Archive for sex

I Sometimes Watch Sports: Week 2

Posted in Disaster with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2011 by Suge White

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WHAT THE FUCK?!?! The Red Sox are currently playing like a punch of adolescent half-boys with significant ankle problems.  Who cares if they won 8 of there last 10? The starting pitching looks good, at least what’s left of them, but the bullpen is a mess and there are a couple of good-for-nothing, high priced, hookers roaming the outfield. If J.D Drew and Carl Crawford were prostitutes, they would be the kind that will blow you in the backseat of a Buick for nothing more than a couple of cheesburgers or a tube of Herpicin.  Being a half game out of first place is nothing more than a silver lining for a storm cloud preparing to drive an F-5 tornado up your ass. Hopefully, next week we will once again be the greatest team ever assembled.But right now I’m scared.

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Royal Douchebaggery

Posted in Delicious, Disaster, Great American Pastimes with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 12, 2011 by Suge White

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Who else out there hates royalty? I assume that most of the people reading this are raising their hands in agreement (or would be if they weren’t using that hand to beat off while simultaneously scrolling through this column.  Either way, thank god that wedding shit is over. Now my television is crawling its way back to a normal existence.  Show me some violence. Bin Laden comes close but his death without the head shot is like watching soft core porn. It’s still good but it could be much better. On that note, show me some sex or even some good still photos of the royal bride’s cans. Also, occasionally show me Bad Santa on Spike because let’s be honest, that movie is even awesome on basic cable.

A Man Of Extreme Passion

Posted in Hero with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2011 by Suge White

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“…this man was one of extreme passion.  His name was Tommy Heinsohn”  –  a great 17th century poet (whose name I cannot recall).

Watching Boston Celtics basketball is a beautiful thing on its own but that beauty is certainly enhanced by the wise words of Tommy Heinsohn.  His hate for the opposition is viseral, while  his love for the green and white is nothing short of glorious.  His ability to remain uncontrollably biased in the face of the most irrefutable evidence is the epitome of honor.  In fact, I wish I had that kind of support in my every day life.  Think about it.  Who wouldn’t feel better if Tommy was there to give his support when you put down the box of Fruit Loops and pick up the Cheerios.  Maybe I could get a few breaks from the police attempting to give me speeding tickets if he was in the front seat yelling at them as soon as they got to my window.  And I, for one, would be much better off if he was there to demand a foul everytime a girl tried to slip me a finger during a heated sexual exchange.  Even if the referee didn’t see it, at least Tommy will be there calling for a flagrant foul.  The possibilities are almost as endless as his loyalty.  So as you watch the NBA playoffs, remember that Tommy Heinsohn is a saintly figure that should be praised at every turn.  Remember that the scotch coursing through his veins is free of that Protestant taint.  And remember, his dedication is a shining example for every child in this country who wears a Celtics jersey.

Sex, Drugs, and Sheen

Posted in Disaster, Fucked Up People with tags , , , , , , , , on March 4, 2011 by Suge White

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Can we please stop talking about Charlie Sheen?  I will admit that I do it myself but there’s no denying that it’s a worn out story.  Infatuation is down right unhealthy.  We shouldn’t spend so much otherwise liveable time hemorrhaging over the downfall of a single drug infested individual.  Charlie Sheen is hardly the first celebrity to meet the downfall of drugs.  Let us not forget Keith Richards, Bobby and Whitney, or all of those “that kid who was in all those movies”.  They are all just people… who occasionally smoke crack and fantasize about creating sex mansions.  I think that it’s time that we all start living like celebrities because, obviously, that’s what peaks the interest Americans.  We should go out, do our own drugs, fuck our own hookers, and create our own temporarily quotable moments of pure insanity.  I don’t know about you but while I may not be able to afford a suitecase filled with blow, I could probably afford to fill a camera case or a small jewelry box if I really wanted… and lets be honest, that’s still alot of blow (or so I’ve heard…. from other people).

Gathering My Thoughts…. And That’s Not Good For Anyone.

Posted in Stop...Look...Listen with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 8, 2011 by Suge White

