Honest Appreciation

Next week is apparently deemed to be Teacher Appreciation Week in our local schools. This seems to be yet another one of those Hallmark-invented non-events that we're all meant to celebrate by going out and buying cards, gifts and other assorted crap. Thus does the greetings card industry sustain itself. It's bad enough that I just missed Secretary's Day (or Administrative Assistant's Day, or whatever the fuck we're supposed to call it now). It doesn't show up on my Outlook calendar so how am I supposed to know that it's coming, unless my admin assistant puts it on my calendar, which kind of defeats the object? I have an excellent admin assistant, one who's well worth appreciating, but even then I feel the whole thing is ridiculous and arbitrary. What about marketing manager's day, or account manager's day, or even HR assistant's day? I know there's Boss's Day (what fuckwit made that one up?) but I'd regard anyone caught celebrating that as a Grade A arse-kisser.

The designated Room-Mom (for all you Brits laughing at this stupidity, just you wait - you're only ever a few years behind the bullshit here) has laid out a whole regime of suggested celebratory efforts to be undertaken by us and our offspring over the coming week. These include:

• A book of handwritten notes to the teacher from the kids expressing their appreciation.
  
• A flower bouquet.
  
• Lunch provided for the teachers by the school.
  
• Lunch provided for the teachers by the PTO.
  
• Chocolate and fruit for the teachers from the kids. (Looks like there may be some fat-arse teachers by the time this is done.)
  

This charade is so utterly typical of the way these opportunities for appreciation are formalized, standardized and stripped of any real meaning. We can't have any of the teachers being left out, can we? So let's make sure they all get the same treatment. This means that any real appreciation that may be felt towards any particular teacher would be drowned out in a torrent of false gestures.

Let's leave aside for a minute the fact that these teachers only work about thirty weeks of the year as it is, and when they do work they seem to get a day every other week for "training" or some such crap. Then half the time the kids are getting tested, so they don't have to teach them anything. The point is that in teaching, as in any endeavor, there will be good and bad performers. Forcing the kids to show appreciation to all the teachers, no matter how good a job they do, just devalues the whole exercise. It's as though "self-esteem" needs to be massaged and protected for the precious teachers as much as for the kids.

I remember some of the teachers I had as a kid. Mr Welch was one of those great teachers who go out of their way to encourage and develop their pupils. He was probably worth a whole week of chocolate. Mr Brodie, on the other hand, was a worthless cunt who couldn't teach History to save his life. I'd have suggested a jar of urine as an appropriate gift. Possibly to be worn. The rest of them followed this same pattern of Good, Bad and Indifferent. And it's no good looking to parents for guidance here - just because mum and dad think your teacher is just the kind of influence you need doesn't stop you recognizing that she's a psychotic bitch with control issues and a Napoleon complex. Not exacly "book of appreciation" material.

Oh yes, just to crown the whole event, there's going to be a collection for a class gift. That's a long way from my experience of teacher appreciation. There was a short period when that arse-wipe Mr Brodie was away and we had this beautiful blonde substitute teacher for a couple of weeks. That coincided with Valentine's Day, and Daniel Bond gave her a card with the inscription "Roses are red, violets are blue; I can't wait to get my ---- up you." He got sent to the headmaster for that one. He was lucky - in the US these days he'd probably be arrested for sexual harrassment and violating her civil rights.

But the point is that at least he was showing honest appreciation, and isn't that a trait we should be encouraging in our children? I like to think so...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Snow White and the Seven Perverts

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess called Snow White, who lived in a giant castle with her father, the King. After her mother had died the King had got married again, to a woman with the most fabulous titties in all the kingdom. They were so pert, and round, and full, with nipples like cherries, that none who had seen them would ever forget them. Snow White’s stepmother had a magic mirror and every night when she got undressed she would stand in front of it and ask “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s mazumbas are best of all?” To which the mirror would reply “Phwoooaar! Yours!” At this the stepmother would go to bed happy.

As time went by Snow White grew up and began to grow her own breasts. Her stepmother paid no attention, but as Snow White’s chest accessories grew firmer and meatier, her own started to point downwards a little and the nipples became less succulent (something probably not helped by the King constantly chewing on them). One night, however, as the stepmother stood in front of the mirror she asked her question: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s mazumbas are best of all?” but she didn’t get her usual reply. Instead the mirror said “Snow White. Fuck me, have you seen her rack? What I wouldn’t give to shove my face between them and go flubbalubbalubba! Mmmmm!”

The stepmother was furious. How dare that little bitch challenge her mammary supremacy? On the other hand, there was no doubt that the girl had great tits. Immediately she summoned a courtier. “See here you. If you take Snow White into the woods and kill her I’ll let you play with these. Bring back her heart to prove it’s done.” Well, what could he do? He was only human, so he took Snow White into the forest. But as he ripped open her shirt to stab her he caught sight of her chubblies and he could not bring himself to harm them, so he told her to run away and he took back the heart of a deer instead. This way he did indeed get to pleasure himself with the stepmother’s boobs. But he was thinking of Snow White’s.

In time Snow White found herself deep in the forest, where she met a group of seven dwarves. Their names were Wanky, Jizzy, Sleazy, Humpy, Frotty, Pokey and Dick. They worked hard all day in the mines and needed someone to look after them so she moved into their little house and took care of them. It was a purely platonic relationship and Snow White remained chaste and untouched.

Back at the castle the stepmother was now convinced that her mams were once more the best in all the kingdom so she stood in front of the magic mirror and again asked “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s mazumbas are best of all?” The mirror replied “Mmmm. Snow White’s. Could I give her a pearl necklace or what?” The stepmother was apoplectic with rage and set about tracking down Snow White. Eventually she located the little house where she lived and, disguising herself as a country woman, she knocked on the door.

“Hello strange country woman” said Snow White, on answering the door “what can I do for you?”
“I’m selling these wonderful magic apples” said the stepmother. “They’re guaranteed to keep your nipples pointing upwards and ward off unsightly veins on your sweater kittens.”
“Can I try one?” asked Snow White, “only I’ve seen what happens when your tits get older. My stepmother’s will be hanging down like roofer’s nailbags before much longer and I couldn’t face that.”

