(Warning! This post is N to the S to the F to the W, so don’t read this if your minimizing windows game isn’t on point. Ya been warned, #TeamBlaria!)
Joseph Sciambra, former gay porn star and “ex-gay” born again Christian, discussing anal sex in a YouTube video.
On New Years Day, Sciambra felt there’s no better way to kick off 2013 than to let the whole world know that he thinks during anal sex, the catcher in the situation is tooting demons out the butt like a New York Knicks employee shoots basketball paraphernalia out of t-shirt cannon during halftime. Aaaaaaaaaand I’m not supposed to be laughing at this foolery? Okay, well how about this choice quote from him:
The anus was never designed, even if you don’t believe in a God, uh, was never designed, um, by nature to accommodate the penis. It was never meant to be.”
Straight up (no pun intended), this vid is the embodiment of brignorance (aka brilliant ignorance). First of all, “accommodate?” This isn’t a Best Western hotel we’re talking about here. Anal sex doesn’t doesn’t place a temporary charge of $100 for incidentals on your debit card until you’re ready to bounce nor does it offer you a continental breakfast in the morning. Second of all, tons of things weren’t designed by nature for the baloney pony. Like boobs. But that doesn’t stop some bigger-chested women from wrapping their chesticles around their boo’s peen like the old school vise grip I used in middle school wood shop class to keep a birdhouse in place while I sanded it down.
So what in raggedy ass Farnsworth Bentley hell (you can’t tell me that Sciambra’s tired button down/argyle sweater combo isn’t a mess) is this dude talking about?
Memo to every other man in the world who used to his baby batter to create a human being: you can stop doing nice things like watching Reading Rainbow with your chillrens and teaching them to have proper phone number rhythm when leaving a voicemail because we’ve already found the Father of the Year to end all Father of the Years. Kim Ridley, owner of Ridley Rides, decided the best way to sale his 1977 Datson on eBay was by posting pictures of his scantily clad 20 year old daughter Lexxa posing provocatively on and near the car. And while the average person is judging this dad hella hard like he’s the annoying coworker who just took the elevator from the lobby to the second floor, Kim says, “If I felt bad about it, I wouldn’t do it.” Um, yeah, that’s how I feel after having one too many cinnamon buns and try squeezing into my too small jeans and the jeans are like, “BITCH, you know that the zipper on me is not supposed to struggle to stay together like the rickety rope bridge in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, right? For the love of Jesus, feel bad about that shit and put the Entenmann’s down.” Point is, just because you don’t feel bad doesn’t mean make it right. And this mess with Lexxa is all kinds of wrong:
If I were her and my pops came to me and was like, “Get your Pretty Woman hooker heels and Avril Lavigne hair extensions ready,” I would have kindly responded with
Then turned the alarm off on my clock radio, waited until I heard his dumb ass shuffle out of my room and down the hallway before yelling “AND YOU BETTER WAKE ME UP IN TIME FOR MY STORIES!!” That is what is was supposed to have happened.
Model/actress/former Hugh Grant piece Elizabeth Hurley and common damn sense must be mortal enemies like my face grease vs. a touchscreen phone because this bitch has released her line of children’s swimwear and it’s pretty much ideal for parents who always wanted to turn their child’s walk down a sandy beach to an Italian ice cart into a ho stroll. Hurley has defended the swim line against the outrage from advocacy groups by stating that the swimsuits are “great for girls who want to look grown up — but rest assured they are still well covered:”
Really? Hurley saying these girls are well covered is like when a college sophomore pops a birth control pill into her mouth in front of her mom and pretends that shit was just aspirin. Basically, you’re lying to yourself because your mama ain’t dumb and my eyeballs work. These girls are scantily clad and if you think pedophiles aren’t checking out these kids like a woman staring at cable-knit sweater from Lord & Taylor, then Ms. Hurley, you’re lying to yourself. Outside of my obvious issues with this, I have so many questions:
#1) Who in Microsoft clip art hell was responsible for these stock background images? They look ridiculously fake and hella low budget. I mean, this disguise below is way more believable than those beach backgrounds:
Y’all, hide yo kids, hide yo husbands’ peens, and, company shareholders, hide yo money cuz e’erybody is getting pregnant up in here aka the new Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer had the nerve to turn herself into the human equivalent of an Easy Bake oven and is currently cooking up a six month old baby in her body. And simply put, people are losing. their. damn. minds:
What is this? A baby. Mayer is going to be a mother. A mother. You know, like the one you buffoons had growing up. Everyone’s all for women being mothers except when it comes to the workplace. That’s where the real backwards and sexist thoughts start to come to a head. “Can she balance work and motherhood?” “She’s not her usual chipper self. Probably because she’s a mom now.” Thoughts that don’t really happen when men become fathers. Hmm. To be clear, this is not another essay about whether or not women can have it all. I don’t know if women can have it all. I don’t know if humans can have it all. What I’m more concerned about is that when women in the workplace announce their pregnancies and impending maternity leave, they’re greeted with an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that has the words “Congratulations” on it when we know that some executives wish they could’ve had this message written on the cake:
This is how I remember being single: some days were awful like when your roommates used up all the hot water, so that when you’re mid-shower, the water turned ice cold:
While other days were amazing like during rush hour when a MTA subway conductor saw you running towards the closing doors, so he opened them for you and right before you step inside, you let him know how grateful you were:
“I look like charcoal. I’m so dark. It’s awful.” ~ Overhearing a Hispanic co-worker vent to a White co-worker about how it’s terrible that her tan made her the complexion of a U-Haul box.
