Yaba Daba Yaoi (how much do those jeans cost, again?)

Request's blog has been fairly quiet lately, but holy belly buttons Batman, this makes up for it. It's probably an airbrushed paradise Calvin is pushing, but I'll take two to go!

Cloud Nine

Again, Wen-JR struts his 3D stuff, beautifully rendering Cloud Stryfe, poster boy of JRPG and all that is Final Fantasy. No, there ain't no naughty bits, but imagination is a helluva drug!

Matthew Melmon's Yaoi Digest #13

It's been a long time since the last Yaoi Digest. For this one, I turn exclusively to fashion agency blogs and the photographers who populate them with nubile young yumminess (say "nubile young yumminess" five times fast). We got buns, we got beautiful pouting faces, tattoos and treasure trails galore.


I lead with one of the first underwear models I posted about, oh so long ago now it seems: Tyler Riggs and his beautiful tattoo. Taken from photographer William Lord's blog, this one of the most pleasing shots I've seen of Riggs. Given how photogenic he is, there's certainly been plenty of competition. A little Michaelangelo, here: no ordinary pretty boy, this one.



It was difficult to pick an image from this spread of Cameron Schultz on the sultry blog Underneath. I will probably cheat and come back to the sequence; and certainly, I hope that we more of this model and his unnatural tone.



The photographer Didio's blog overflows with fantastic shots, and the feathered finery wrapped around this model are sure to please the yaoi traditionalist. Plenty else here to please, as well, know what I mean? Know what I mean?



This bar of provocative buns, suitable wrapped up in fluffy white Calvins, reminds me that I have been away from super style blog The Imagist far too long. Oh! Becky! Look at that butt!



One good butt deserves another, here with a little tattooed south of the border spice. Another great spread, from the photography blog of Bruno Rand.



And now it's time to say good bye to all my company... with an elegant, classical pose from photographer Christopher Kim.


And now to test Amazon's nifty carousel widget inside a post:

Oh Sweet Mystery Of Life Where Have You Been?

I've thought the Earth, the Sun, and the Moon of outre model Cole Mohr since setting eyes on him oh I don't know way back when I launched the whole "war against the war against underwear models" thing. But there aren't that many images of him on the various agency blogs. Imagine my delight when I discovered him on photographer Samuel Zakuto's blog.

Oh sweet mystery, indeed!

Eroica Sundae (A Yaoi Novellette): Episode 5

Before Jasperian Jihad and AK-47 consummate their love, skate-punk zombies explode from the ground. The couple and Hero Muffin are tied to wooden poles and hoisted onto decomposing shoulders. Abrupt unexplained cut to a stately pleasure dome: B. Muff dances before the court of Jet Black Fi Li, 73rd Empress of the Ming Restoration. Performing in a fountain, B. Muff flexes individual muscles in his buttocks while droplets of water highlight his unnatural beauty. An enormously plump raccoon crashes through the dome. B. Muff’s mastery of his buttocks is such that he does not miss a spasm. A large redneck in overalls splashes down and starts choking the raccoon. Both tear away for parts unknown.

The population of Middle Celestial Kingdom gasps.

Cut to naked zombies carrying Hero Muffin, AK-47, and Jasperian Jihad through the desert. A tentacle from the sky wraps around Jasperian Jihad and hauls him up. A second tentacle comes for Hero Muffin. Using Jedi Mind Powers, Grievous Latte releases the restraints for first Hero Muffin and then AK-47, switches their places, and ties them back up. AK-47 is hoisted into the sky. Hero Muffin observes that there had to have been an easier way to do that. Grievous Latte puts something in Hero Muffin’s mouth. Above, Latina Lesbot struggles with a giant organic pole. She exclaims at Hero Muffin's feisty resistance. AK-47 leaps into her arms. Eyes meet, Julie Andrews plays. Love.

Wizard Oz receives an invite to one of the Duchess’s pool parties. Dodging scorpions, tarantulas, and snakes, he reaches his SUV. A falling raccoon crushes him into the earth. Clawing up out of the hole, Oz is then hit by a large redneck in overalls. Both tear off. “What the…?” Oz is stung by a scorpion.