So she took an apple and ate it, but it was poisoned and she fell down in a coma. The stepmother returned to the castle in triumph and this time the magic mirror told her that she did indeed have the best tits in the kingdom, seeing as how Snow White appeared to be dead and getting off on seeing a dead girl’s chest was just not his bag. When the seven dwarves got home they were terribly upset to find Snow White limp and unresponsive so they undressed her and laid her in bed.

Many years went by and a handsome prince rode through the forest. Eventually he came to the little house, where he stopped to ask for water, and when the dwarves invited him in he caught a glimpse of Snow White still lying in her bed, apparently asleep. He fell instantly in love with her and asked if he could kiss her. Sleazy said he could, but it would cost him two sovereigns, three if he wanted to use his tongue. The prince paid three sovereigns and walked up to Snow White’s bedside. He bent over and kissed her, but as he did so his tongue dislodged the piece of poison apple from her throat and she woke up. As she sat up, her eyes fell on the prince (and his fell on her boobs) and they were instantly in love.

“Come away with me” said the prince “My horse will carry us to my castle where we can be married.”
“Sure,” said Snow White “just let me freshen up a bit.” She pulled down the bedclothes and looked at her snatch, which seemed to be covered in crispy white flakes. “What’s all this?”

Seven pairs of eyes looked down. “We didn’t think you’d mind” said Jizzy “only it seemed like a terrible waste not to. The evenings are so dull and there’s been nothing to watch on TV since it hasn’t been invented yet.”
The prince pulled out his sword. “I’m going to cut off your tiny cocks you miserable little perverts” he raged, as he chased them round and round the bedroom.

Eventually he hoisted Snow White up on his steed and rode off. He wasn’t happy that his new bride was full of dwarf jizz but her rack was fabulous beyond compare and he could not resist. Snow White was happy too, as she rode away proudly wearing her new dwarf-penis necklace. In the end they reached the castle and there they both lived happily ever after.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

No Such Thing As A Free Call

Anyone who's ever stayed in a hotel knows that you don't use the phone in your room to call anyone unless you actively enjoy giving large amounts of your money away to cunts in unfashionable uniforms when you check out. This is especially true if the people you are calling happen to be in another country, in which case the cost that would appear on your bill would approximate to the GDP of a small Central American economy. Consequently my company thoughtfully equips us with 800 number calling cards which we can use to make calls anywhere in the world. In almost any hotel in those parts of the world that I've seen, including China and India, your phone calls are free if you call the appropriate "800" number for the country you happen to be in. I've seen a couple of places in the US that levy a connection fee of $1 or 50 cents per call, which is shit.

They claim that this is their way of recovering the cost of providing the service of having a phone in your room but we know that's bollocks, don't we children? The phone doesn't cost them anything once it's there, and if you call a free number it won't cost them anything either. The phone is a fixed cost, a bit like the tap that your water comes out of - sure it costs them something to put it there but you wouldn't rent a room that didn't have a phone, any more than one that had no sink. In fact it would make more sense to charge you for water usage because that actually costs them money when you use more. But they don't, because they'd look like, well, cunts.

So why choose the phone to levy a special charge on? Why not have a TV charge when you watch free TV (instead of the one-handed "special" viewing that they provide)? They could charge you a fee for using the free tea and coffee facilities instead of the "six dollars for a soda" minibar. The short answer is it's because they hate to see people find ways to avoid getting fleeced. As it is, when you check out you often find on your bill, in addition to whatever room rate you were quoted, about three separate special tax assessments that add 25% to the cost.

In most cases, though, the phone charge is a nuisance but not punitive. However, this morning I checked out of a hotel in Manchester. (I wouldn't want to embarass them, so let's just call it the HILTON HOTEL AT MANCHESTER AIRPORT) and I saw on my bill SEVEN separate charges for phone calls. They varied from $4-9 per call (charged in UK pounds, obviously). I challenged this and was told that this was a connection fee. Well, excuse me, but if you're going to be the kind of cunt-bag establishment that levies a connection fee it's kind of traditional to have a sign pointing this out and not just ambush people at check-out. Plus, if it's a connection fee why aren't the amounts all the same? They sent me a "Guest Ambassador" or some such bollocks, who had no idea and suggested that she could talk to maintenance later about it. "No, I have a plane to catch and I'm checking out now so I'd like you to sort it out now." The amount involved was about $45 for seven calls, and they ended up crediting me, I think just to get me to fuck off.

Some places just exist to try and fuck you in the arse. How much should breakfast at a basic hotel cost? (This is not high-end, it's a fucking brick box special.) Ten dollars? Fifteen? This one was about $35 for one buffet. In other words "Never mind what we quoted you for the room, when you get here we're going to shaft you rectally, good and proper, because you're captive and we can. If you want breakfast we're going to make you pay." Nearly all my travel is on business so I'm not paying myself but it's the principle of the thing. Plus, imagine you're a family of five spending the night before heading out on vacation. That's $175 for breakfast! And they had dried-out black pudding too.

So if you're planning any vacations out of Manchester and the Hilton is on your itinerary I'd strongly suggest you apply a little lubricant "back there" before you arrive. Or you could build a fire in your room to cook breakfast, and send smoke signals for communication. Your choice...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Compare & Contrast

I just had to make a short and sudden trip to the UK and because of the destination (Manchester) I ended up flying BMI on the way out and American on the way back. I had no idea what to expect from BMI – I didn’t even realize they were allowed to fly international – but my hopes were not high when, on approaching the gate and catching sight of the plane, I noticed that the horizontal part of the tail seemed to have just been welded on. I always assumed that this was a moderately important part of the plane and not something you’d have patched up in a garage like the wheel arch of a Ford Cortina MkIV.

I was booked in the seat next to a colleague and before boarding we discussed who would take the window seat (and therefore have to step over the other to get out during the flight). Well bugger me if we didn’t get on and find out that there was about six feet of empty space in front of our bulkhead seats. You could have had sex on the floor, there was that much room. Then the flight attendant came over and, fuck me again, here was someone you could actually imagine wanting to have sex with on the floor in front of your seat. She was young, pretty and friendly, a combination I have about given up expecting to find on transatlantic flights aboard US carriers.

