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mystery guestblogger madness minute
Toby's powerbook is on the fritz and he'll be on vacation until next week.
:-(
Sorry kiddos.
In the meantime, here's a promo pic from his new movie cumming in 2005.
Starring Toby Halliwell and Raviv Ullman
Exclusively found @ vividblurry.com
I hope it lands on Los Angeles when Britney and Kev are vacationing on the Jersey shore and then all the celebrities will die and Britney and Kev will come to rule the world forever and ever.
But collision isn't slated until 2029, y'all, so perhaps the whole Spearocracy thing will have already happened.
Merry Christmas, fuckers! I'm off to Staten Island for the day. Smell ya later.
This is the law that restricts free speech in France and these are some of the retards who think this is a faaabulous idea.
I am one of those people who usually closes his eyes during sex. Let's chalk that up to being in such a state of ecstasy that I need to shut off at least one of my senses if my heart isn't to explode from pleasure. Or maybe I'm just a shitty lay. Who knows? No one cares. Not when you have a body like mine.
Well, today I allowed myself a quick glance into the mirror while he fucked me. With him on his back and me on his penis, I turned my head to the vanity, and I swear to god, it was like watching a porn. And not one of those crappy Sean Cody films where everyone is drunk and the guy can't get hard and no one has heard of a tanning salon. It was like a fucking Falcon porn. My arms were taught and muscular, ditto for my pecs and stomach. I seemed almost acrobatic, and given the nature of the situation, my face registered only the slightest trace of shame.
We finished up and in an effort to correct the awkward silence, I said something about the mirror and how we looked like we were porn stars. He was already cruising JockBod at this point (What the hell?) but he looked up and said it would not be a porn he'd ever watch.
"Why not?" I said, much to the groans of the live studio audience.
"I'm not really into twink porn."
OKAY, THINGS NOT TO SAY.
Come on, I'm at least one step above twink! You gotta give me that! He didn't, but he had already given me plenty that afternoon, so I guess I'm in no position to complain.
Russell: What kind of beer are you drinking?
Agatha: Don't worry about it. It's flat, old and been around for a while.
Russell: Sounds like your mom.
Agatha: (cat fight)
Have you ever wanted to make a bitchy comment to someone, but you can't because it would hurt his feelings, and so you refrain from saying it and it just EATS YOU UP INSIDE?!
Gah!
I would never go to a Cher concert, so why the hell would I go to a Scissor Sisters concert? For nostalgia, mostly. So summer 2004.
I try to play some of their mp3s. I want to so badly! But I can't. I CAN'T.
OMG must cleanse my palette with some Ashlee Simpson.
I'm on My Space now so if you wanna be my friend, knock yourself out.
I am never going to a gay bar again.
Kyle and I had dinner last night at Cafe Luna. Boy, the paparazzi were out in full force. I guess it comes with being a public persona, giving up a bit of the privacy I once enjoyed and to which I was once legally entitled. Oh, well. I need the 'razzi as much as they need me.
1. What day is it?
2. Why is it so cold?
3. Why are there Band-Aids on my nipples?
4. What did I do last night?
5. What am I doing tonight?
If you want a Christmas card from Toby dearest, then e-mail me your address and maybe you'll get lucky. I bought too many Christmas cards and, well, I don't have enough friends and loved ones in my life.
Addendum: Thanks, y'all! Check your mail in a few days. P.S. Is it still illegal to mail obscene materials through the U.S. Postal Service?
HOW WHITE TRASH IS THIS?! But whatever, I don't care. I swear, I'm becoming more and more like Britney every day, y'all.
The reality of my elbow injury is settling in. It's the little things, you know? Having to carry groceries with the left hand, pushing open heavy doors with the left arm, shaking my bottle of face wash with the left hand. I went to the doctor last week and now I have to schedule an MRI. Fun! I asked the nurse if an MRI hurts, and she said no — but if you tell the doctor that you're nervous, they might give you some Vicodin. Score! In the meantime, I should really be working out my legs, ass and stomach. I've never done legs, so if you have any good advice or routines, send them my way.
Alright, y'all, I'm off to my last class of the semester and then work. Xo.
Gay Porn Blog, whose crappiness is rivaled only by that of the lousy X-rated soap opera it promotes on a desperately frequent basis, remains in my bookmarks folder because… Well, I honestly don't know. Sometimes it's good for a laugh, but routinely describing well-endowed fuck machines as "phenomenally talented" and "magnetic" gets old once you realize it's done without the slightest shred of irony. (Listen, I'm not anti-porn, but that's like admiring a McDonald's employee for her mastery of the spatula.)
Anyway, the editors of Gay Porn Blog occasionally strive for journalistic integrity by playing 20 Questions with an up-and-coming cum slut. Forget about asking Matthew Rush if opening up one's anus for business is as degrading and cynical as it seems; we're talking softball here, kiddies.
How did you come up with your porn name? (What? Mrs. Dover didn't actually name her son Ben?!) What sex act haven't you tried? (Vaginal intercourse is a more common answer than scat.) And the peculiarly phrased, Which celebrity would you most like to bed? (I'm sorry, but when you're interviewing someone who has sex with other men for money, is it really necessary to pad your questions with such euphemisms as "to bed"?)
The most recent Gay Porn Blog Interview penetrates deeply into the mind of Ethan Marc, a "grad student" from Kentwood, La. That's right, folks. Even more unbelievable than his hailing from the hometown of Britney Spears is his pursuit of higher education, and even more unbelievable than that is the harrowing tale he offers as his "first gay experience." Behold:
It was senior year of college, and I was president of my frat. We had an annual toga party every year ... and in the tradition of not wearing anything under the toga, you were chastized [sic] if you wore things under it. I had always had a crush on my little brother in the frat but I never thought he was gay. He was helping me clean up afterwards and ....
Okay. Let's get real, people. Replace "senior year of college" with "tenth grade," "president of my frat" with "vulnerable and alone," and "annual toga party" with "bathroom of the local Blockbuster," and I think we're going somewhere. Save the lies and delusions for Penthouse Forum, Ethan.
Though Ethan wins the "I'm Living a Wet Dream" award, there are a few other distinctions that must be made. So without further ado, I present the best of The Gay Porn Blog Interview's "My First Gay Experience"!
The "In Some States, Curbside Prostitution Is Actually Illegal" Award
Edu Boxer: After I just finished military service, I was hitching home. A car stopped, inside was a handsome man of about 40. I got in, he drove a hidden country lane. He sucked me off till I came, then he drove me home.
The "It Was Like a Fairytale" Award
Ashton Sorenson: I was sitting in a hotel with my best friends and a Latin guy cruised me and he asked me for a drink ... in his hotel room.
The "Cute But Produces Filthy and Unsavory Mental Image" Award
Brad Benton: 13. Me and my boyfriend of 6 years.
The "I'm Straight, Seriously" Award
Cody Cash: My first gay experience was in Tampa on film actually.
And finally…
The "There Is Nothing Hotter Than a Porn Star with a Sense of Humor" Award
Gus Mattox: Being born.
A late-night trip to Wet (Wednesday is amateur night — Ew!) with an old fuck buddy, sloppy, perfunctory sex at the residence of said fuck buddy, and then a sobering walk of shame back to my apartment...
OR
A viewing of "Lost" and the Barbara Walters special among friends, a short walk home, a downloaded episode of last week's "Desperate Housewives," and then some pre-bed masturbation.
I'll go with what's behind Door No. 2, please. Pleeease.
I was going to say something else, but I forget. Whatever, I gots to get to work. Bye, y'all.
Addendum: I remember what it was! Everyone read this craigslist posting. If you cruise me today, I'm going to STARE YOU DOWN. Everyone should do the same. Hurray, okay I gotta go, I'm late, bye!
I'm sorry, but I cannot endorse in good faith "muttonchops" as an appropriate styling of one's facial hair. To do so would be a titanic surrender to fashion implausibility. Please shave, and while you're at it, dump your boyfriend and fuck me.
If you have dentata, do you go to the dentist or the ob/gyn? (Link most definitely NSFW. So don't click this if you're on a government computer, Russell!) Just another one of life's mysteries for you to contemplate on this lovely Wednesday morning.
There is no better show on television right now than MTV's "Laguna Beach." To my dismay, the series finale airs tonight, so you've missed your chance to get hooked — you know, since once a show airs on MTV, it is never, ever aired again, repeatedly, for hours on end, in so-called "marathon" format. No, not ever.
Unlike the Disney Channel, which keeps its sexy school-aged stars concealed in layers upon layers of Gap Kids, MTV has no qualms about slathering 17-year-old boys in body oil and posing them on a dune in their swim trunks. Just check out Stephen, the surf slut of Laguna Beach who, in my opinion, has a better ass than his skank-ass girlfriend, Kristin, that bitch. (But not as big a bitch as the unfortuante Morgan. Though I might pretend to hate the pretty girls of Laguna, it's the ugly ones I really despise.)
Anyway, behold:
Boys, oh boys, kids sure grow up fast these days.
Despite the cruel barrage of Old Navy commercials (Anyone else think the guy on the right is a total hottie?) I just haven't been in the Christmas spirit. That is, until I was put on hold this afternoon by my health insurance provider and subsequently forced to listen to 20 minutes of canned carols. Boy, am I ready to spread the holiday spirit or what? WHO'S WITH ME?!
No, TJ. I'm pretty sure you're alone on this one.
Dear Toby,
Your site is fucking hysterical. And either I don't believe or don't want to believe that you're in your early twenties, because you are, as I said, fucking hysterical, and I -- in my late, late twenties -- am not. Instead, I see you as an attractive, xanax-crazed, thirtysomething divorcée who enjoys hurling heavy objects at loved ones. And I mean that as a compliment.
Also, I just love "Fat Arms" and will now and always refer to Ms. Duff as Fat Arms. Poor fat thing.
Brock
Thanks, Brock! Also, for your information, I'm really, insanely, maddeningly hot, in addition to being hilarious and nubile. Just another thing for you to try to not believe.
Xo Toby
Lindsay Lohan is "tired of rumors starting." She's "sick of being followed," too. Oh, and she's pretty sure that when you see her "up in the club," you're going to "write what you didn't see." Be that as it may, I can certainly write what I've most definitely heard, thanks to "Speak," Lohan's debut prefab pop-rock mélange. With its standard guitar- and drum-driven beats and infectious yet uninteresting hooks, "Speak" is everything you'd expect it to be, but nothing more.
Lohan's first single, "Rumors" — you know, the one in which the teenage drama queen unironically laments the invasive perils of fame — sounds nothing like the rest of her album, which is fortunate, because self-referential club anthems about dodging the paparazzi are just really fucking stupid. But for those anticipating a collection of similarly produced diva ditties, "Speak" is bound to disappoint. The 10 tracks preceding "Rumors" are Ashlee Simpson with a hint of Hilary Duff, Avril Lavigne with a dash of Kelly Clarkson. Nothing new here. Just another girl in expensive leather boots pretending to rawk out. And with no radio-worthy track to warrant this waste of studio time, "Speak" loses its voice the moment you push play.
The strongest tracks take full advantage of Lohan's scratchy moans and endearing lack of range. "First" kicks off the album with a screaming, empowering, somewhat familiar (Anyone recall the underappreciated "That Girl" from "Confessions…"?) tune. "Nobody 'Til You" trips along with a staccato hook and Lohan's throaty vocal stylings — something Ashlee might consider lip-synching. And then there's "Speak," the title track whose slick chorus is compromised only by its unarguable similarity to Hilary "Fat Arms" Duff's "Fly." I'm embarrassed to possess the authority to make such a comparison, but hey, it had to be said.
The problem with the unexceptional "Speak" is that it's the product of a supposedly exceptional entertainer. Excusing the unexcusable "Life-Size," Lohan headlined the highly successful "Mean Girls" in early 2004 and has since landed multi-million dollar contracts to star in a slew of future productions ("I Dream of Jeannie" being one of them; I'd rather not know). The girl is by no means B-list, but "Speak" seems better suited for Brooke Hogan, Emma Roberts or some other forgettable celebrity spawn. So what happens now? Lohan will release a lukewarm ballad followed by some sort of remix, and then the record labels will finally start signing young women who can pull off the privileged "singer/ actress" title. Raven-Symone, anyone? That girl's got it going on! Ooh, snap!
I've had sex with one of the Metro Weekly coverboy finalists. Can you guess who he is? So stupid — the guy doesn't even live in Washington anymore. But he is very sweet and I hope he wins. Could you imagine? Metro Weekly Coverboy of the Year! What an honor. I can only hope that one day the erudite Metro Weekly editors will recognize my beauty and choose to photograph me in an unbuttoned shirt delivering a requisite come-hither stare. A boi can dream, can't she?
Addendum: My good friend TJ on my turning down an invitation to be a coverboy:
You just jealous, beeotch. Ooh, snap!
Got my hot lil hands on the new Lindsay Lohan album. Bootleg, baby. Check for a review soon.
Britney Spears turns 23 today. We drink the same energy drink, smoke the same cigarettes, and, evidently, use the same acne medicine! (Benzamycin, baby. It's prescription-only and works really well. It tends to dry the skin and get all flaky if you use too much, but it's a super way to manage moderate inflammatory acne, as both Brit and I know.)
It's been a quiet day thus far, just chilling at ye olde internshippe, making phone calls, doing some research. I'm experiencing this sense of clarity that I'm hoping will extend until the weekend. A lot of ideas for new projects and personal essays have been popping into my head; I wrote a piece on the Craigslist missed connections for a journalism class, and I might post that tomorrow. I'm heading home to make a hamsteak. Bye, y'all. <3
• Fuck You, Hilary
• Hilary, Eat Shit and Die, Shithead
• Speak (Hilary Duff is a Skank-Ass Ho Motherfucker)
• 2L (Eat Shit If Your Name Rhymes with Bilary)
• Fat Arms
Thanks, Shayna! Happy World AIDS Day, btw.