At her party, in a skin tight Versace ruby emerald diamond encrusted purple latex body suit with matching tiara (that randomly shoots blinding laser beams when struck by the sun – causing guests to fall off her cloud), the Duchess argues with Latina Lesbot about how Lesbot’s new love gasket keeps putting her precious mummy pole to sleep by draining his vital… a giant raccoon crashes into the Jacuzzi (where Jihad is, in fact, asleep). Shortly after, a large redneck – you get the picture. Jasperian Jihad is not amused. Rushing up, the Duchess wants to make sure her mummy pole is okay. “Of course,” he replies, “I’m too pretty to die.” The Duchess empties her brandy on his head and lights a match. Jihad careens toward the pool. We look down into the Jacuzzi. AK-47 has been crushed into his own skull. His fingers wiggle.

Trudging through the desert, naked zombies lather Hero Muffin with sun lotion to protect his creamy Czech complexion. Hero Muffin points out that they don’t really need to go there… well… seeing as the sun… oh, my… does not shine on his prostate gland…. Grievous Latte puts something in Hero Muffin’s mouth. A giant raccoon from above crushes a naked zombie into the earth. A large redneck crushes another zombie. They run off. With the excitement, Hero Muffin’s mouth is no longer occupied.

“Hasn’t Tim killed that raccoon, yet?” he asks.

Midnight Snack

Although the modeling agencies are back on their Big Fashion Shows kick (meaning everyone is wearing clothes), Siphofoto provides a little voyeuristic naughtiness and ask that eternal question at the same time: "Got Milk?"

Eroica Sundae (A Yaoi Novellette): Episode 4

As mindless skate punk zombies battle Jasperian Jihad, a freak sand storm obscures the picture. When it clears, Jihad has disappeared. Zombies leap to the Jacuzzi, but find only sand… and a note: “I’ve got your Hero Muffin right here in my azz.” Everybody looks… up.

In the belly of the cloud penthouse, Puppy Muffin and Xanabu argue about who used more hair gel. A giant door opens, somewhere dark. Footsteps: click, STOMP, click STOMP, click, STOMP. In a skin tight black-and-white chessboard Coco Channel latex body suit with braided platinum-gold epaulets and matching belt, the Duchess and Latina Lesbot approach, darkly. Xanabu produces an armful of Mons Venutia orchids. “Flowers!” cries the Duchess. With that distraction, Xanabu vanishes in a poof. Latina Lesbot stalks to the throbbing red button, which she pokes. Slowly, the penthouse floats back up. Latina Lesbot looks down. Puppy Muffin is doing something to her leg. She throws him off the cloud. He lands…

…on a skate punk.

Puppy Muffin’s horizons are expanded. But where has Jasperian Jihad taken Hero Muffin? To track him down, they must seek out the advice of an equally demented individual… who could possibly... biker droid AK-47! Currently in the deepest, darkest cell of a maximum security penal island, communicating with AK-47 requires… an attack! A legion of naked mindless skate punks descends on the Chateau d’If. Grievous Latte opens a cell door. AK-47 hangs from the ceiling in an all-body cast.
“My name is Grievous Latte and I’m here to rescue you.”

AK-47 is sarcastic, and remains sarcastic until something is put in his mouth. Sure, he can find Jasperian Jihad. But what’s in it for him? A new body. You can do that? I am an evil half Jewish necromancer! It’s what I do! AK-47 is given a new body, except…

“WHERE’S MY DICK!?”

The dick will be attached when one Hero Muffin is delivered. AK-47 needs wheels. A Hellion Angelic Widow Maker 6.2 is produced. The top end isn’t so good but it’s got a lot of torque. At one hundred and seventy four miles per hour, AK-47 drives to a dive bar in West Oakland: hip-hop bistro “Hizazz.” A Skinny Puppy remix of NWA covering the Bauhaus classic “My Girlfriend Slashed her Wrists at the Bottom of Your Swimming Pool" plays romantically in the background. Wearing badly applied makeup and lace panties, Hero Muffin does shots with Jasperian Jihad to commemorate turning twenty-one. AK-47 bursts in. His hands turn into sixty caliber Vulcan cannons, his shoulders produce rocket launchers, thugs return fire, there is chaos. When the smoke clears, the only part of Hizazz still standing is a roughly triangular section of wall and bar where Hero Muffin and Jasperian Jihad remain seated. Jasperian Jihad concedes that AK-47 has skill. That’s right bitch! Their eyes meet. Somewhere, someone plays Julie Andrews. Only then does Hero Muffin realize that the bar is no longer standing.