Our in-seat DVD players were not working, so BMI had laptop ones ready for us, but we declined on the grounds that we had to get drug-assisted sleep and hit the ground running at the other end. Nevertheless they insisted that we were due $50 in free items each from the duty-free catalogue as compensation. I got a new travel adaptor, since my current one has taken to emitting a shower of sparks when plugged in (which I can’t imagine is a good sign), and a leather purse for Bison Daughter. My colleague didn’t see anything he needed in the catalogue so he asked the flight attendant to donate his $50 to a small child traveling with her parents, who was delighted. I may be a complete bastard but I work with good people…

Fast forward to today and I’m on the American Airlines flight back. As if to taunt me with what might have been, our plane was right next to the BMI jet at the gate. The first thing you notice is that the new seats in business class had to have been designed by morons. Complete fucking idiots who clearly never actually fly anywhere. The position of the armrest, combined with a drop-down table, mean that it is practically physically impossible for anyone to clamber out of the window seat if the aisle seat is occupied. Plus, in spite of all the advances in seat-back DVD, the flight attendants have to carry out all these heavy computer-like entertainment systems and stick them in each seat. I suppose the exercise keeps them young, right?

By the time I ordered my meal the choices were steak or vegetarian lasagna. (Have you heard that Brian Regan stand-up bit about flight attendant psychology and airline meals?) I never eat meals without meat if it can be avoided so I went for the steak, but soon wished I hadn’t. The taste of smoke was overpowering and disgusting; this cow must have been a sixty-a-day smoker. Unfiltered. I had the dessert instead, but that had a piece of plastic in the bottom of it. See if you can guess how many dollars I was offered by American to spend in their duty-free catalogue. That’s right, fuck all. It’s not that I needed them (thanks to the "war on terror" I couldn't have carried a bottle of scotch onto my connecting flight) but it just reinforces how little customer service matters to American now – a ticket this fucking expensive used to come with some expectations of service, but apparently not any more. And you couldn’t even fantasize about shagging the flight attendant, unless it was in a skeleton-in-a-skin-bag necro-fancying kind of way. At least I got to watch re-runs of Two And A Half Men. Again. It’s a glamorous life, international travel...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

That Burning Feeling

The fact that today was the first proper sunny day of Spring here in St.Louis gave rise to a number of other "firsts". For a start I had to give the lawn its first cut of the year, which meant starting up my geriatric, abused and utterly neglected lawnmower for the first time. It started as usual, confirming yet again my belief that attempting to maintain motorised appliances is futile since they will either work or not work according to some arcane rule of the universe, and there's fuck all you can do about it, so why waste time pulling the stupid things apart to lubricate them?

So I mowed the lawn and then lay in the hammock for a bit, listening to music. The hammock obliged me by not falling down (in spite of the fact that it has been left out in the rain and snow for a decade) and not dumping my arse on the ground. We had temperatures mostly in the seventies (Fahrenheit) today so it wasn't exactly blazing hot, but since I have skin the color of copier paper I managed to burn it in a few places. You know how it is - you're quite happy outside, giving no thought to the sun, never considering for an instant that you should be lathering yourself from head to foot in coconut scented jizz. Then you go indoors and instantly discover angry red areas that you just know are going to be the same areas you sleep on, sit on or otherwise rely on in daily life. Fuck it. So I've rolled the dice on skin cancer yet again...

This always makes me wonder about naturists. I mean, when I do the sunburn thing the worst that's going to happen is that my neck hurts for a bit or, more likely, my head or feet will go red and then shed about a square foot of skin over the subsequent week. But naturists have to consider the very real possibility that if they miscalculate their exposure they'll burn their genitals. For women I suppose little is at stake here - unless you're lying on your back with your legs apart, doing your best impression of the entrance to the channel tunnel, you're highly unlikely to burn anything important. For blokes, however, who shouldn't even be exposing the tops of their legs unless they're wearing a Speedo (and we all know how queer and "European" they look) the area at risk is substantial. And it includes the penis. Can you imagine having sunburn of the nob? First the redness and pain, then not being able to touch it or sit comfortably, followed by the skin peeling off it and, just for laughs, the long term fear of some malignant melanoma appearing on your shaft.

Of course you could put sunscreen on it but sunscreen has to be re-applied every hour or so, and can you imagine nonchalantly grabbing your scrotum pole and rubbing lotion in it while surrounded by strange women? (If you answered "yes" to this question perhaps I should add "Not while wearing a raincoat and lurking in the bushes at the park".)

There's definitely something very wrong with the whole naturist movement. For a start the whole thing seems to require that you go about your normal activities but just do it with no clothes on, as though this somehow makes things better. Let's face it, the world of women falls neatly into two categories for most men - attractive ones, the sight of whom naked will likely cause you to get the horn and get thrown out of the club, and gruesome ones, the sight of whom naked will NOT enhance the table tennis, poker, sauna or whatever else it is that you're supposed to be doing at the naturist resort. What's the etiquette if you're meeting another nudist couple for dinner? If you see the bloke's wife and get a stiffy is that considered a compliment? What do you say when you meet? "Hi John, how are you? And this must be Susan - you look fabulous tonight." If you don't accompany this with at least some "firming up" she's bound to think you're being insincere isn't she?

Actually there are a number of reasons that naturism is weird. For a start the whole "let's all get naked with our kids" thing is fucked up. But more fundamental than that is this: I like my dick - it's been with me a long time and we've had a lot of fun together. I would hate to be separated from it and I try to look after it, just as it has certainly looked after me. However I'm under no illusions that it's a thing of beauty - penises are ugly fucking things, best kept to yourself. When I go on holiday the last fucking thing I want to see around me is a whole bunch of other blokes' cocks, alright? Jesus, this is a country where people won't sit on a toilet seat without putting paper all over it but they'll sit around in the same chair that old Walter's dribbly spout was leaking over for the last two hours, or where Mary's clunge just left a mark like the ring from a teacup.

So there you have it. Naturists will be outraged at my lack of "openness" but at least I'm not going to be rubbing Aloe into my johnson this evening.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Piece Of Cake

Yesterday evening Bison Daughter decided that I wasn't spending enough time with her. She announced this just before I left for my soccer game so, burdened with a small amount of parental guilt, I figured I needed to do the attentive dad thing today. The trouble with the weekend, as I pointed out last week, is that it's apparently impossible to find anything worthwhile to do here that doesn't involve a) shopping, b) eating, or c) pointless walks. I tried to come up with something during the morning, while Bison Daughter was at dance class and I was lifting weights, but by lunch time I still had no idea. Consequently when she suggested we make a cake I agreed, in spite of the fact that it necessarily involves both shopping and eating.

