No Time For Love, Dr. Jones!

Snow has been steadily falling outside for nearly 24 hours, and it will most likely continue for at least another 12. This isn't a situation similar to that recent nightmare in the Northeast where some locations ended up with over four feet of snow, but we'll end up with around twelve inches around here when all is said and done, with high temperatures around fifteen degrees for the next few days. It's fucking winter, is what I'm saying. Fucking winter.

The sky is trying to smother us all with a deluge of frozen water, because the sky is a servant of Satan, the dark prince, and he hungers for our immortal souls.

Tonight, I fear, he may feast. I don't know what's going on. Do you? If so, could you let me in on the "big secret"? I hate being that lonely guy on the outside looking in. I was never one of the cool kids. The cool kids never even bothered kicking sand in my face at the beach, because they didn't feel like wasting the energy it would take to move their muscled feet quickly enough to fill my fat face with granulated torment.

I wasn't worth the effort, is what I'm saying. Also, I've never been to the beach. I live in Kansas, and I don't get out much. Especially with all of this fucking snow on the ground. Do you know what snow is? What it really is? The tears of your grandparents.

They're up in heaven, sitting on a fucking cloud, watching you masturbate all day every day, and they are so ashamed of you. Every time their friend Gladys comes by to play mahjong, your grandparents lie to Gladys and tell her that you're a big shot manager at some freaky bank, because they can't bare to tell poor, kind, trusting Gladys the horrible truth: that you're a chronic bed wetter who falls asleep watching horrible amateur pornography every night after a long day of watching horrible professional pornography, and you also fancy yourself a connoisseur of counterfeit fruit because you eat a lot of Hostess fruit pies.

After Gladys leaves, your grandparents hold each other and cry, because they realize that they should never have procreated, because you were the inevitable result of all their sweaty thrusting and groaning. Your poor gramps threw his back out giving the business to your lady-gramps, and now he regrets it with every fiber of his elderly being, because you are less than nothing. So the old ones weep into their pillowy clouds, and their tears fall en masse from the sky, and they freeze on their way down because they're so very bitter, becoming a blanket of fresh shame the meteorologists call "snow".

I read that in an issue of Reader's Digest one day. I'm familiar with Reader's Digest. There used to be a few dog-eared copies in the family bathroom for years while I was coming of age in that garbage decade known as the 1980's. Let me be frank with you: I still don't know what Reader's Digest is. I've read it! I've held in my hands! And I still don't know what in the name of all that's good and holy Reader's Digest even is! Does it really exist? Did I hallucinate it?

Did I hallucinate you, Dear Imaginary Reader?

I told you the updates would be infrequent, didn't I? I certainly wasn't lying. It's the final day of February, and I've finally returned to do... whatever this is. I recently received an email from Blogger informing me that in the coming weeks they will be changing their policy regarding "adult content", and that my blog is in danger of being deactivated when the change occurs, because apparently I'm running a fucking porn blog. Just wall-to-wall penetration, with a cavalcade of cum shots in every post!

It seems that nudity is just about the absolute worst thing in the world, according to the decision makers out there. Violence is A-OK, of course, but nudity? Come on. Watching a charming psychopath transform some poor soul into a grisly human tree is just fine for prime-time on network television, but a woman's nipple? One measly fucking nipple?! Take that shit to Skinemax! This is a sick fucking culture, kids.

This is a world where John McLane can butcher dozens of gun-toting dickheads with no consequences, but if he calls one of those gun-toting dickheads a "motherfucker", then his movie's suddenly inappropriate for our impressionable youth. Shoot all the fuckers you want, but never imply that they might actually, you know... FUCK.

I can post that infamous GIF of the bald guy's head exploding from Scanners...

This one.

...again and again...

Wow.

...with absolutely no consequences, because graphic violence has been deemed completely safe for the children by our society's gatekeepers...

Soak it all in, kids!

 

 

...but I'd better think twice before posting a GIF of Linnea Quigley dancing topless from Return Of The Living Dead...

This one.

...because that lovely woman's perky breasts will surely cause the downfall of human civilization if left unregulated.

Has society utterly collapsed yet?

I don't understand this fucking world. Not one bit. I like graphic violence in my entertainment just fine. If you've read this blog before, you'll know my fondness for old school slasher flicks, for example. I just don't understand this bizarre double standard when nudity is involved. Why must people be "protected" from an image of a nude human being?

Spoiler Alert: we're all naked underneath our fashionable clothes. I know, I know, it's a shocking thing to learn, but you have to find out eventually. And unless you're Anthony Michael-Hall in Weird Science, chances are you're also naked when you take a shower. Naked and... *shudder* ...rubbing yourself. Touching your shamefully unclad form with your soap-covered hands, desperately attempting to scrub away the dirt and grime from all that horrible exposed flesh.