“Huh? What? Um…?”

The Path Less Traveled

SnowSkadi's gallery is full of beautiful fantasy illustrations. Although it has nothing to do with yaoi or underwear models, having already posted an image of Tyler Riggs with all his clothes on, today's precedent was set.

This particular image reminds me of Warcraft's Night Elf hunting lodges. I'm not sure if that is the intent, but either way, it is a gorgeous painting.

It's not Diesel underwear, but...

Red went and posted a shot of superboy underwear model Tyler Riggs with all his clothes on. Ordinarily, I require skin... skin! But given all the fuss that I made about fashion, fashion links, clothing brands, and Diesel in particular, it seemed like a Message From God.

I also rather like the Nosferatu-esque image.

Fashion Shoot Or Anne Rice Set?

Major credits the shoot as a shoot for Vogue Paris, and it appears to be caught somewhere between macabre crime noir and Interview With A Vampire. I'm not sure what clothing the models are (or are not) wearing, but the hair is fabulous. In case of doubt, make it up! Blood by Yves St. Laurent, bondage cuffs by Christian Dior, fake tan by Givenchy, hair products by Chanel. If you have to ask, you can't afford any of it.

Eroica Sundae (A Yaoi Novellette): Episode 3

Our evil necromancer discusses his situation with Wizard Oz. How to get Hero Muffin away from The Duchess? Flowers, says Oz. Yes! Racing to a grotto, the necromancer summons… Xanabu, Demon Prince of Lusty Passion and Swank Floral Arrangements. An adorable imp five feet tall, cherub wings, cute wiggling ass, Xanabu conjures armfuls of magenta-saffron Mons Venutia orchids from fire and brimstone. With psychokinetic powers, he arranges them, swankly. The plan: dazzle the Duchess with orchids, and while she looks for a vase, scoop Hero Muffin up and return to the evil half-Jewish necromancer.

Xanabu is off!

Dressed in a skin tight gold-on-gold tiger stripe Christian Dior latex body suit with matching sunglasses and flaming shoulder pads, the Duchess walks across her sundeck: click, click, click. Her hair, covering one eye, is lacquered with a color replica of Monet’s water lilies. Bursting from a cabana closet, Puppy Muffin (in a skin tight gold-on-gold tiger stripe latex body suit with sunglasses and flaming shoulders) screams: “that dress is to die for!” Zipping close, he whispers huskily: “but I liked you better as a blonde.” A cyber-polymer bionic slap from the Duchess knocks Puppy Muffin off the deck… into the arms of… Xanabu, Demon Prince of Lusty Passion and Swank Floral Arrangements.

Mons Venutia orchids, everywhere.

This doubles Xanabu’s weight. He crashes through a skylight. The two tumble across an engineering room. Xanubu is on top. Puppy Muffin. Xanabu. Puppy. Bu… Puppy’s gold-on-gold latex is lost. Dots are connected. A bouncy bottom lands on a big red button. Alarms blare. The Duchess’ one visible eye narrows, dramatically. Nameless minions run, screaming. Latina Lesbot appears in the stretch air and whisks the Duchess away. Standing on a rock precipice in an angled sunbeam, the two watch the cloud penthouse drop toward earth at five miles per hour. It bounces across a desert landscape… once, twice, three times… stop.

The Duchess’ one visible eye narrows, dramatically.

By coincidence, the necromancer stands on a precipice of his own, with his own sunbeam, watching. Bounce… bounce… bounce. Both eyes narrow, dramatically. With a gesture, he sends Grievous Latte and a legion of mindless zombie skate-punks forward. They grind down the cliff, sparks flying from beneath their necromet skateboards, +2, (spring-loaded shank daggers, included).