Now, when I say "make a cake" I mean a real cake, with flour and eggs and fat, not a "remove contents of packet and add water" cake. Those are for wankers. I can't cook worth a shit - men who like to cook are most assuredly either homosexual or at least bi-curious - but cakes are just about following instructions. You add the bits, mix them up, put the result in a tin and shove it in the oven - it's not rocket science. Bison Daughter picked a recipe from this kids' cake book that mother-in-law had sent her as a gift and we assembled the ingredients. These included flour, sugar and eggs, plus a disturbingly large quantity of fat, in the form of sticks of margarine. There was another full stick of butter mixed with half a pound of melted chocolate, just for the icing.

That's one thing about making a cake, as opposed to buying one - you know exactly how much sugar and fat you're consuming, and it gets your attention. I could practically feel my arteries hardening as I mixed in the margarine; the last step in the instructions for this cake should have been "Experience numbness in left arm and shortness of breath. Clasp chest in sudden pain and sink to knees as sound of screaming relatives fades away."

The other thing this cake required was ground rice. Don't ask me why - I can't cook, remember? But the recipe said to add it, and I don't own any. I wasn't about to ponce around the supermarket looking for it so I just ground up some normal rice and put it in. It would have worked just fine, had I ground it up a bit more, but as it was it gave the resulting cake a somewhat gritty texture that left me wishing I'd just left it the fuck out.

This aside, however, the cake was a success. It must be about two thousand calories a slice, with eight times your daily recommended fat intake, but Bison Daughter enjoyed making and decorating it, and I got to put a tick in the "attentive dad" box. I also got to put a tick in the "fat wanker, one step closer to death" box, which wasn't such a good move. Couldn't mother-in-law have sent anything more healthy than this saturated fat death-book? Maybe after I keel over they can throw the cake cookbook on the top of my coffin - it would be fitting.

Of course I may well outlive Mrs Bison, in spite of my lard intake. In fact I'd say there's a finite risk that she'll die of shock today, just as soon as she sees the fucking mess we made in the kitchen. There were no instructions about that in the recipe, you see...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Just Squeeze The Trigger

Yesterday was the last day of a two day meeting I held for my team in Massachusetts and we had planned to celebrate with a little teambuilding. This was to involve getting together with a few of the managers at the plant and engaging in some trigger therapy at the local Smith & Wesson shooting range. The plant manager offered to bring his toys, which I’d heard were excellent and included a .44 Magnum which would attempt to take off your fucking arm when you fired it.

So at 5:15 we left the meeting for the allegedly ten minute drive to the range. Glen was driving us in a rented minivan (a spectacularly plasticky Kia) and claimed to know the way. He had his hand-held GPS as a standby but I’m not sure why, because the first time it told him to turn around he ignored it. Consequently we found ourselves being directed towards a bridge which we needed to cross to get back on track but which was in fact comprehensively closed (with full complement of cones, flashing lights and workmen with exposed arse cracks). We’d faced this obstacle earlier in the week but then we’d had someone in the van who knew the area and could direct us. Now we were hopelessly fucked. And late for our shooting.

We tried a couple of routes but just ended up at the bridge again. Aha! The GPS! Glen consulted it once more and set off on a roundabout route, diligently following its directions for about ten minutes until it faithfully dumped us back at the bridge. Which was still closed. At this point the mild-mannered Glen erupted in a volley of abuse: “I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck it. We’re back at the fucking bridge again.” It was like Groundhog Day, only with orange barrels. I suggested he renounce his masculinity and ask for directions at a gas station. We were quickly provided with directions and rendezvoused with the rest of our group at the S&W range.

We signed three separate forms, provided two types of ID and received protective equipment and then went into the range where some of the group were already shooting. One gun was sitting in its case waiting to be used in an open firing lane. It was the .44, fitted with a scope. I sent the target out to the first position and loaded the revolver with six very large rounds. Having not fired a gun for literally years, and only once in the last thirteen, I was somewhat concerned that I might have lost the knack and would show myself up by missing the target completely, or something similarly shit. (Back in the UK I owned a very nice S&W .357 Magnum, before all the legal guns had to be handed in so that only criminals could own one – note how much gun crime has soared since then, all you weak-minded, knee-jerk political fuckstains. Ironically I had to give it up when I came to the US, not being a citizen.) I sighted on the black circle squeezed the trigger and the hand-cannon exploded. It was a wonderful toy, although the full-load ammunition was not really required for punching holes in paper. All six went in the black, but I couldn’t see this until I got the target back, leading me to wonder if I’d hit it at all.

We shot about five other handguns and my favorite was a semiautomatic S&W .38 Super. We had a small competition to see who could shoot the tightest group at 25 and 50 feet with whatever gun you felt happiest using and I chose that one. Apparently shooting is like riding a bike, or wanking, in that it’s not a skill you lose once acquired, and British pride was upheld as I walked off with the substantial first prize (a Smith & Wesson hat). God help the burglar who comes to my house, provided that he wears a black circle and brings me a gun…

We then headed off for an excellent barbecue dinner. Before we left I suggested to Glen that if he taped his GPS to the target and sent it down the range to 25 feet I’d happily put it out of its misery for him. He declined my offer – maybe he’s going soft. Or maybe he just really likes visiting that bridge.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Farewell To Arms

Today I'd like to propose bringing back the death penalty for women with stupid laughs and men who wear sweater vests. This particular bout of broad-minded tolerance, while something that I would certainly still support in the cold light of day, was probably brought on by getting back to my hotel room at 10:30 tonight, after a long day, and finding a full scale house-party going on in the room next to mine. What made it worse was that the rooms were joined by those interconnecting doors, through which you could actually hear a mouse fart, and which stood no fucking chance whatsoever of muffling the peals of laughter periodically emanating from this particular group of wankers.

Noise from adjoining hotel room occupants is about number one on my list of "Things That Piss Me Off". I phoned Mrs Bison and even she could hear the twats through the wall. I waited patiently - maybe they would just piss off on their own? Two minutes later my patience ran out. Mrs Bison was somewhat concerned that I should not be tempted to go round and inflict actual violence on the perpetrators, although it was clearly deserved. But if not that then what? Her suggestion was to call the hotel and have them sort it out but I dismissed that approach on the grounds that it would be a pussy move. Plus, the hotel weenies would almost certainly just have politely asked them to "keep it down", at which point they would probably have carried on as before.

