Besides the fame and money, here's three reasons:
1) He was Snake Plissken, goddam it.
2) He spent the better part of his life tagging Goldie Hawn, whose ass stands as one of Hollywood's finest.
3) He got paid for this:
Thanks to Dana for the vid.
Recent Posts
30 December 2010
23 December 2010
All I Want for Christmas... Is In Your Pants
I'll come right out and admit it: I'm queer for Christmas.
The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle "The Little Drummer Boy" for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.
Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.
Folks, I want ass.
And please note that when I say "ass," it's not code for sex, as in "man, I could use a piece of ass." I literally mean ass. Like, spending Christmas day with my face securely buried under some random female's derriere. Just like they did in the old days, before fireplaces and Entertainment Weekly.
As Frank Sinatra noted in his now-classic tune, "It's Christmas, Get Over Here and Sit On My Face," there is perhaps no better way to spend the holidays than being surrounded -- or even engulfed -- by the things that we love most. In my case, it's ass. So that's all I need under my tree.
Some guys love electronic gadgets. Others like books or video games or fancy cars or cashmere sweaters. But give me a willing woman with a round bum and I can literally entertain myself (and, hopefully, her) for hours. As I see it, I'm never any closer to heaven than when a female is kind enough to straddle my chest, facing my feet, and starts lowering that majestic backside down toward my face. If that doesn't spell "Christmas," then, seriously, nothing does. You wanna go out caroling and tossing dimes in the Salvation Army buckets and wrapping gifts for the homeless? That's all well and good, and I salute you. But I'm fine right here, in my dimly-lit apartment, being facesat within an inch of my life as "Dominic the Donkey" spills out of the speakers.
Of course, we learn at a young age that getting exactly what you want at Christmas is directly proportionate to how well you've behaved. So I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I deserve ass this year?"
Fact is, I may not. The ladies like a guy with game and I've got none to speak of. I'm also pale and nerdy, and despite my 6'2", broad-shouldered frame, my heart and stomach do the flippy-flop whenever pretty women approach me. And the very fact that I just used the term "flippy-flop" will likely force some women to cross me off their lists.
But what I can offer is the full-on ass-worshipping experience. You may think you've got an "okay" ass, but after you flex that thing in the direction of a full-time ass fetishist like myself, and gauge my reaction as I nervously move my hands toward it with genuine awe and glassy-eyed reverence, you'll realize the true majestic grace of your buttocks--an experience which I've had women describe as both "fucking awesome" and "really, really freaky."
Also, I've got a tongue that I'm not afraid to use. Some men may fumble at the altar of pussy, but I've never been that guy. My job is to make it worth your while; to give you incentive to straddle my face. That's where the tongue comes in.
The best part is, it's the cheapest Christmas gift you'll buy this year. It's already there, following you around, burning my eyes from across the packed mall parking lot. All I'm asking is that you bring it to me (or to some mutually agreed-upon halfway point), and plant it firmly on my nose for a couple hours.
So if you're female and you have an ass, hit me at celtic1978ATgmailDOTcom. I can't guarantee that it'll make for the most memorable Christmas of your life. But by sitting on this nerd's face, you'll be "paying it forward" at a time of year when giving is on everyone's mind and tongue.
And that's what all this holiday bullshit is really about anyway.
Originally written as a guest post for Met Another Frog.
The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle "The Little Drummer Boy" for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.
Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.
Folks, I want ass.
And please note that when I say "ass," it's not code for sex, as in "man, I could use a piece of ass." I literally mean ass. Like, spending Christmas day with my face securely buried under some random female's derriere. Just like they did in the old days, before fireplaces and Entertainment Weekly.
As Frank Sinatra noted in his now-classic tune, "It's Christmas, Get Over Here and Sit On My Face," there is perhaps no better way to spend the holidays than being surrounded -- or even engulfed -- by the things that we love most. In my case, it's ass. So that's all I need under my tree.
Some guys love electronic gadgets. Others like books or video games or fancy cars or cashmere sweaters. But give me a willing woman with a round bum and I can literally entertain myself (and, hopefully, her) for hours. As I see it, I'm never any closer to heaven than when a female is kind enough to straddle my chest, facing my feet, and starts lowering that majestic backside down toward my face. If that doesn't spell "Christmas," then, seriously, nothing does. You wanna go out caroling and tossing dimes in the Salvation Army buckets and wrapping gifts for the homeless? That's all well and good, and I salute you. But I'm fine right here, in my dimly-lit apartment, being facesat within an inch of my life as "Dominic the Donkey" spills out of the speakers.
Of course, we learn at a young age that getting exactly what you want at Christmas is directly proportionate to how well you've behaved. So I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I deserve ass this year?"
Fact is, I may not. The ladies like a guy with game and I've got none to speak of. I'm also pale and nerdy, and despite my 6'2", broad-shouldered frame, my heart and stomach do the flippy-flop whenever pretty women approach me. And the very fact that I just used the term "flippy-flop" will likely force some women to cross me off their lists.
But what I can offer is the full-on ass-worshipping experience. You may think you've got an "okay" ass, but after you flex that thing in the direction of a full-time ass fetishist like myself, and gauge my reaction as I nervously move my hands toward it with genuine awe and glassy-eyed reverence, you'll realize the true majestic grace of your buttocks--an experience which I've had women describe as both "fucking awesome" and "really, really freaky."
Also, I've got a tongue that I'm not afraid to use. Some men may fumble at the altar of pussy, but I've never been that guy. My job is to make it worth your while; to give you incentive to straddle my face. That's where the tongue comes in.
The best part is, it's the cheapest Christmas gift you'll buy this year. It's already there, following you around, burning my eyes from across the packed mall parking lot. All I'm asking is that you bring it to me (or to some mutually agreed-upon halfway point), and plant it firmly on my nose for a couple hours.
So if you're female and you have an ass, hit me at celtic1978ATgmailDOTcom. I can't guarantee that it'll make for the most memorable Christmas of your life. But by sitting on this nerd's face, you'll be "paying it forward" at a time of year when giving is on everyone's mind and tongue.
And that's what all this holiday bullshit is really about anyway.
Originally written as a guest post for Met Another Frog.
15 December 2010
My Christmas Wish...
The folks at Met Another Frog were kind enough to give me the floor today, and my guest post is all about Crizzmazz:
Get over to Met Another Frog to read the rest of my not-so-veiled attempt to get more butt.
I’ll come right out and admit it: I’m queer for Christmas.
The stores packed with people. The crunch of snow under my size 12 boots. The wobbly mecha-Santas and inflatable Rudolphs. Hell, I even love the music, which starts playing 24/7 on the radio after Halloween (at least in my neck of the woods). Hearing Bing Crosby and David Bowie tackle “The Little Drummer Boy” for the three-thousandth time in a two day span might push lesser men over the edge. But me? I live for that shit.
Something else that makes me win at the holidays is that unlike some folks who can waffle on for hours over whether to ask for a Droid X or an Ikea lamp, I know precisely what I want for Christmas.
Folks, I want ass.
Get over to Met Another Frog to read the rest of my not-so-veiled attempt to get more butt.
10 December 2010
It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman
So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.
Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- where I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper from the back of her skirt.
And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma:
If I call her on it, I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday).
If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues, with a paper tail.
So I cleared my throat and called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarrassed but thankful.
As I saw it, I'm already the office perv. I sure as fuck don't want to be a tool as well.
Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- where I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper from the back of her skirt.
And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma:
If I call her on it, I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday).
If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues, with a paper tail.
So I cleared my throat and called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarrassed but thankful.
As I saw it, I'm already the office perv. I sure as fuck don't want to be a tool as well.