As it happens, the cloud penthouse has crashed onto the tomb of Jasperian Jihad, the Mummy of Methamp! Buried alive centuries ago, with scorpions on his essence-producing glands for knocking up Pharoah’s wife, sister, and three virgin daughters (at the same time), Jasperian Jihad is not happy. He beat the scorpions to death with his… well, he’s not happy. Pulling a double-bladed crimson light saber from a secure undisclosed location, it’s blinky lights against necromet boards for hot-mummy-on-zombie-skate-punk action. Xanabu and Puppy Muffin pop tarts. The Duchess extends her cigarette holder, thusly, and taps it with a jeweled index finger, like so. Ashes fall. Hero Muffin wakes up in the Jacuzzi amid a raging battle.

“Huh?”

Edna Fitzgerald: Get Your Kicks On Route 66

She made a wrong turn somewhere left of Riverside. If the smog wasn't so thick, you might be able to read the goddam signs, goddamit, if she missed the pool parties... what what what was this?



"Hey! Use your thumb, sweetheart! You're thumb! Get in the car...."

Fine, smog, maybe not so bad all the time. Did he know how to get to Palm Springs? Of course he did!

The great thing about the desert was you could forget your name; or, it was just that your name didn't matter. How good did you look in Calvin Klein bikini briefs? That mattered. What a racket, underwear. Use no fabric, slap them on beautiful young things, representing a fraction of a percent of the total human population, and (on the strength of that imagery), extract rents from that remaining 99.99% of the population that nobody particularly wanted to see in your goddam underwear.

"You hear that, Calvin!? Nobody wants to see!"



To make matters worse, who could afford that underwear, anymore?

Goddam, the desert air felt fantastic. It invigorated her. A hundred and ten degrees at a hundred and ten miles per hour and a big old blond with his head hanging out like a dog. Living!

"Francis!" she cried into her hands free bluetooth headset. "I'm coming!"

"Good to hear, sweetie. I'll leave the red lantern on. You'll know what to do?"

"I'll know what to do."



And she did.

"Swank place, Francis, how do you afford it?"

"Artie died before he got caught, Edna. It's that simple."

"Jesus Christ, is that a replica of the Great Barrier Reef?"



The next day, spent - or was it the day after the next day - she collapsed into a lounge by sparkling water and raised a crystal goblet to her lips.

"I don't think I can do politics, Francis. I got some nice Armani in the closet. You think maybe I could try cross dressing as a Marilyn Manson impersonator?"

"The heat will subside, sweetheart. You'll make it."

"I'm not going to make it, Francis. I'm... I'm in love."

Speaking of Diesel Brand Clothing...

By happy coincidence, barely no sooner do I complain about the lack of Relevant AdSense Programming by invoking absurdly over-priced jeans, than do I come across a blog with some photo-editorialism of twinks having a pillow fight in Diesel underwear. If all I do is create a string of Diesel keywords, one theory goes that it will look like spam and be ignored. So I am embedding the Diesel brand name in relatively complete (perhaps even over-complete) sentences. I forget whether or not I have that clever Amazon applet running in the background. It might also be able to key off the term "Diesel." As in Ridiculously Over Priced Trendy Hot Fashion Products For Those Who Generally Do Not Buy It Themselves But Have It Bought For Them.

My Kimchi Muffin keeps whining about some new brand, though, Rock And Republic. Same price range as Diesel, it seems. If fashion manufacturers start going out of business because they're charging bubble prices for a burst economy, will Congress bail them out?

Shouldn't Search Engine Marketing Be a Two Way Street?

For a relationship to truly blossom, it is incumbent upon the partners to develop mutual bonds of affection and respect, show a little love, sometimes maybe even fib to get through the biorhythm lows. I have been fiddling with the formula, adding a bunch of text, a bunch of text with pictures, different words, phrases, what have you of late to see what it does to, among other things, the little ads up top.

I am thinking that, really, AdSense puts too much emphasis on the text.

