G.I. tracts. G.I. Joe is scary. Fan fiction is scary. But G.I. Joe fan fiction--well, that's just too fucking sweet.
Here's a bit from "G.I. Joe: A Love So Forbidden" (and rightly so):
At that moment, they had suddenly realized that even though they each were on different sides of the whole G.I. Joe/Cobra thing, they were still able to experience something wonderful between them.
That something is known as raw and untamed erotica ... and they were enjoying every minute of it.
A few minutes later, after he had placed his stiff cock inside her asshole, Blaine had used each of his hands to caress both her breasts and pussy.
'AAAAHHHH, COR-BLOODY-SHIT! THAT FEELS ... SSSSOOOO GOOOOD!" yelled a sexually energized Zarana. "DO IT, BLAINE! FUCK ME! I REALLY ... WANT YOU ... TO FUCK ME! AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!'
And here I thought I didn't like erotica, but I just didn't know it included yelling COR-BLOODY-SHIT!, which makes me melt every time.
"Attorneys find Dykes on Bikes offensive." No cor-bloody-shit. Twice, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office has rejected the application of San Francisco's legendarily les-tastic Dykes on Bikes to patent its name, on the grounds that "Dyke" is vulgar, offensive, and "scandalous." And not in a good way. The Dykes aren't offensive, mind you, it's just the word Dyke that the lawyers don't like. But that's the best part of the name. Without Dykes, you got no Dykes on Bikes. In case you didn't notice, I'm just trying to say Dyke a lot here.
I could look at this all day. If I drank a lot. And didn't have a job where everyone could see my computer screen. And it didn't make me a teeny bit sea-sick.
"Who is the sex offender in your neighborhood? In your neighborhood? In your neigh-bor-hood?" Glad you asked. Actually, I'm not. Take that question to the National Sex Offender Public Registry. New Jersey is one of the states that you can search for offenders by county, zip code, locality, or street name. Or name, date of birth, race, height, weight, age, and hair color. Or vehicle. Just remember that you are not supposed to use this information to threaten, harass or intimidate anyone. About their hair color. Or vehicle.
Norwegian wood. Fuck for Forest promotes the perennially unattractive sport of tree-hugging, which is made no more attractive by nudity. This bunch of misunderstood Norwegian environmental rock fuck show activists has pioneered the concept of porn aid, which is like Live Aid, but porn-ier. But they have given me my new motto: "Do not let you're sexual talents to waste."
I don't. If you hate the New York Times as much as Bronwyn does, you'll love Veiled Conceit, which walks the fine line between slander and not-saying-anything-at-all (which is no-fun-at-all) about the entitled twits in the wedding pages of the Sunday Styles section. In his recent post,
investigative journalist blogger Zach Miller exposes the deep and complicated connections linking The Sound of Music, Supreme Court nominee John G. Roberts, and Judas Priest. The Photo-Shopped evidence speaks for itself. Plus you get a bonus link to the 1986 classic Heavy Metal Parking Lot.
Happy ending. Gay marriage is now legal in Canada, plus three other countries, which you can't name. (The Netherlands, Belgium and Spain. Even though the Netherlands sounds like more than one country, it only counts as one. But it's one great place to be gay.)
Thanks for the dirt, Station Manager Ken.