The other option would have been to go round and knock gently on the door, before politely requesting that they keep it quiet. That's no good either - the problem is that I assume before even going round that they will take the piss in some way and so am already in exactly the mood that would ensue if they had taken the piss. Meaning that there's no way I could ask them politely to do anything. Why the fuck should I?

So I took the middle way. I banged on the door and told them to shut up. This I felt was a balanced and reasonable approach. I didn't say "shut the fuck up" and I didn't add "cunts" to the end, although it was clearly warranted. These were whiny middle-aged, middle management type people with those annoying laughs, only you mostly heard the women laughing because of the high pitch. So anyway, they did indeed shut up, and, as a bonus, fucked off too. I looked out of my door to see what breed of wanker had caused my blood pressure to spike; lo and behold, a wanker in a sweater vest. I might have known!

I have met a lot of people over the years, in a lot of countries, and although it's not an infallible test, you can generally assume that any man who voluntarily wears a sweater vest (i.e. they didn't juat have the arms of their sweater ripped off by a moving vehicle on the way to the office) is a Class A Wanker. Some of my friends fall into this category so, as I say, it's not a perfect test. (Unless they're wankers and I just never noticed, I suppose.) Anyway, silence has now descended again on my spartan hotel room. Until tomorrow morning of course. I have to get up early and you can be fucking certain that my neighbor is getting up at the same time. Vengeance is mine, sweater vest cocksucker.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Please Don't Say That

Why are we supposed to say “African American” when in reality we mean “black”? I was wondering about this because the term is only ever applied to black people, which implies that only black people can possibly be African. This can’t be right, can it? Let’s think about this for a minute - historically the ancient people who lived in the UK, whether they be Celtic, Saxon or Norman, were Caucasoid (i.e white). Since then a lot of “black” people have moved to the UK, and we call their descendents British regardless of their skin color, because that is where they have grown up. So if black people can be British (and, by extension, European), why can’t white people be African? Let’s face it, white people have been in Africa for more than a hundred years and several generations, so the term African can’t just mean black people can it? Unless you’re telling me that white people can’t be African, in which case black people can’t possibly be British.

So if some Africans are white, why do we use the word African to denote black people in the politically correct term “African American”? It must be because the term black is considered insensitive in some way. It’s certainly incorrect in one sense – these people aren’t black, they’re brown. And I’m not white – I’m sort of a pink color really. But we can’t use the term colored because that, apparently, is politically incorrect too, unless we say “people of color”. What fucking genius invented that one? How about we call tall people “people of height”, or fat people “people of weight”?

One of the problems is that the term African American is usually used in the context of the endless race debate, most of which seems to be devoted to finding reasons to discriminate in favor of black people or make special accommodations for them. If we used the term “colored” it would encompass people from the Indian subcontinent too, who don’t appear to need endless handouts and excuses as they are quite capable of making a good living in any number of professional fields, including medicine and information technology. So this whole issue really isn’t about skin tone, it’s about something else.

The only currently acceptable theory of human evolution holds that we are all descended from one female, Mitochondrial Eve, who lived in Africa some 200,000 years ago. In fact any scientist who challenges this “out of Africa” theory is typically regarded as a heretic. In other words “politically incorrect”. So if we are all, indeed, descended from this one African woman then we must all be African, right? I mean, at what point do you stop being identified with the country or continent that your ancestors left? (Probably a bloody long time, judging by the number of so-called Irish people over here who couldn’t find the place on a fucking map.) So that means I must be African American too, in which case I’d like the college entry requirements relaxed for my offspring too, thank you very much.

I could have asked a black mate for his opinion on this subject. “Do you want to be black or African American?” But the subject never comes up, because in the end he’s just a bloke. His skin color is irrelevant. Heaven forbid that this becomes a common thing though – what will the race relations industry do if we stop noticing this stuff and quit worrying about what to call each other?


Copyrigh © 2008 Edward Bison

What To Do Now

It's the weekend and I'm already bored. Why am I bored? I have two days in which I can do pretty much whatever I want, so surely I should be able to fill my life with joy, pleasure, or at least some low-grade sin. It occurred to me a while back that if I eliminated working, eating stuff and working out from my life there would be bugger all left. So now that I have my first weekend in ages with no work and no business travel I'm wondering just what the fuck I should do with it.

I tried looking around at other suburban types for inspiration. Their weekends seem to divide cleanly into two classes of activity: working on their home and shopping. There is also all that time they spend taking Junior to baseball/soccer/softball practice, or going to church, but since the main attraction of either appears to be the opportunity to converse with other similarly dull people about their latest home improvement project or purchase, I fail to see the opportunity for excitement. I asked Mrs Bison what people do and she pointed out that they have hobbies. Such as "crafts". So I suppose I could spend my weekend making a papier mache painted head. Or I could hold my head underwater for, say, half an hour and just get it over with.

This is probably why people like me die as soon as they quit working - we have no idea what to do with all the free time. Faced with a lifetime of home improvement projects, shopping and crafts we simply lose the will to live. Work has expanded to fill most of our lives and the few open times become moments of sudden panic as we struggle to remember what we did before all this work. What would I have done as a kid? Well, when I was small I would have gone up the hill with a friend and made a den in the woods, which is great and all that, but it doesn't provide much of a pointer about what to do in suburban St.Louis. There's no hills, you see. When I was older I would have sat with friends, listened to heavy metal music and maybe drunk some illicit beer, while we talked about what life was going to be like when we had money and cars and our own houses.

Then you grow up and find that your house isn't quite the leather-lined party palace you imagined at the age of sixteen. Instead it's a monument to suburban insecurity, where everyone runs around upgrading their counter tops to granite and their lighting/shower/bedroom set/furniture/entertainment system/basement in the desperate attempt to fit in with the people at church or bunco, who are all doing the same, in order to stave off the sudden realization that there is nothing in their life but home improvement and shopping. And, worst of all, shopping for home improvement stuff. I know exactly where I'll find people like me today (or people that I'm supposed to be like); they're down on Manchester Road, shopping. Someone will have woken up and said "You know what we need? Some new track lighting in the family room. Let's go to Home Depot." And that's the weekend right there: buying and installing track lighting.