Text is important, I grant. But really, the je ne said quoi, the elan, the special something of a document is more than text. For example, one mocking reference to Ann Coulter and suddenly I am advertising the fact that she is Guilty. Who knew? Edna Fitzgerald describes her sexual conquest as "puppies," and books of puppy names appear. Some guy named Matthew Thompson's ads appear, presumably because we share the textual relationship of a common first name. All well and good, but I think something is also missing from this quid quo pro, give and take, back scratchery.

The overwhelming majority of my content is lifted from "high fashion" model agencies. It's the Calvin Klein underwear model, in other brands, over and over - mixed in with steady reference to Japan's most recent cultural export - hot muffin on muffin softcore (that "yaoi" you've been hearing so much about). Basically, this is Junior Cosmo. Quantcast is able to figure it that much out with its "Lifestyles" report.

Why can't Google?

Processing an image for the subject matter is an AI complete problem that would require unreasonable buck for the bang; and fine, comparing the similarities between the images on one little blog to those in all other little blogs - plus say Vogue - could also be onerous. But "editorial voice" is real, the use of words, the association of certain words with certain domains, the traffic patterns of users - and bloody hell, I have hundreds of links to fashion agencies.

I am thinking that links to fashion vendors should appear in my AdSense bar before links to Ann Coulter. One caveat to that: perhaps I am not considered worthy of such links, yet. So a little test:

Giorgio Armani shot Versace in cold blood while cross-dressing in a hot little Coco Chanel number painted up by Monet himself. Ralph Lauren drove the getaway vehicle, a hot rod Lincoln, and they would have been fine except for Hugo Boss and his goose-stepping S.S. bottoms with their snappy uniforms and big guns. The world of High Fashion will never be the same! Save us, Kate Moss!

Bleach's Angry Old Man

Wen-JR's gallery is one of the most consistently spectacular I regularly visit. Many yaoi aficionados pine for hot action between the smash series' main characters, none of which are involved here... but it's hot action, all right (get it?). The scene comes from Bleach 339, wherein the old man dispatches Tres Espada's three (get it?) fraccion (in process, saving the cute behinds of no less than five vice-captains who had gotten in over their heads).

Magnifico!

Atsnotuhknywfe!

More cultural provocation from Major. But guys, spurs next time! Hmmm, I think I had a shirt like that in the 8th grade....

Eroica Sundae (A Yaoi Novellette): Episode 2

Hero Muffin wanders subterranean caverns, traumatized, no memory of recent events. Reaching the surface in an idyllic sheep pasture, he is found by a Catholic priest. The priest provides food, shelter, and well food and shelter at least. Waking in chains on a bed of marble beneath a replica of Michelangelo’s Pieta, Hero Muffin realizes with dismay that a spectacular stained glass window is focusing the sun into an uncomfortably warm dot on his essence producing glands.

"They must be purified,” explains the priest, "for the good of all Creation."

At that moment, a legion of naked mindless skate-punk zombies bursts into the chamber. Yes, the evil half-Jewish necromancer who wants to destroy the world has dispatched his most trusted general, Grievous Latte, to recover Hero Muffin and his glands. The priest produces a glowing crucifix. The zombies are held back! With psychokinetic powers, Grievous Latte levitates his skateboard, hurling it forward violently, knocking the crucifix away. Desperately, the priest races up marble stairs to a DJ booth. Zombies snap at his trailing frock. Stubby fingers smash glowing buttons, and… a Goa Trance remix of Mozart’s Requiem sends the zombies into uncontrollable spasms. Through sheer will, Grievous Latte removes his front tooth (previously dislocated in a Jedi training accident), and hurls it with undead strength, puncturing the priest’s skull and killing him instantly. The zombies surround Hero Muffin.

There follows experimentation with candles.