Nudity is just a thing that happens, kids. It's not always titilating, and it's not always fun. It just is. Every single one of us is at least semi-nude at some point every day. At the very least, we briefly expose our genitals to the open air when we say hello to Mr. Toilet on a regular basis. I don't know about you, but I'm not shooting people in the face every single day. I'm not ripping out people's throats like Patrick Swayze in Road House every time I'm out and about.

Graphic violence simply isn't a part of our day-to-day lives, at least for the most part. But nudity is. Nudity is an unavoidable aspect of existence. So why is it treated with such shame by so many? Why must we be "protected from the evils of the naked body" by all of these hypocritical moral crusaders?

Stop judging me, Puritanical Pug!

On Facebook, you can post graphic images of butchered animals because people need to see the savagery of man. But you can't post an artistic image of a nude man or woman, because people need to be shielded from natural beauty. Frankly, it's disgusting, and I can't wrap my mind around it. What the fuck is wrong with us?

You know what? Fuck your prudish, puritanical grandparents. They can cry all they want up on their fucking clouds, judging you with their rheumy eyes and their stony expressions, because they still adhere to an outmoded and harmful morality. These are the fucking people who never saw each other naked under any circumstances, because if they did they believed they would spontaneously burst into flames. When they conceived children, they turned off all the lights, and your grampa pulled his flaccid dick out through that hole in his plain white briefs and passed it through the small gap between the buttons in your grandma's floral nightgown and just blindly stabbed around until he finally, joylessly ejaculated somewhere around her lady parts, then nine months later some fucking bird left an ugly baby on their doorstep.

Then the bird ate that fucking baby because he was hungry from dragging that fat fucking baby around all day, and granny gave birth to your mother and/or father at a bacteria-infested fucking hospital, because that's what really happens!

Your grandparents fucked, no matter what you think! They did dirty things in the dark, because they're only human, just like you. But your grandparents are, in part, responsible for maintaining this ignorant and broken society where people who professionally beat each other up are celebrated and treated like royalty, but people who professionally celebrate the joys of sex and nudity are generally labeled as deviants and degenerates. But I've seen your browser history, world. I know what you watch when you think you're alone.

You're hypocrites, pep-pep and mee-maw! You might as well face it: you know your grandparents are in Hell, to quote George Carlin... "baking pies without an oven." And that's where they belong, playing cribbage with Hitler and that Jack The Ripper fellow in a lake of fire.

 

Remember when Justin Timberlake exposed Janet Jackson's nipple during the Super Bowl Half-Time Show several years ago, and the entire fucking world went nuts because they kinda-sorta saw a titty for a few seconds during their wholesome brain damage festival? That's a perfect illustration of just how fucking diseased this country is in a nutshell. You've got an arena full of dudebros creaming their jeans watching a bunch of burly motherfuckers slamming into each other for three fucking hours, and that's the most normal thing in the world. You invite your kids into the room to watch it with you, because that's how real men act and your soft fucking kids need to see it!

Fuck each other up in order to possess an irregularly-shaped leather ball! Crippling, debilitating long-term injuries are commonplace in this so-called "sport", but that's just what happens when real manly men sacrifice their bodies for the sake of AMERICA & FREEDOM & BALD EAGLES & SHIT.

Then somebody spots an exposed breast and everything falls apart. That's inappropriate for such young and unsullied eyes! How dare she force her frank depiction of sexuality into our living rooms! We were supposed to be watching an old-fashioned all-American violent extravaganza, and you just had to go and ruin it with boobs.

Fuck you, America. You've got your priorities all wrong.

And fuck Blogger, while I'm at it.

I'm not changing a fucking thing in this forgotten corner of the worldwide web. If they delete the blog in a few weeks because they believe I'm violating their bullshit rules, then I'll deal with that problem when it comes. In the meantime, I believe I need to introduce the latest installments of what is definitively the least-heard podcast in the entire internet, I Think My Speakers Are Broken.

First let's say hello to Chapter 82, entitled Don't Talk About Frasier, which talks about Frasier. Go figure. There's also a frank discussion about racism in modern America, because why the fuck not? Also, Robocop happens:

Chapter 82: Don't Talk About Frasier



Now let's move on to Chapter 83, entitled Stolen Cable Murder Party, which primarily focuses on the early days of cable television and how many late nights sitting in front of the family TV set permanently warped the fragile young minds of perhaps millions of impressionable children during the golden age of skin flicks. Then the discussion turns to how much the internet has ruined the human race:

Chapter 83: Stolen Cable Murder Party



Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch the series premiere of The Good Witch on Hallmark Channel, which I've been informed is somehow the very heart of television itself, which is just fucking amazing. I'll be back eventually. Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see.

THE PAST IS A CANCELED CHECK!