If that's what the weekend is supposed to offer then no wonder I'm bored. Fuck track lighting. And fuck granite counter tops too. If I'd thought at the age of sixteen that this would be my future then I probably wouldn't have made it past eighteen. What happened to fun? Well, fun requires friends. It's not that you can't have pleasure on your own (we know a song about that, don't we?) but the best times are always had with your mates, and I haven't done a great job of cultivating mates over recent years, with all the moving around, and working and that. Most of the people I know will be doing the track lighting thing, poor bastards.

First things first - I'm going to the gym. And while I'm there I'm determined to figure out what to do for the rest of the day that doesn't involve eating, shopping or healthy but poinless walks in the country. Perhaps this is why that bloke ended up shoving the potato up his arse - he was just that bored. Or it was the only way to avoid a trip to Home Depot. "Sorry darling - I'd love to go and pick out new carpeting for the dining room, only I've got to go and get this potato and jar of jelly removed from my anus this afternoon. Maybe we can go another time?" Fortunately Mrs Bison isn't a "drag you to the shops" wife, which is great news because I just looked in the cupboard and there's no potatoes, only a fucking enormous onion. Now that really would make your eyes water...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

What would possess a man to shove a potato up his arse? I was checking out rotten.com last night (don't ask why - I was bored, OK?) when I came across this set of pictures of a man who was getting a jar of jelly and a potato removed from his rectum. (When I said I came across them I just mean I found them - you need to get your mind out of the gutter.) Now there are a number of questions that this photoset raises.

• What sort of man shoves a potato or a jar up his arse?
  
• What sort of man has himself photographed having them removed?
  
• What sort of person photographs a man having things removed from his arse?
  

I know that the male prostate is supposed to be some sort of erogenous zone but personally I'm quite OK with the frontal erogenous zones, thank you very much, and can't see the need to be shoving things up my tradesman's entrance. Still, that's just me. However, even those blokes who want something shoved up their browneye would surely have to confess that there have to be better choices than a potato or a jar. How about buying a sex toy? They're not that expensive are they? Is the mortage crisis that bad? Are you so fucking hard up that you're rummaging through the pantry for something that might possibly fit up there?

Even if you do want to go the "improvised" route, it's probably worth remembering the following:

1. If you stick a potato up your sphincter it's going to close behind it and you're not going to get it out, Einstein.
   
2. If you stick a jar up your sphincter not only is it going to close behind it so you can't get it out, but it's made of glass, fuckwit. Glass breaks. Glass will shred your Hershey Highway so bad you'll have trouble getting anything out, let alone in.
   

I have to ask what goes through someone's mind after they just shoved a vegetable up their Marmite Motorway. The bloke must have been standing there, one potato right up there, incapable of being retreived, and he says to himself "What now? I know, I think I'll follow it up with a jar of jam. That would be a great idea!" I don't care if the feeling was so good he spooged all over the ceiling - when it was all over he was left standing in his kitchen (please God, tell me he did it in his kitchen and not in the aisle at his local supermarket) with a potato and a jar of jelly up his arse.

Now I've heard the joke excuses - "I was showering and the phone rang so I ran into the kitchen and slipped - my robe fell open and I landed on this banana, honest doctor" - but how do you explain falling on a potato and then a jar? That was some amazing fall, mate. That would have made the highlights on the "Up Your Arse" TV special for sure.

No-one can peruse the internet for more than an hour without figuring out that there are some sick bastards out there but I have to say that this takes the biscuit. Even the man fucking a chicken must look down on this bloke. "Hey, I know I shagged a chicken - I needed the money - but shoving stuff in my arse? Are you kidding me?"

You know what I'm doing right now? I'm sitting down. That feels good, and I'm not about to give that up, no matter what they say about the prostate. As far as I'm soncerned its only function is to wake me up in the night when I get older, and that's how it should be.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Young At Heart

I passed one of those tiny milestones today which indicated that I am getting old. I was having lunch in a Thai restaurant with three colleagues when one of them used the phrase "...kids today..." in a sentence, without irony. And he meant kids as in new employees, not as in "getting on the school bus". OK, it wasn't me who said it, but I believe in guilt by association when you sit with other blokes. It's one of those defining moments, like when a young girl in a bar keeps looking at you and you start to imagine you're a stud, and then she comes over and it turns out she thought you were one of her friends' dads.

Never mind that I can deadlift more than 400lbs, play soccer every week and can run the 200m in 26 seconds. Forget that I have hair on my head and my stalk still stands up without chemical assistance. Little things remind you that this is just a temporary phase, a mere point on the graph of performance versus time, and it's downhill all the way from here.

I can already see signs that it is my manifest destiny to turn slowly into my father. Or at least a taller and more offensive version of my father. For a start I'm growing more and more of those brown moles on my skin. Either I'm going negro on the installment plan or I have the same kind of skin as my old man, which means that by the time I'm sixty Mrs Bison will be able to read me like a braille book. The only compensating feature is that no-one will see my skin because of the body hair that I'm busy cultivating. I suppose this is another sign of "maturity", although I'm OK with this one because men with no body hair look disturbingly like mannekins, rent boys or hermaphrodites.

So no matter how much I work out, keep my hair, sport a healthy morning erection and listen to the latest sounds, man, I am doomed, as are we all, to descend slowly down a path that will include the following:

• Fluffy hair spontaneously emerging from ears and nose.
  
• Testicles descending in their sack to a point just above my knees.
  
• Paying more attention to old bastards on the TV advertising Medicare drug coverage supplement plans.
  
• Mowing down a bus queue in my oversize Buick and claiming I never saw them.
  
• Testicles descending in their sack to a point just above my knees.
  
• Repeating myself.
  
• Wearing more and more brown clothes.
  
• Talking about aches, pains and operations.
  
• Looking for friends' names in the obituaries.
  
• Considering dating a woman with a face like a giant scrotum, a downy moustache and tits hanging below the belt.
  
• Or, more likely, dying before my wife and leaving all my worldly goods so she can romance a flamboyant sixty year-old newsreader with perfectly capped teeth who wears a sweater draped over his shoulders like a giant cunt.
  
• Liking cats.
  
• Wearing bifocals and yet being unable to see either near or far.
  
• Having a colonoscopy.
  
• Suddenly not thinking that the AARP are a bunch of diseased old wankers whose primary contribution to society has been to ensure that senile old goats can continue to get their driver's license renewed automatically and kill the rest of us (in their Buicks) with impunity.
  