At that moment, a jet-black stretch air limousine smashes through the stained glass window. It lands. A hulking Latina Lesbot exits. Mind-blowing lesbot-on-naked-zombie-skate-punk mayhem ensues. Hero Muffin suggests his glands have been purified enough. The stretch air limo passenger door opens. Six inch stiletto pump first, wearing a skin tight deep purple latex Diesel body suit etched with golden Chinese dragons, there emerges… The Duchess. Dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind (any time), she produces two personal gattling cannons (from a secure undisclosed location) and cuts the skate-punk zombies to pieces. As the zombie parts flail on the floor, Latina Lesbot breaks Hero Muffin’s chains, throws him into the back of the stretch, and blasts off for the sky. We next see Hero Muffin asleep in the Jacuzzi of a flying cloud penthouse, cup of two hundred year old scotch in one hand, other hand’s whereabouts: unknown.

After sewing Grievous Latte back together, the evil half-Jewish necromancer uses an Internet bulletin service to contact gay… no, bisexual… biker droid AK-47. The deal: in exchange for 3 liters of Necromenathol, AK-47 is to ingratiate himself with the Duchess (by way of his bad boy charm), get into her hot tub, and toss Hero Muffin off that cloud. AK-47 demands half payment up front. The deal is sealed at one third up front. We next see AK-47 riding his Hayabusa Galaxy Express 999, wasted on Necromenathol, evading three police battalions at two hundred and ten miles an hour while masturbating to hentai. Trying to cross a bridge that does not exist, AK-47 plummets five hundred feet to a fireball. He will wake up three months later in a full body cast hanging from the ceiling of penal ward’s intensive care unit, but that is a tale for another time.

Who will rescue Hero Muffin from the Duchess!?

Edna Fitzgerald: Still Angry After All These Years

The sex was a crutch, she knew it, two crutches a day to get to tomorrow, a lifeline she pulled herself up - yes, she could do something with that, metaphorically speaking. Mornings in particular were hell. By the end of a day, she'd beaten herself into accepting. But in the morning, when her eyes opened and she realized it all had to start again, she could think of no better side of the bed to get out of then the one next to some bright-eyed cheerful little thing listening to his iPod.



Headphones were versatile devices, really.

"The way I see it, Francis, if I put on a wig, I'm basically Ann Coulter with breasts. These are very nice, aren't they, a couple of things that bastard bought that didn't get deflated along with everything else, right?"

"So where are you going with this, Edna?"

"Post partisan MILF."




"Good God."

"No, really. I'd put Papa Bear and that Daily Comedy guy masks on my kids and scream obscenities about homosexuals in the liberal media while trying to catch my breath. People would pay to see that."

"Have you thought about going into politics instead?"

"Maybe I could get appointed to the bench. They'd call me 'Your Honor.' Come on, Francis, let's be realistic! I gotta do something with my life!"

Sex might be enough for the next few months, maybe a year - or two - but there would have to be something more. Well, there was drinking.



Drinking might add another year to the sex. And if the boys drank too, this could go on a while, after all.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's not where the bottle goes!"



She didn't understand why Francis was so unreceptive to pornography. Everything was pornography, really, when you got down to it, Freud was right: sex was the purpose of our existence. Gratification. People dressed their gratifications in different names so as to avoid the raw truthiness of it, but she had no patience for those people.

Let them all rot, stew!

"Stew, you miserable bastards! Stew in your own sanctimonious filth!"

If only she had a glass, she'd throw it. To think, she didn't have a glass!

"Not you, sweetheart. You're perfect. The way the light filters through the smog and hits your skin, it kills me a little inside to know I can never be that fucking pretty."



All right, so fine. If not porn, hey, maybe politics wasn't such a bad idea.

Overexposed...

..but still sexy. Perhaps having heard my lament, Major mixes some skin in with its selection of young lovelies. I am beginning to wonder if someday fashion histories will comment on this trend of showing tidbits of naughty hairs. Perhaps someone will compare the amount of pubic hair revealed in fashion photography to direction of the market. Or something.