I literally do not know where to begin. The entire situation was just such a Molotov cocktail of ignorance and self-hate. And the shittiest part was that I couldn’t say anything because it would be the first time in history someone was hella angry while holding a Cliff bar (my co-workers were in the common area kitchen and we have dope snacks). Also, I’m Black and have an afro, so unless I have a look on my face that connotes this:
People at work think I feel like this all the time:
But seriously, Blarians, I was livid and also saddened for this ethnic woman that resembling anything close to brown complexion is a nightmare that would ruin her day. That her lightly-colored skin had the audacity to get darker after she had spent the weekend tanning it was simply inexcusable to her. I mean, getting mad that the result of tanning is somewhat brown skin is like me being upset that after I, a lactose intolerant person, finish doubling down on extra cheesy pizza, I end up chanting like Angela Bassett in What’s Love Got to Do With It in hopes that will soothe my aching stomach (skip to 1:12):
You know how when you’re typing something into Google, it tries to finish your sentence for you and you end up finding stuff you didn’t know you wanted to see? Well, that just happened to me. I typed “Steve Harvey” and Googs immediately chimed in with “shirtless.” Um, sure. What’s the worst that can happen if I fall down this rabbit hole? Let me tell you this, Blarians, upon seeing said shirtless photos, the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” instantly popped into my head. Except in this case, curiosity just dried up this cat’s vagina:
A few things while I examine this visual equivalent of a hate crime. 1) Lawd, why did Steve have to bring baby oil into this?!?! Somewhere there is a school bus full of chillrens with ashy knees and elbows because he wanted documented proof of his lubed up man boobs, 2) I’m pretty sure the cast of Locked Up: Raw were the ones who told him that standing half nekked in shadows is sexy because everyone else knows that’s some creepy Stephen King shit, and 3) who in Village People hell is his friend and why is he straddling a marble lion statue in someone’s house? If the marble knew that it would eventually end up in this position, it would’ve said, “Fuck it,” and committed samurai suicide by jumping to its death rather than bringing shame to the marble family name by having a grown ass oiled up man ride it like he’s in Super Mario Kart.
And the saddest thing of all is that I wasn’t even looking for this Steve Harvey collage as evidence of him being the worst. My original intent was to find a YouTube compilation video a Facebook friend showed me of Steve Harvey’s
greatest hits worst moments with words. Prior to viewing this video, I’d always thought Steve was okay. Funny guy who’s obsessed with making sure his caterpillar mustache glistens in the harsh lighting of 80 watt light bulbs. And then I watched this video and ay dios mio, he’s a total Summer’s Eve. So here’s my breakdown of why Steve Harvey is kind of the worst:
I’m chomping down on a hearty heap of “Lawd, I never thought I seen the day.” Because while we’ve all gotten too caught up on someone we’ve had just one date with and overreacted when things didn’t work out, we were at least smart enough to not let the object of our desire know we were disappointed. Just like in the movies after the assassin commits murder, he wipes off the gun, disassembles it, throws it in the river and keeps it moving, when one is rejected after one date, the rejectee must not leave traces of the crazy: no desperate emails, no pathetic text messages, no planned “accidental” run-ins with the object of our desire. Unfortunately, Mike, an investment manager, forgot about this and let his crazy flag fly and sent Lauren, a young woman he went on one date with, a 1,600+ word email that got leaked online, went viral and landing on The Huffington Post. You can read it here.
Bottom line, this is how Mike should have reacted to Lauren blowing him off after date number #1:
That’s right, he should have put on his fanciest sequined black tank top, rubbed some Icy/Hot on his bruised ego, plopped down on his couch, and flipped through a magazine. Not do the email equivalent of this:
As ludicrous as this title is, the three-year-old on Time magazine’s cover is old enough to ask a question in the style of a guy catcalling a woman in Brooklyn. And I’m sure that if the mom denied him, this kid would respond in an angry fashion like that of the catcaller: ”Well, fuck you anyway. Your breast milk ain’t shit.”
In all seriousness, in the past 36 hours, this breastfeeding cover got people talking when they featured a young, attractive, thin, blond woman with her son just chilling on her boob like characters in a Spike Lee film chilled on an apartment building stoop:
According to the UK’s Daily Mail, a new law called Farewell Intercourse was allegedly proposed by Egyptian parliament (not be confused with George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic; although, anyone who looks like this might be on board with this law) that would give husbands the thumbs up to do the porno version of Weekend at Bernie’s aka bone their dead wife for up to six hours after her death. Newsflash, Egypt: NOT EVERYTHING HAS TO BE ABOUT YOUR DICK, so tell it to go sit its ass down (yes, dicks have asses during this rant) and watch Charlie Rose and learn something.