Here’s to a new year. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve put my insanity out there for the masses. I think my lack of creativity is due to the cold because if my dick is frozen to the side of my leg, the last thing I’ll be doing is writing. Today however, I have pulled apart my appendages, thawed out my frost bitten bait, and am now ready for a little nonsense. Over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed some things that strike me as unacceptable. First things first, these children need to drink more booze. We need to teach these kids to man up and stop being a bunch of pussies.  I don’t care if you’re wearing a diaper, drink more. Control of your bodily fluids has nothing to do with it. Shit, I know some grown ass men that can’t help but piss all over themselves after they get a few cups of the sauce in them… see Sleazy E (former Goon, now heartless pussy). Next line of business: men with pony tails.  In the words of the great Mike Singletary, “Can’t win with them”. Perhaps I should add a line item to this declaration by saying that if you believe in the virtues of hippy-ism, I may give you a pass for the time being, if only to avoid the wrath of some good friends. Other then these select few, no man should be rocking a pony tail because it makes you look some sort of poor man’s Jesus Christ.  Jesus was poor enough. There is no need to try to one-up him. I’m going after Russian dudes next.  Seriously, get your teeth fixed. I’m sorry Ovechkin, that mangled grill of yours doesn’t make you look rugged. It makes you look like a guy who just smoked 5 grams of crack and is now on the hunt for some little girls bicycle to steal. I can see him now, riding down the street on that pink Huffy with the streamers flying off the handle bars, all the while looking like some sort of Wario on meth. You make millions, dude. Go see a dentist. Sticking with the hockey player theme, we will move on to Sidney Crosby. You mustn’t ever wear that dick-broom you call a mustache ever again. Your skills on the ice may be significant but no amount of skill can make up for that disasterous attempt at facial hair. Keep it clean shaven and maybe you won’t be lambasted by me for looking like John Waters, though I will continue to question your sexual preference. Moving on.  John Boehner needs to stop crying. I’m probably the 1,000th person to comment on this but I might be the only one to notice that every time he cries it looks like he just suffered a massive stroke. Move the left side of your mouth dude! Also, if Howard Dean’s maniacal moment of laughter disqualifies him from consideration for a higher office, and it certainly does, I think john Boehner, in all his infancy, should be held to the same standards. Crying is for girls and men that just got kicked in the junk, not for politicians who just want to use their clout to ball-wash the rich. KILL THE RICH, FEED THE POOR!!! Welcome to 2011, I’m out!

Mr. Womens Winter Wonderland

Posted in Stop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2010 by Suge White

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Somehow we’ve stumbled upon another winter and I woke up this morning to the site of snow on the ground. As a kid, I loved snow but only because it meant that school might get canceled. However, now that I’m an adult, snow just means that my drive to work is going to be dangerous. It also means that if I stand outside for too long, there is a good chance my dick is going to get cold. That is never a pleasant turn of events. I go to that place to gather warmth for my frozen fingers but a cold dick means cold hands. So if you come across me starting a friction fire in my trousers, while huddled behind the wood shed, its not because I’m sexually frustrated but rather because I’m freezing and my heater needs to be warmed up a bit before saving my digits from a frost bitten fate. No, seriously, I wasn’t jerking off! This brings me to another of life’s great mysteries. How do Eskimos procreate? When its that cold out, the last thing I want to do is expose my little friend to the elements. Getting kicked in the smallest extremity is no fun but I’d imagine fucking an ice box is much worse. Sorry Mrs. Claus, my sex elf is taking the day off because it’s just too fucking cold. You know who’s dick never gets cold? The answer is God. God’s dick is always the perfect temperature. How do I know? That’s simple, I’ve seen it in action. When I say I’ve seen it in action, I’m not saying I was sitting in the corner watching the man upstairs pound out the girl downstairs.  It also doesn’t mean that I was on the receiving end of some heavenly prison justice.  No, it means that I’ve watched Tom Brady lead the New England Patriots to victory, time and time again.  Is there any question that Mr. Brady is a living replica of God’s dick? I think not. He scores whenever he wants, he always stays cool in the pocket, and he is topped with the finest hair known to man. Sounds like God’s dick to me.

Get Away From Me…. Or At Least Stop Talking

Posted in Fucked Up People, Stop with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 13, 2010 by Suge White

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Let me reiterate to you how much I hate people.  I hate people so much that if I had a choice between talking to a stranger and getting fucked by a ravenous wombat, I would seriously consider subjecting myself to any number of sexually transmitted wombat diseases just to avoid talking to the likely idiot. Seriously, how bad could love with a syphilitic wombat be? However, if I talk to the stranger, he may tell me about his mortgage, about his job, or about his mothers arthritic hip. Lets be honest. Who wants to hear about any of that shit? Sorry pal, I don’t care about your kids and since you insisted on showing me a picture of them that you have stuffed away in your wallet, it’s only fair that I tell you that your daughter looks like Andre the Giant and your son looks like Boy George. Needless to say, you should pull out next time you hop in the sack with that handsome broad you call a wife. Perhaps my words are a little crass but so is the sight of your hideous children. This brings me back to my ultimate point. Please don’t talk to me. I don’t care if you’re Jesus fucking Christ. On a side note, I would imagine that talking to Jesus would be a real downer. He’s got all sorts of uncomfortable topics to discuss. “So my mother says I am the son of God but I’m pretty sure she just doesn’t want to tell me that she fucked the whole village and my father could be anyone but is probably the papyrus salesman with bad knees and a penchant for boy love. Oh and did I mention that I was crucified?”. For the love of your supposed father, shut the fuck up!  And no, I’m not interested in putting “the body of Christ” in my mouth, you fucking creep!