Eroica Sundae (A Yaoi Novellette): Episode 1

An evil half-Jewish necromancer wants to take over the world. Toward that end, he has constructed a werewolf superbeast thirty feet tall. Bringing it to life requires the “vital essence” of Hero Muffin. Realizing a necromancer might try to destroy the world in this way, a cult has sequestered Hero Muffin in a secret cathedral. Hidden in the Pacific Northwest, this cathedral is guarded by Bulgarian transvestite nuns. They carry machine shotguns, and wear plastic body armor that has been molded to their voluptuous bodies. To keep evil at bay, the nuns engage in frequent nympho-maniacal rituals that require Hero Muffin to receive a wide variety of totemic insertions.

Using foul magic, the necromancer locates Hero Muffin’s sanctuary and dispatches a horde of mindless skate-punk zombies. These zombies are naked. That puts them at a disadvantage against nuns with shotguns and plastic body armor. However, the skate-punks have an advantage in being both zombies (difficult to kill) and mindless (“brave”). They storm the cathedral. There follows many gallons of blood (and several totemic insertions).

Ultimately, the skate-punk zombies abscond with Hero Muffin.

It takes some time for naked mindless skate-punk zombies to return Hero Muffin to the evil half-Jewish necromancer. This time is occupied with sadistic positions and several attempts by Bulgarian transvestites to recapture their prize. Hero Muffin is delivered. His “vital essence” cannot be extracted under just any circumstance, but must instead be produced by blasphemous stimulation. Toward that end, the necromancer summons a penis-covered tentacle demon. Despite this demon’s attention, Hero Muffin holds his vital essence in, valiantly, for the good of all life.

We cut to a misty peak in remote Japan. B. Muff practices the ancient art of Jujujewjitsu – a complicated style that requires inner peace while encouraging an insatiable sexual urge. After many leaps, tumbles, and shattered tree stumps, B. Muff receives warning of the world’s impending doom from the ghostly spirits of his ancestors. We cut to the evil half-Jewish necromancer’s lair, where B. Muff appears in a flash of ninja powder. Leaping up cavern walls, B. Muff engages the penis-covered tentacle demon. The demon looses hold of Hero Muffin. Hero Muffin scampers away. Though his Jujujewjitsu is strong, B. Muff is driven to the production of vital essence. The intensity of this release breaks the threads that bind the penis-covered tentacle demon to this plane.

B. Muff vital essence showers down onto the superbeast.

It roars to life. Surely the world is doomed! Before destroying the world, however, the superbeast believes that the arrangement of rocks and bubbling cauldrons inside the necromancer’s lair is not quite right. Furthermore, he is concerned that he should do one more chapter of calculus homework before destroying the world; wouldn’t it be better to write a poem about destroying the world instead of actually destroying it?

“Armageddon cow;
drink from the nipple, bravely;
blueberry muffins.”

B. Muff sues for visitation rights. The evil half-Jewish necromancer attempts to locate Hero Muffin….

Ominous Diversion

Wen-JR is generous with intriguing imagery, and I found this recent dark cherub particularly striking. The textures are particularly nice.

Edna Fitzgerald: Comic Romanticisms

Happy new year, happy new year, happy new year!



She didn't need a new year, she needed a new life. No, she needed the old life back. But thanks for the great sex, sweethearts! Actually, the old life wasn't so good, either; and the sex was much better, now. What she needed was a stiff drink.

"When the day comes you should be required to buy your own juice, sugar crotch, forget the crap and shoot the Goose. Straight up, you don't need fruit."

She only drank to give them the impression she drank, much as she only had sex twice a day with puppies to give them the impression she was an inconsolable nymphomaniac. An inconsolable nymphomaniacal alcoholic was a train wreck you didn't want to be around. People who didn't want to be around didn't ask as many questions, and didn't look as hard for answers because they already "knew" the answers. For example, that little prosecutor didn't call so much anymore. Joey. He hated being called Joey.

"Hey, Joey, these disposition things would go better with more cameras and fewer clothes, don't you think? You got your briefs with you today, Joey?"

Joey wasn't so intimidating on his back in briefs.



No, he was creamy goodness with a cherry on top.

"You got a cherry for me, Joey?"

Really, why did they send a puppy? Used to be she didn't pay much attention to puppies. They were a good time for ten or twenty minutes, but a good time didn't buy you a retirement condo in Tahiti. She had a retirement condo in Tahiti. Now it belonged to some fucking bank that probably belonged to some other fucking bank run by better crooks. Crooks like her goddam fucking husband.

