had a dick, Sheldon Adelson should be giving it blowies all the live long day as a thank-you gift. Yeah, I know. I have that image in my mental Rolodex too and I have no idea how to get it out of there. A brain transplant may turn out to be the way to go, and I’d be happy with an Abby Normal-esque brain at this point. The good thing is, Adelson’s attempts to buy the election failed the way the uterus supposedly does when raped legitimately. Ahem. Imagine the good Adelson coulda done with that money had he done something useful, like for instance, help his beloved Israel build a better defense system.

And speaking of legitimate rape, there’s Todd Akin.

I’ll let the magical combo of video and the Internets speak for Mr. Akin (who lost in November–big time–by the way). Akin’s advisers, the “doctors” who told him about how the female body “works”, anyone who has ever hung out with or believed in Akin, well, y’all are choads too.

Nikki Haley

haley try me

Choads are not limited to men, my friends. Nooo…never. Not only did Gov. Haley NOT consider Stephen Colbert for Jim DeMint’s now-vacate Senate seat, she doesn’t want nuthin’ to do with Obamacare even though her state, South Carolina, is desperate for the help. Like Haley’s fellow GOP governors, she’d prefer to pout and eat worms in the garden because the smart, black guy won AGAIN, and now his monumental, life-saving legislation is truly the law of the land. Basically, she’d rather fuck over her constituents to make a point than help them. That horrid attitude makes her one of the Choads of the Year.

Richard Mourdock.

“Even if life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that is something that God intended to happen.”

(courtesy HuffPo)

(courtesy HuffPo)

He’s rape’s champion and for that, he almost beat Rep. Joe Donnelly in the Indiana race for the Senate.

What’s even more amazing is some woman finds him fuckable.

Personhood Amendments/He-Man Woman Hater’s Club.

It’s safe to say the today’s GOP don’t like us ladyfolk very much. That hatred was evident in the candidates they nominated and the legislation/ballot initiatives that so many states tried to pass, or get on the ballots. Then, there was the kerfuffle over the transnatch ultrasound bill requiring all women in Virginia who wanted an abortion to have this lubed-up wand stuck up their hoo-hahs so they can see what’s dancing on their bladders. The best part? Women have to pay for this humiliation out of their own pockets because Lord knows the GOP doesn’t want to pay for it–hell, they’d rather protect guns than people, see. There are so many anti-woman stories that happened this year that writing about them would cause me to start biting my face again.

But, I’ll give you one more to chew on.   It’s the creme-de-la-creme of choady anti-woman fucked-in-the-head laws that some states in this great country–you know the one that is the most powerful & most advanced in the entire world–seem to love to pass. All of us ladies who still experience menses are pregnant whether we like it or not. That kinda sucks out loud.

Mike Huckabee

331123-mike-huckabee

Gosh, there is so much that can be spewed about the good Rev. Mike. He’s besties with Chuck Norris, his son likes to kill dogs, he’s has a love/hate relationship with weight loss, he blames gays for all of society’s ills, and a bunch of other assorted treats that are too many to mention.

But, this vidya demonstrates just how choad-a-rrific this man of god really is.

Jan Brewer

(courtesy ABC News)

(courtesy ABC News)

The weathered, ridden-hard-and-put-away-wet governor of Arizona is the greatest of all lady choads. She loathes people of color, has a pointy-anointy claw that she likes to point at the POTUS; loves guns; probably has nudie pix of Sheriff Joe Arpaio; allegedly shits Coppertone; kicks puppies; has a law that says all bleeding women are pregnant; is considering running for a third term; more than likely believes in Henrietta Pussycat but not climate change; and finally, contrary to popular belief, did NOT star in “There’s Something About Mary.”

theres-something-about-mary-20090615050344742-000

I Have Man Boobs

No, not really. I just needed to lure y’all into my post here by using tittehs as my hook. Works like a charm every time–especially if you’re into men with breastesses.

(courtesy manboobsguide.com NOT. KIDDING.)

(courtesy manboobsguide.com NOT. KIDDING.)

Man boobs are very popular these days. I mean, I keep seeing stories about ’em all over the place. Nothing can contain them it seems.

Case in point:

From BBC.com

Increase in male breast reduction surgery

Apparently in the UK, men with squeeze boxes they wear on their chests don’t like wearing them no more. So, men are getting them taken down a cup size or two or three, and in 2011 roughly 790 of these surgeries were performed. This number has doubled in the past five years. In boring doctor terms, this condition is called gynaecomastia.

I guess men don’t like the nipple tenderness and the embarrassment the manly mams cause. Guess they don’t like having their tits stared at on an hourly basis EITHER. It’s like a mammary quid pro quo. I wish this surgery wasn’t an option for some men because then they’d have to deal with motor-boating jokes and nips that are allll about living the high-beam life.

Of course, now that men have boobs, modern medicine is jumping through worn out bras to figure out a way to help ’em get rid of them.

Huh. Most men spend their whole lives wanting to fondle the goods, but once the good lord has blessed them with a pair of their own, they no likey the jumblies so much anymore.

Have a piece of irony pie.

I have a rule I follow, wanna hear it? Sure you do: Never date a man whose boobs are bigger than yours. It’s just smart living.

Secksy.

Secksy.

Why were these invented?

What do you spake of, dearest Julia?

Oh. WHITE CHOCOLATE LIFE-SIZE BABY HEADS.

 

I hate chocolate now. (courtesy of Huffington Post)

I hate chocolate now. (courtesy of Huffington Post)

Some person who hates babies and grown-ups, felt they were necessary for the planet. Now, this person must be destroyed, or at least never, ever be let out in public again.

