I’ve tried everything. I’ve freed my nipple in the most sexually contrived manner I could possibly do. I tarted my nipple up with glitter and rubbed various lube around the surrounding man boob, but still had no response. My nipples remained on display freely living life in sub-zero temperatures, all perked and erect for action.
I’ve shown off my inner thighs that stretch-marked their way up to my navel. I’ve slow-moed the wobble action with glistening sweat shaken off in terror like some after-beached dog shaking itself dry. My thigh curves luxuriously across the screen in monolithic arty slabs of grey. …
“Thank fuck that month has finished and we can now all get on with living our lives!” stated the 80 million-plus liberals who outvoted Trump.
Except, the defiant old codger desperately clings to power hoping the world won’t notice. We did notice Donnie and The Bad Influence will continue to rail against your stinky injustice and mockery of human rights.
But what happens when the Don finally goes? Will we all remain angry? Racism won’t just melt away. The country is still divided. Hate still breeds on either side. It’ll take time for this fugue state to lift.
Lucky for you Americans there’s retail therapy. Right? Consumerism drives the economy after all. The longing for a return to normal may never happen again unless you live in Florida! With that in mind, go check out our recently opened online shop at…
Age finally caught up with me. One minute I was out dancing with the missus and knocking back the juice, the next I’m crippled on the floor unable to stand or even move. When did I get so old? My back pain is killing me and I’m completely immobile. Do the young have any conception of what turning 40 means?
“I am forty. I have wrinkles and grey hair and I would have a walking stick to walk.” Rita, aged nine.
“I am forty. I am turning old. I just left work because I cannot manage going up and down hills. I know I will soon die.” …
Emperor Claudius leaned back on his banquet couch. His belly full from a feast and his eyes glazed in carnal satisfaction. The guard trembled before him as he delivered the news. He feared the worst. Instead, a strange smile played on the lips of the Emperor.
“Bring me another chalice of wine!” he demanded.
With that, news of Valeria Messalina’s death, his third wife, passed into the history books. No tears were shed by her husband and Emperor, the all-conquering Master of Rome.
Messalina has a storied history. Her infamy lives on in tales of warning. She is forever smeared by the wagging tongues of Rome who needed a villain to destroy a bloodline. To call a woman “a Messalina” indicated a devious and sexually voracious personality, one whose moral code veered far from the center. …
I always think of this line whenever I imagine how Trump first began his campaign for the Presidency.
I pictured him at a round table surrounded by sycophants when Anthony, the intern, manages to muster up enough courage and make a suggestion. The room falls deathly silent. Of course, they were looking for new ideas, a new pitch for TV series perhaps, or even some quasi-high-brow book on business, but this? It was ludicrous.
The Don was speechless. Everybody was waiting for a response. Instead, Trump’s top executive quotes back Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. …
I loved Maradona.
The legend died today at 60 following a heart attack. I don’t often (if ever) write about sportspeople but Maradona shaped my view of football. I loved watching him play.
It was at the 1986 World Cup when I, like many, first clapped eyes on him. Maradona inspired Argentina to World Cup glory as captain. His display and level of skill, creativity, strength, and desire arguably have not been seen before or since. He was simply from another planet.
And while I was gutted to see my country knocked out of the World Cup by his ‘Hand of God’, his second goal was breathtaking. I was hooked. …
“It is horrible, yet fascinating, this struggle between a set purpose and an utterly exhausted frame.” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle describing Pietri’s finish.
Johnny Hayes was furious. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. Ahead of him was Dorando Pietri being helped across the line by race officials. Hayes called it foul play rather than the spirit of the Olympics. He desired nothing more than to be recognized as the greatest marathon runner in the world.
Hayes had let ego take over. It turns out, he was a rather sore loser.
Some had suggested it was in retaliation for Fred Lorz at the previous Olympic Games. Lorz, despite 90-degree heat, had arrived back into the stadium looking fresh like some modern-age Superman. He raced around the stadium on his victory lap with the energy and enthusiasm of a man unaffected by the rigors of marathon running. Suspicions were confirmed when Lorz had been found guilty of cheating and promptly stripped of his title. Lorz, suffering from cramp during the race, was taken by car back to the stadium. …
Is this how you remember your Christmas?
Mine not so much.
It would begin calm enough. The in-laws would arrive. We would all greet each other warmly, except mom. She would have a well-armed passive-aggressive statement set to launch at the not-quite-good-enough mother of my children. Not wanting to miss out on the action, the sister-in-law would serve up a slice or two of habitual barbed arrows laced with poisonous put-downs.
The men would scoff and bellow and debunk to the lounge while the women would quietly smolder in close quarters in the too-small-not-as-big-as-mine kitchen. The squabbling would continue throughout the day among the grown-up siblings. The eldest daughter would slowly get smashed on cheap red wine bought as a gift by the cheap brother who wants nothing more than to depart unscathed into the night to enjoy some free-loading revelry. …
I noticed my legs first. Numbness. I couldn’t feel the dancefloor. I reached out but my fingertips had no sensation. The bass became muffled. I was now seated. Blurred vision. Couldn’t breathe. Felt cold. I was sweating and shivering and dying from heat.
Worse. My survival depended upon Squarehead Barry.
Thanks to Jonica Bradley for another great theme on Thrifty Words. We’ve all had incidences in our past where survival wasn’t always assured. I always dreamt I would die on the dancefloor, shaking my butt and revelling in the Class A’s that seeped through every pore. I loved getting high. Not just high, but completely fucking mashed out of my brain. …
Charles Millar of Toronto, Canada, was a bit of a joker. He was also unmarried and had no children or close relatives. A successful lawyer and financier, Charles was no stranger to the darker side of humanity. He couldn't help smiling to himself as he drew up his last will and testament.
When Charles died of a stroke in 1926, his fortune consisted of shares in a racetrack and a brewery and a large sum of money. He loved a good practical joke, especially ones that preyed on human greed.
His favorite prank was to leave money on the sidewalk and watch passers-by pocket the cash. It’s hard to see the funny side of that joke but Millar believed that every man had his price. “It was an education in human nature by itself,” Millar told friends.
He was also very good at his job. A man who loathed writing contracts, he would often give his word as an endorsement rather than write anything down. …