Problem: she was starting to enjoy the inconsolable nymphomaniacal alcoholic thing. Should she check in to a clinic? It was Los Angeles, after all.

"Francis, let's do Italian. I'm hungry."

Like a wolf. Oh, that brought back memories. Cheap motels and steamy tramps, yeah, she didn't mind naughty puppies back then.



Vintage stuff. Here's looking at you, kid!

Edna Fitzgerald: A Romantic Comedy

She threw back her head and sighed. It was all gone, now. Washed out with the rest of the effluence - a decade of effluence, cut off before its prime. Nights in Paris, Milan, and New York, the same night... no, it couldn't possibly have been the same night. Could it? Everything blurred in that kaleidoscope whirl of paparazzi bulbs, refracted by tinted windows: pop stars, gigolos, prostitutes, and blow, gone, gone, gone with the wind all gone! Well, now, wasn't that dramatic?

Drama! It was the new name of the game, same as the old name: drama, drama drama! She wanted it all back. She plotted and schemed to get it. Except for the husband. Didn't want him, even when he had money instead of a federal indictment. Yeah, they take care of their own, that kind, sweetheart - they take care of them real good. Effluence! All she needed to make her dreams come true all over again was money, a whole lot. Problem: she was twice as old as the last time and gravity was not her friend. Vicious gravity!

It was sunny outside.

That ball of pressurized gas mocked her. Had she seen sun once during all those years in Manhattan, fabulous lost Manhattan - traded for sunshine and a Laurel Canyon flat where the smell of automobiles mixed with chaparral and oak... where those oaks? God damn it! They were trees! Bloody fantastic trees... she'd probably spark a fire with her dysfunctional chimney and be trapped in a canyon inferno like all those poor people in Malibu. Or was it mudslides in Malibu? She poured herself a shot. Why the hell did they have fireplaces in Los Angeles, anyway?

"Sweetie, come inside and put on some clothes," she called through the sliding doors. "What will the neighbors think?"




To think there might come a day when she worried what the neighbors thought! To think she'd have sliding glass doors! They should be great soaring French doors done up by some Martha wannabe with billowing curtains and a panoramic view of the Atlantic - the warm, soft, shallow Atlantic and not this frightfully cold deep inhospitable Pacific - which she couldn't see, anyway.

"Forget the clothes, I've thought of something better."

No, it didn't matter if it was Paris, Milan, New York, or Laurel Canyon, when the body parts flew it could be an dank cinderblock cellar, yes, yes, a thousand times yes! Her cell rang. She checked the ID.

"Francis," she acknowledged.

"Edna," replied Francis, "are you busy?"

"I'm enjoying the view."

"That's nice, I've found this spot off S&M where the floor is dirty and the boys are dirtier. Let's hook up after dinner."

Oh, crap. She'd forgotten to eat again. It wasn't healthy. The only thing she had left was her health! Well... she hated driving. It would be quicker to walk. Not really. Healthier? Sucking in all that monoxide? She grabbed some Chinese food from a faux swank joint off Ventura because going and coming too up enough time. Good God, Francis gave horrible directions. At least getting car jacked would be something new... good God, Francis wasn't kidding about the dirt.

"You're very cute. Why don't I take you home and throw in the tub?"




Good God, he looked fantastic in bubbles.

But bubbles weren't going to bring the bling, back. She wanted rocks, or ice, or whatever the kids called a girl's best friend these days. She was going to write a kiss and tell book about the bad old days, naming names and telling it like it was because you just couldn't make that shit up. Problem: her names weren't the biggest or the baddest. Was it an accident that "effluence" and "affluence" were so close?

Another day another blond with perfect skin.



God bless America.

Less Than Subtle

The delay in posts is not du to my slothful post-superstitious-holiday funk. It is instead due to an over-abundance of clothed fashion models. I hope this doesn't catch on. There is however something very entertaining about this shot from Red, I just can't quite place my finger on it... oh yeah! There it is!