Petraeus’s Pussy Problem

What former CIA Director General David Petraeus said in a statement after it was discovered by the FBI he was playing hide the ballistic missile with his biographer, Paula Broadwell, author of the tome about her paramilitary paramour titled, [B]All In, was expected and quite dull. Zzzzzz….

“After being married for over 37 years, I showed extremely poor judgment by engaging in an extramarital affair,” Mr. Petraeus said in his statement, expressing regret for his abrupt departure. “Such behavior is unacceptable, both as a husband and as the leader of an organization such as ours. This afternoon, the president graciously accepted my resignation.”

Whoopsie!

Just for once, I’d LOVE to hear an apology statement by a government official upon resignation given in the appropriate lingo of his/her career choice. Confused? Well, here’s what he should have said:

“After slipping my warhead past Ms. Broadwell’s strategic defense systems, I have surrendered my position. I have waved the white flag, admitted that civilian poontang was my Waterloo. I apologetically let loose many an improvised explosive device in her fox hole, and my actions are regrettable. I am currently engaged in intense peace negotiations with my military spouse of 37 years, and am hoping for a truce but I have an inkling my actions have only created my own little DMZ. Therefore, the Commander-in-Chief, who has never spent one damn fucking day in uniform, acted like a major pussy and accepted my resignation. What a pud. Me? Well, I’m a SCUD stud!”

Way to acoustically jam her, General.

The Daily Dick

Pat Robertson deserves to infected with brain tapeworms. However, I think the worms would just be knockin’ around in his empty-as-fuck skull since it has become quite obvious in the past couple of decades that this man of God has shit for brains.

This ultimate third-rate con-man is now advocating moving to a country that not only allows, but encourages, wife beating: Saudi Arabia.

Why? The good vicar doesn’t believe in divorce and believes that wives should be subservient to their husbands. Oh and he doesn’t like Islam which is all kinds of weird since he doesn’t have a problem telling a Christian American to move to a, um, Muslim country so he can give his wife what-for and then some.

Oh, Grandpa.

Swingin’ times in London town

The Games of the 30th Olympiad are plowing ahead, and we’re deep into the second week of stiff competition. Some competitors got off easy, while others went limp during their events. If you need to bone up on the results, check ’em out here. Once you’re caught up, you’re ready to plunge headlong into the last weekend of competition. Enjoy.

Until next time, please enjoy some of the more memorable images from the games.

 

 

 

 

 

And then some ..

First, this parody has me giggling uncontrollably. Just watch it — you’ll like it — trust me. (thanks to Braulio B. for this. MWAH!)

“Wouldn’t this fake job be better if these girls could see each other’s cleavage and kiss?”

Sadly, I doubt the boner killers would’ve helped the woman in the next story.

Apparently, overrated comic and whatever he is, Russell Brand, managed to get a tongue lashing by co-star Billy Connolly for insisting a wardrobe assistant flash her delicates at Brand before he donned his costume for the Eric Idle musical “What About Dick?” The story goes that production on the film was delayed for a some time while Brand begged and pleaded with the assistant to flash her boobs for him.

Really?

(image courtesy USA Today)

Brand is supposedly a big star who allegedly has chochas of all shapes/sizes/smells flying at him from all angles at all times of the day and night, and he has to bully some wardrobe assistant (who’s probably just doing that shitty job to beef up her resume so she can get onto something big like, say “Game of Thrones”) for a titty show? Isn’t that what strip clubs are for? Or his ex-wife Katy Perry? Let’s face it –Brand is adored by those who believe that Dane Cook is a comic genius and that the “Twilight” film series ranks up there with anything Scorcese has ever done. In other words, he sucks.

Now, if I had been the wardrobe assistant, I would’ve obliged. Why? Because me shoving my breasticles in Brand’s ironically bearded visage would’ve caused him a certain amount of humiliation and pain. What about harming me? Well, that act would’ve mirrored any Tuesday for me.

Finally, there’s nothing like having a craptastic mother who doesn’t quite grasp the concept of social media and what can happen to you when you post on your Facebook page a video of two kids going at it like pit bulls in a ring.

Ding Dong — social services gets called and the story breaks wide.

Warning: The vid is tough to watch.

Conundrum

Help me out here please.

Which one is Donatella Versace and which one is Iggy Pop?

Any luck? No? Well, me neither.

Ok, here’s another.

Holy Former Heroin Addict. I still can’t tell.

Maybe it’ll help if I separate the two, study them individually then try again.

Here’s Mr. Pop:

Those photos don’t do dick for me.

Hang on….

Wow. Jennifer Aniston sure hasn’t aged well. Poor thing. Hon, if you want to look good as you age, you can’t be a dullard. Sadly, Ms. Aniston has the personality of a footstool–but that’s a possible future post.

Back to Mr. Pop — who I dig, by the way. One of the best performers ever — I suggest you spend the moola and see him. Totally worth every damn penny.

He was totally hot once — a total US–UGLY SEXY. Sidenote: We have the same hairstyle here.

Ok, now I’m beginning to see the difference. Iggy has less nose & facial hair –but probably not much –than Donatella. Also, Donatella has a teefus issue. You’d think she woulda taken some of the scratch she used to pay for her plastica to get her teefus fixed. They have doctors for that you know. Good ones too.

Now I’m really confused. My brain hurts.

I need a palate cleanser.

Oh that did it. Much better. Palate cleansed and then some. Thank you, Mr. Irrfan Khan. You’re so pretty.

Not QUITE done with him yet. Funny, he resembles someone with whom I’m closely yoked.

Well played, Bollywood, well played.

Digression can be a bad thing from time to time.

Ici Madame Versace — she’s been committed to memory. Ok. Got it. Good. Finally. Ready to move on.

Aaaaaaaaaand I’m back to square one.