• No longer even imagining that the barmaid might shag me because of my great accent.
  
• Shortness of breath, sudden pains all down my left arm and a white light getting closer. Is that Grandpa's voice I can hear? I'm coming over now...

Ah, fuck it. I have a quarter of a century before I need to think about that shit. And let's face it, if I keep trying to run the 200m in less than 26 seconds in the middle of a St.Louis summer I won't need to worry about getting old - I'll expire early. I've heard it said that you're only as old as you feel; that doesn't help much because, with all the soccer and weightlifting, I feel like shit a lot of the time. I prefer to think you're only as old as the woman whose tits you'd like to feel; based on this theory I could clearly be somewhere in the twenty to thirty range, and quite possibly still eighteen.

That's something kids of today just don't understand - they're the dirty old men of tomorrow. It's only a matter of time...

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Red And Leathery

Yesterday the mail arrived and, as usual, it consisted of two pieces of "real" mail and about eight pounds of advertising, coupons and assorted unsolicited shit, at least some of which has to be carefully shredded in order to minimize the risk that some toothless meth user will steal my identity by rummaging in my trash. Mrs Bison set to flicking through a Macys brochure that seemed to be mostly dedicated to furniture, and she made the comment that we could probably do with a new bedroom set, one where all the pieces matched. Now for any normal bloke this phrase would be enough to drive a spike of fear through his heart. It raises the specter of entire weekends dragging round furniture stores looking at an endless succession of expensive, unappealing and, frankly, fucking shit furniture.

Fortunately Mrs Bison qualified her statement with the phrase "...but I can't be bothered to shop for one". Now that's what a wife should say. Good call - let's watch clips of Red Dwarf on YouTube instead. The spouse has a wonderfully high activation energy for shopping - she doesn't enjoy it, won't seek it out and doesn't use the spending of money as a fruitless compensation for a sad and empty existence. Lucky me - I'm convinced that whole legions of women have a homing device that draws them to Bed, Bath and Buggery or Linens and Shit on a weekend, and woe betide any poor bastard husband/boyfriend who gets caught in the tractor beam.

Of course, in the unlikely event that we had contemplated buying furniture (about as common an occurrance as me watching American Idol on TV) we would certainly not have been going to Macys. This goes back to an experience I had a couple of years ago when we went out to buy a three-piece suite for a room that we had not properly furnished in about a decade. After traipsing around the many and varied furniture stores of St.Louis (does the word "bland" mean anything to you?) we ended up at the local Famous store (which Macys recently bought). They had a leather three-piece suite which was light in color, soft, matt finish and very casual, unlike the darker one we already owned, so we ordered it.

The day before we went on vacation the new furniture showed up and it was, in almost every respect, entirely unlike what we saw in the store. It was dark burgundy, shiny, solid as a rock, and you kind of slid off if you tried to sit on it. So we attempted to return it. It's amazing how quickly the sales assistants go from being all "how can we help you, sir" to "why don't you just fuck off and die?" Sure they'd take it back if I paid a 20% restocking fee; I tried pointing out that the goods they supplied weren't what they had represented them to be, and all that, but I'd have had more luck talking to the fucking sofa. (I didn't call them useless fucking cunts once, which I thought was good of me, particularly since they were.) In the end I went to the store manager and he sorted it out, down to the last cent, but although I'll happily go back to the store, I would cut off my own foreskin before buying anything from their furniture department (assuming they even still have one).

We ended up buying some furniture for that room on impulse when Mrs Bison happened to stumle across something that looked good, and this, I believe, is the secret of successful furniture shopping: Don't Force It. It's rather like finding a spouse - you don't go out looking for one or you'll drive yourself up the fucking wall, as well as missing out on a lot of fun in the process. If you happen to meet one along the way then great. Of course if you want to find furniture you need to at least occasionally set foot in a furniture store; you won't get lucky in the grocery store. Similarly it's no good expecting to run across a wife if you spend all your free time in the titty bars. Unless, that is, you want to marry a stripper. In which case you need to be careful - you may find, like with furniture, that once you get it home it's not quite what it appeared to be in the store. It too will probably be harder, more slippery and a different color than what you thought you were getting.

Which makes me wonder - how do people do the mail-order bride thing? Now that's some seriously hard-to-return merchandise. At least the catalogue for that would be interesting to get in the mail...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Eat Up

It's been a long week, so when I woke up this morning I thought "fuck it" and rolled over again. Consequently by the time I got up it was well past time for "breakfast" but not yet close to "lunch". I know I could have had "brunch" but that term always seems so, well, gay, that I can't utter it with a straight face. Real men don't have brunch do they? I can just imagine Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry Callahan responding to an offer to go for one: "Brunch? Brunch is for assholes." So instead of having brunch I had a fried breakfast.

When I'm traveling I rarely miss the cooked breakfast - eggs are excellent protein and a good way to set yourself up for the day - but I can't be arsed to cook it myself at home, partly because of the time involved and partly because afterwards the kitchen ends up looking like someone had oil, grease and egg sex on all the counter tops. Today, though, Bison Daughter wanted scrambled eggs so we cooked up some sausages and bacon to go with them. It was good, and the kitchen disaster was only classified as "Moderate - some eggshell distribution and scattered greasy pans". Admittedly the presentation suffered from "bloke cooking syndrome" where the ingredients were all served but the presentation was sadly lacking; on the other hand, who cares? In 24 hours I'll be flushing it away anyway.

I always enjoy a big breakfast, especially if someone else is cooking it for me, and I still remember the first time I came to the US: I arrived on a Saturday night and woke up on Sunday morning with my first experience of transatlantic jetlag. I wandered down to breakfast in the hotel and was confronted with a gigantic buffet. "You mean I can eat all this? As much as I want? For as long as I want?" I was in large breakfast heaven - eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, waffles, cereal, fruit, tea, juice, yoghurt and some other stuff that I can't remember - and I didn't so much walk back to my room as roll. Of course the novelty wore off (which is a good thing, or I'd be a fucking fleshy whale, complete with the inability to see my own penis without the aid of a mirror on a stick) and I returned to eating like a normal human being again.

