Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Bottle Spray as Phallic Substitute
One of the most bemusing of the rituals of douche culture is the overt sexual sublimation taking place when the alpha male of a given rave/party decides to suddenly spray champagne fluid on all those hot chicks around him.
Like the marking of territory among bonobo chimpanzees, this ritual celebratory spraying of fluid is simply semantic semen, a Dionysian display of performative coitus by the king douche meant to communicate fertility and viability to the larger tribe.
When understood anthropologically, the ritual ceases to symbolize a celebratory moment and becomes very, very silly.
Can someone please explain to me how guys in porn films can seemingly ejaculate a full pint of man mustard over the girls, when, on my best day, it seems like maybe a tablespoon of the stuff comes out?
.
.Sorry Boss, but between this post, and the pictures of the GGW on the left, the question had to be asked.
.
.
.
.Onanists
That’s why they’re called “Porn Stars”
.
GGW is all lezzie shit. Gotta be in the mood for that. Gimme a good Julia Ann swallow vid anyday. Or Kayden Kross, check that babe out,.. too pretty for porn, yet …
.
.
This is now an open porn discussion. Have at it
Speaking of porn, my long-awaited back-to-back exam days mean I will be alone in a suite at the Ottawa Westin tomorrow evening and plan an a two-hooker Thursday night in which I will pop champagne and try to squirt out a quart of yogurt on them.
.
And fuck you all!
.
Priapisms
@ Choad the Douche Sprocket 11:21
.
From the standpoint of natural variation in a population – they’re freaks. Outliers. The extreme end of a normal distribution. For other examples see: height in the NBA, height in dwarf tossing, or weight in sumo wrestling. And a particular selective entertainment environment brings them to our attention, as Vin points out – as Porn Stars.
.
Think of them as being in a very special kind of side show.
All good. Thanks @Charles Douchewin.
.
.I shall heretofore commence belief in natural selection….and my own mediocrity.
The only time I found a bottle that was used as a phallic substitute was at an entertainment club where a performer borrowed my bud light long neck. This fine lass, schooled in the art of dance and the science of anatomy. gently lifted my brew from my hand, whispering, “you’ll like this” in my ear. I may have put up a fight as I had paid well beyond stadium mark up for the privilege to drink tasteless yet oddly warm beer, but Kimberley presentation convinced me to contribute to the entertainment. Kimberly placed the beverage mid stage and stood tall. The music was stopped. She glared across the smokey, dim room as if to command those in attendance to draw near. And draw near they did. Like lemmings to the sea the men approached. Some appeared as zombies-,marching almost without thought to their destination. Others, jubilant. Crazed if you will-unable to control themselves as they were captured within Kimberley’s gaze. I tried to remain stoic. An image I had refined in my mind. Interested, yet aloof. Letting Kimberly know I was intrigued, but suggesting that I was what she desired. Upon years of reflection, I am certain the impression received, despite my, or due to my posturing, was that of a drunk. Yet, Kimberley made sure that I, and everyone one near center stage, knew that this performance was just for them. Gracefully, she lowered herself until her tight belly slid along the stage until, like a serpent she reached her prey. She caressed the base of the brew, sliding her fingers up the long neck, then gliding her delicate fingers around the rim. Firmly grasping the base in one hand the other moved up and down. The onlookers seemed adjust their positions. Kimberly kissed the rim of my bottle, then is a swift, yet gently move, while her eyes looked lovingly into the crowd, the neck of the bottle disappeared between her welcoming lips. In a blur of hair Kimberly bobbed as a collective moan rose from the crowd. Suddenly, Kimberly was on her knees, head held high and thrown back. The contents of the bottle emptying down her throat. As the last drop of August Busch’s golden nectar was drained, Kimberly wiped the foamy remnants that oozed from the corner of her mouth. She crawled towards me, reached between my thighs and whispered, “I knew you would like it”. Looking down, there stood my drained bud light long neck.. At nights end, or daylights beginning, I went home drunk with thoughts of Kimberly, my bottle and self-loathing for being duped yet again that the Ladies of the Route 42 Gentlemans’ Club found be interesting even as my stash of Washingtons dwindled to zero