OH, sure, looky there. We do a perfectly good post featuring a group of naked Japanese guys dancing like there’s no tomorrow, and you’re all like, “eww, those boys have fig leaves covering their thingies” — and then head for the hills like Bambi’s mom, pre-Unfortunate Hunting Accident. We get it. Bitch and/or complain about the freaking idiots who make every day a living hell, and you’ll come faster ‘n a cheap date after his second Colt 45. Bemoan the fact that our “studies” make our heads hurt, and you’re all scrambling like hookers on two-4-one night to see who can be first to shove an aspirin down our throats. And don’t get us started on making unfounded contentions about the “virtues” of Family Guy humor, for that one will cause us to barf up faster ‘n, um, the aforementioned 2-bit whore after an especially hot 4-bit date. But, by golly, feature a questionable rerun, and everyone’s singing “Good Night, Irene” in 4 part harmony, like a quartet of barbers puffin’ away on stogies, after participating in a daisy-chain with Sally, the one-legged whore. (ouch) What does any of this mean? Hell if we know — we’re just whining — in a bald-faced attempt to get someone’s attention (does that sound like something a horny guy left standing on the corner on “twofer” night without so much as a dime might say? yeah, we think so, too). But, as so often happens when we go off on a sexual metaphor rampage, we digress.
WHATEVER it is we meant to say, we will tell you there’ll be no “howling jungle monkey sex” today. Although, now that we think about it, that might be pretty damn funny. What happens when those things mate, anyway?
Mrs. Jungle Monkey: “Honey, omigod, what’s that noise?”
Mr. Jungle Monkey: “Um, it’s just me letting you know I’m having a good time.”
Mrs. JM: “A good time? Lordamercy, usually you don’t make sounds like that unless we’re being chased by a tribe of Hotentots, you found a flea on junior, or you’ve lost another game of Pictionary to Aunt Bea.”
Mr. JM: “You sayin’ you don’t like my love sounds? Fine. Next time I want sex, I’ll just stay on my side of the tree and play with my balls.”
Mrs. JM: “And that would be different… how?”
(in our own heads, this is funny, mostly because we suspect jungle monkeys make a lot of weird noises when they have sex — also, they like to play with their balls)
IN all honesty, we just wondered if we could make you “look”, and, well, apparently we could. Fancy that. Now that we have your collective attention, let’s have a little fun with Sex, Ed?, shall we? Or, if you can’t “have fun”, then just “fake it” — not unlike a newlywed 20-something after discovering it was a mouse in her hubby’s pocket, after all. And a small one, at that. Did someone just say “annulment”? heh heh. (sorry, but in lieu of actual readers, we are left trying to crack ourselves up — and succeeding beyond our wildest expectations).
NOW, before we get too close to this ledge we seem to be inching towards, let’s get down to business (that’s what he said). We contemplated doing a really raunchy post for today, but since sunset marks the beginning of Yom Kippur, we figured that might not be a good idea. Not that we’re Jewish, mind you, but why take chances? Enter our passion for bizarre old movietonesque clips coupled with our continued embarrassment over recommending a stupid SciFi novel to Gruntmor the Insatiable Book Pimp, and voile-lá: The Fashions of Eve, A.D. 2000* (speaking of fig leaves), as predicted by designers back in 1930-something. Short, sweet, and to the point — just like some of you boys on “cheap date” night.
“…and candy for cutie.” In no way does that sound gay and/or perverted. And just think, guys, in the future, you can all claim to be hung… up on a phone call, that is. HAHAHA. (there we go, cracking ourselves up… again)
Shooting milk out of your nose is considered fashionable, at Humor-blogs.com.
*We’d like to give a quick shout-out to one of our many acquaintances from our favorite Starbucks, who shocked the living hell out of us yesterday — and, in the process, inspired the last part of this post — when she asked if she could borrow a pair of shoes for a wedding she planned to attend. She went on to say she wouldn’t mind if we had a couple of dresses for her to try on, too. Maybe a cute beaded bag. Mind you, we only recognize this woman when she’s actually standing behind the counter, but apparently that, and the good tips we leave, gave her cause to believe she now had unconditional access to our closet. Yo, Marie, here’s another 2 bucks — do us a favor, “girlfriend”, go out and buy yourself a clue.
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