The main reason for this is that the initial joy of being confronted with so much hotel food is overcome by the eventual realization that much of it is, in fact, completely shite. Scrambled eggs (which risk having the texture of vomit at the best of times) are often sloppy. Bacon is cremated to a crisp and not the thick, meaty, flexible stuff beloved of Englishmen. Sausages are thin, blackened dogs' penises. The bread for the toast is insubstantial and tasteless, and the yoghurts are "low calorie" with sweetener. Tea is made with tepid water and Liptons "essence of piss" teabags, and cereal is either over-sweetened and over-colored kids' varieties or colon-cleansing bran crap. When I first encoutered "biscuits and gravy" I had a hard time imagining what it could be, especially since gravy is something that comes with roast beef, and biscuits are something you eat with a cup of tea. What I saw appeared to be nothing more complicated than scones and mushroom soup, although the "gravy" was usually congealed, and somewhat reminiscent of porn-film jizz. (Although not so much as "grits", the recipe for which, I am convinced, is primarily based on horse semen.)

I'll leave the last word to Clint:

"I know what you're thinking - did I eat five eggs or six? Well, to tell the truth, in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being as these are Magnum eggs, the most powerful binding agent in the world, and will close your colon right up, you've got to ask yourself one question, do I feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?"

Tomorrow I'm back to bananas and protein shakes. Probably.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Open Wide

I have this theory that you can tell a lot about a man by his reaction to an attractive woman crossing her legs in front of him in a short skirt, or bending over in a low-cut blouse. That is to say, if he tries to catch a glimpse of the "promised land" he's a normal, healthy bloke, whereas if he doesn't look he's gay. Or possibly blind. I believe there may still exist a large number of women who seriously believe that polite men (perhaps including their own husband/boyfriend/father) wouldn't look, whereas I personally maintain that this is complete bollocks. The only characteristic which distiguishes between us men in this regard is the degree of blatantness we are prepared to employ.

What is it about forbidden flesh that's so appealing? I mean, you could be sitting on the beach surrounded by women in bikinis and hardly even notice their near-nakedness, but as soon as that well-upholstered barmaid bends over to get a packet of salt'n'vinegar crisps you just have to check out her cleavage. (At least I assume this is the case - it's always possible that it's just me, and hundreds of people reading this are currently shaking their heads and wondering what the fuck I'm on about.) Maybe it's that very forbiddenness (is that even a word?), the knowledge that you're gazing on things that should be hidden. It's the unexpected pleasure, the bonus encounter that reminds you that there's more to life than work, family and wholesome pastimes. Of course this only applies if the encounter is indeed a chance one; if you wander around with a mirror on your shoe looking for it then you're just a sad wanker.

We live in a world where hardcore pornography is but a click away and you can gaze on anything from tasteful nude pictures to a movie of a Chinese woman sucking off a large dog, and everything in between. In spite of this I challenge you not to glance sideways next time the opportunity presents itself at the health club/mall/parent teacher conference. The trick is obviously to do it without drawing attention to yourself; this means both from the object of your observation and from the girlfriend/wife who will inevitably be standing right next to you as you involuntarily gaze up some blonde goddess's skirt. It's a constant battle, but one made almost impossible to win by the fact that women instinctively know when you're doing something you shouldn't. It's like they can sense it, and I don't mean because your conversation trails off, your head turns and you mutter "Fuck me, look at those!"

You may think you're stealing an imperceptible glance at some nearby and near-exposed mammaries but to your other half you might as well hang out a sign that says "System paused while checking out some nice breasts. Normal service will be resumed shortly."

Sometimes a cursory glance isn't enough though. I remember a toga party I attended years ago where the hostess carried on a conversation while sitting with one leg draped over the chair arm, her growler practically hanging out of her underwear. You couldn't not look. It was like the room shrank away and there was just me and this giant minge. It was the minge that was talking to me - I swear I could see the lips move - and I was transfixed. I could hardly believe that this girl, with whom I had worked for some months, had something so hairy between her legs. She should really have had it on a leash.

Maybe a better man than me wouldn't have noticed, but I'm willing to bet there are, at least in this respect, few better men than me. I hereby plead "not guilty" to charges of checking out forbidden sights, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Seriously, your honor, I had to convince myself that it was in fact just a hairy clunge and that she wan't wearing a Russian hat down there. I guess my only hope for acquittal is an all-male jury...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Bad To The Bone

Many thanks to Rima Fauzi for informing me that Mr Bison's Journal scores "NC-17" on the "blog naughtiness" rating scale at this site that she found. Apparently I earned this rating by virtue of the bad words I used, which include:

13 fuckings
7 deaths
5 fucks
4 cunts
3 dicks
2 craps
1 anal

and a partridge in a pear tree. Or something like that. Of course my rating did raise a few questions. Firstly, did I score the top ranking possible? I mean, I'd be disappointed if I effectively got a rating of "not offensive enough - must try harder". I tested this by checking out the ratings of a couple of porn sites that I've never been to but heard about once from a man I never met before in a pub that I can't remember the name of. In spite of having lots of words that I'd apparently overlooked, such as sexy, sluts, cum, cock and porn, they also only scored NC-17. (Of course I haven't overlooked those words now - I assume I'll be credited for them when I publish this post.)

I also checked out my old sparring partner, Jaggy, just to see how he scored. Suffice it to say that he had three shits and a pussy that I'd also not got on my list. Until now.

Next question: am I not getting credit for my wide variety of British vulgarity? What about my wanker, bollocks, bloody and bugger? How about cockmuncher and arsehole? And since when did death become a bad word? Fuck's sake! Don't stop breathing or you might die and go to hell - that's two more words that'll get you in trouble. Much better to pass away and go to a better place. Just don't bequeath your money to your pussy cat or your best friend, Dick.

Of course the true test of offensiveness is not the words you use but the ideas you convey with them. By this test I'd be "dodgy" if I said "crap" but quite OK if I suggested that you amuse yourself by rubbing a horse's dangly parts until it drenches your face with its love glue (or something similarly disturbing) since there's not one rude word involved. Personally, I think that scores more than three shits two craps and an anal put together.

I know this is only a "toy" and not designed to really weed out "adult" themed websites. I mean, you can do a lot to offend people with words but nothing quite says "NC-17" like a picture of a fully grown man shagging a goat, and it's worth noting that animalsexlovers.com scores a General Audience rating. Even so, I'm proud to be flying the flag for our rich and descriptive language. And if you don't like it you can gosh darn well go to heck, don't you know. There, I said it.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison