I just realized that Vincent Lecavalier should never be allowed to talk. He is a great, great hockey player. How I love watching him play on a line with my personal favorite, Martin St. Louis. But DEAR GOD. It's possible that English is his second language ... he's from Quebec ... if I were Canadian I would know this. He doesn't have an accent, though, which does not leave him with much of an alibi. Last season Ovechkin couldn't speak-eh much of the English, but he managed to say brilliant hockey things like "I saw the puck and think 'Oh my God, puck!' and I shoot." This season he has probably learned to pepper all utterances with "obviously."
Anyway, Internet, one of these days I'll say something pos-i-teeeeve. Would it count if I were to express my deep admiration for Pittsurgh, and Evgeni Malkin in particular, for getting it done so well while Crosby's out? Malkin just assisted to put the Penguins ahead of the Hurricanes.
By the way, I am comprehensively unqualified to talk about hockey, but I don't have anyone to share my love of the game with. I am just a little bitty old girl.
2/14/08
2/13/08
Unemployment Rocks, part 3
I should start by saying I have no principled objection to sex tourism, though I'm not planning on doing it myself anytime soon. It just doesn't bug me that people, mostly guys, go to Thailand or wherever and bang hookers. So the first thing I thought when I read this dude's article about a sex resort (apparently in the Dominican Republic) was "shut the fuck up! Free booze and unlimited pussy!" Seriously, the guys who dreamed this up and made it happen are geniuses.
The second thing I thought was that porn writing has not changed since the Seventies. I used to find my dad's super skanky magazines--no Playboy for him, with the models' legs demurely closed--it was Juggs and Cheri and Oui et al. Of course I read them from cover to cover. Repeatedly, so that I remember it clearly to this day. Every picture, every word of text, all the ads. Anyone would have done the same, even if they were about nine, as I was. This could have been cut and pasted from the November 1978 issue of Oui:
Maybe dudes talk to each other like this all the time, when there are no women within earshot. How would I know?
It occurs to me that I'm not being very nice to the writer, whose blog I perused a bit. I actually think he's providing excellent stuff, writing about his sexual adventures; I love to read about other people's as much as I like to have my own. But he did that thing that mean old intolerant conservative me can't stand: he whined about how sexually repressed "this country" is. We are to understand that he certainly isn't talking about himself--no, it's all the rest of you loathsome little peasants who are sexually repressed. When there's real live actual sexual repression going on, like public executions of gay people in Iran, and the widespread opression of women in every country where there's significant Muslim influence, naturally "this country" is the repressed one.
Anyway, if any of y'all repressed, ignorant proletarians want to ride the Dominican Pussy Train, go here.
I especially love that they named it after a women's cable channel.
Peace out!
The second thing I thought was that porn writing has not changed since the Seventies. I used to find my dad's super skanky magazines--no Playboy for him, with the models' legs demurely closed--it was Juggs and Cheri and Oui et al. Of course I read them from cover to cover. Repeatedly, so that I remember it clearly to this day. Every picture, every word of text, all the ads. Anyone would have done the same, even if they were about nine, as I was. This could have been cut and pasted from the November 1978 issue of Oui:
... the only diving I wanted to do was jackknifing straight into some warm moist muff.
Nature had equipped her with a pair of flotation devices that would have made the Titanic unsinkable.
As she started giving me head, I remembered that there’s no hurricane season in Oxygen’s tropical enclave. The only gale-force winds were the ones generated by Mika’s furious inhaling and exhaling on my dick.
Maybe dudes talk to each other like this all the time, when there are no women within earshot. How would I know?
It occurs to me that I'm not being very nice to the writer, whose blog I perused a bit. I actually think he's providing excellent stuff, writing about his sexual adventures; I love to read about other people's as much as I like to have my own. But he did that thing that mean old intolerant conservative me can't stand: he whined about how sexually repressed "this country" is. We are to understand that he certainly isn't talking about himself--no, it's all the rest of you loathsome little peasants who are sexually repressed. When there's real live actual sexual repression going on, like public executions of gay people in Iran, and the widespread opression of women in every country where there's significant Muslim influence, naturally "this country" is the repressed one.
Anyway, if any of y'all repressed, ignorant proletarians want to ride the Dominican Pussy Train, go here.
I especially love that they named it after a women's cable channel.
Peace out!
2/12/08
Distinct Kicking Motion
This may soon be this blog's title. There's no content, but I have the urge to title it nonetheless. Unemployment still rocks. Am having another satisfying and delightful evening of Center Ice, worth every penny of the $175.
2/4/08
Maxim
"Sufficient unto the day is the outfit thereof."
Words to live by ... even if I made them up, and even though since I quit my stupid office job, I have worn only jeans or pajamas. I still stand by them as my own fashion mantra.
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