Jugularity: Mammorial Day Edition
I am so fucking clever I give myself a chubby sometimes…
(Apropos of nothing, except I find it hard to disagree.)
It’s a fitting celebration, this Memorial Day, concerning the fogeys in ye olde Congress that finally got something right and repealed 1992’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, allowing LGBT folks to serve openly in the United States military. Most of us will celebrate in appropriately somber fashion, but Scumbag Style says, “Fuck that right in the newly available armed asshole.” I bet the bi and lesbian ladies are bumming they missed the amazing booby related news that’s been going around the past week. The only prescription is Jugularity, the semi-regular Dr. Scumbag column that addresses spillover mammary related news in a totally respectful, non-chauvinist mass posting. OK, so you have to promise to pretend to read what I’ve written below before you click on the “more” link and get to the uncensored piccadilloes (See what I did there? That’s why you read first, beat off later). Without further ado: TITTIES!
First of all, last night the intertubes were rocked with all the force of a corporately owned chick “hard rock” has-been, when somebody hacked into Paramour lead singer Hayley Williams‘ Twitter and Twitpicked her adorable pink little baby thumb nipples. Conveniently, this boudoir photo, that could only conceivably have been acquired by somebody she knows, surfaced right when the flash-in-the-pan singer was drowning just offshore of Public Consciousness Island. They were removed not long after they were posted, but the damage was done, and Quick-Draw McRightClicky (Brendan) over at WWTDD, preserved them for all of us. So it was probably a publicity stunt, is what I’m saying. Not that I’m complaining. If every cute-ass rocker chick with a lackluster catalog that resembled the second half of Stephen King’s career tried to force her way back into the spotlight with a POV of what you’d see bedding her, there would be no war, no famine, and no need for any more stupid Paramour albums.
Usually by this time, I'm reciting the characters from Star Trek:TNG and the actors that play them, in order of rank, in my head to distract myself from blowing too early. Everyone has their tricks. I won't be judged.
Brendan also calls our attention to this month’s Loaded magazine, in which exactly-my-type Kelly Brooke poses with the goods. He points out that they are actually reprinted from a 2005 issue of Arena, but he also lays some kind of dastardly proprietary masturbation rights to Kelly Brooke that Steve Jobs would buy him a sammich for, so I say who gives a shit to both points? The limey supermodel is slammin’ to the painful morning boner degree, and even if they are old pics, it shouldn’t stop net travelers everywhere from going a spontaneous number 3 right at their otherwise drab, soul-sucking desks. That’s why I’ve dispatched a contingent of Mexican jizz-moppers I rented from adult bookstores around the country to take care of any stray “globs o’ indiscretion” appearing randomly in offices from the mountains to the prairies. Expect yours presently, dead Michael Landon. (WWTDD)
Seriously, though, if I might make a siggestion, cinemas? Trivia sucks.
BONUS STORY! The LAPD arrested this dude, Eduardo Ibarra Perez, for threatening to kill his wife, booked him under the category of “armed and dangerous,” and then hilariously deprived him of ever appearing threatening again by blurring out his bitch tits in the mug shot of the year. Wicked burn! He’ll get out and go back to her of course, because these battered women are always dumb enough to forgive the pieces of shit that hit and threaten them. But he’ll never be able to threaten to kill her again without her saying, “How? You gonna smother me with your man boobs?” Then she’ll laugh and never do the dishes again, which is apparently the risk you take when you beat your wife without a manziere on. It’s a parable for our times, really.
The trick is to flash the cops before the cuffs are on. You'll catch on.
Careful! Here there be NSFW…
