Tuesday, October 28, 2008

The death of an afternoon: Altering Pictures For The Betterment of Nobody In Particular

The death of an afternoon: Altering Pictures For The Betterment of Nobody In Particular

While absolutely murdering an afternoon in cold blood by reading Blog Catalog discussions, a thread came up, introduced by Robin at The Curious Life of a Divorcee. So, in this discussion thread, she gave a link to a site that allows you to submit a picture and then alter a face in the picture to look like it's of a different race, gender, age and more. Here's the link to that activity: http://www.faceofthefuture.org.uk/

This enabled me to murder an afternoon in less of a cold blooded way. It's always intense when an afternoon serial killer such as myself really gets heated up. It was no longer in cold blood. It was in the heat of passion. Okay, not really passion. More like the comforting warmth you get from clothes fresh out of the dryer. It was an afternoon killing done in clothes-dryer-warmth. I'm getting off track here, I think. The point is, I was having fun. After turning several relatives into animations (Another thing they let you do), I started back on my obsession-Star Trek. I know, I know. I've referenced Star Trek a heck of a lot in just a few posts and I'm sorry. I did warn that I was obsessed with Star Trek and private anatomical parts but you just didn't listen, did you? No. No, you didn't. So...Here's what I was doing with this new Internet toy:

~ Here we have the suave, sweet Captain Kirk.

~It's...Captain Kirk as a baby, according to the site. . .

~ The devilishly sexy Vulcan known as Spock. Here's a little known fact: Spock's last name is Weinstein. Spock Weinstein. Yep. Bet ya didn't know THAT now, did ya?

~ And, this is Spock as half ape, according to the site. Look at him. He looks like he's just about to club you over the head and drag you by the hair back to the cave. Still kind of sexy.

Okay, now I know the Trek isn't what everybody's into. I know some people like House. I do, too. Which is why I made him into a baby and a half ape also.

~ The charmingly misanthropic House as he normally is.

~Doctor Apeman. You've got to admit, this one is almost disturbing. Not sexy. Too accurately apelike. If you found this sexy, you'd be known as ''a zoophile''. If you are one of those...please, leave this blog. Your kind are not welcomed here. I try to be enlightened but, I'm sorry. That's where I draw the line. Zoophilia. If you were a bibliophile, you'd be welcomed any time, provided you don't go spouting off about it like an A-hole. But, not zoophiles.

~ And, this is House Baby. How creepy would it be to get a rectal exam from this one, right? Plus, may I add...de-aging the faces of men with beards or heavy stubble...it just looks creepy. It just does. Babies shouldn't have beards and stubble. That's just a natural fact.

Okay, so thanks to Robin and there went that afternoon. : )

Sunday, October 26, 2008

True Blood: But, Bill had dirt on his penis!

Look at him. You can just tell he's acting coy about the dirty dorkus. (Stephen Moyer)

True Blood: But, Bill had dirt on his penis!
Okay, that was a weird title but I'm just beside myself. I've got my arm around my own shoulder, that's how beside myself I am. If you watch HBO's True Blood, you're no doubt stuck on the Sookie and Bill romance. Well, during a love scene of epically Halloweenish proportions, Bill sprang up from the ground nude and immediately had sex with Sookie. He was dirt-covered. Head to toe. The last time I checked, the penis was between the head and the toe so if anything is head to toe, it gets to the penis too. Anyway, the fact of the matter is that this implies that a dirt-covered penis was involved in onscreen intercourse. I've never seen it before and it gave me the creeps. All I can think of is 'What if I were Sookie and this beautiful vamp wanted to spring out of the ground and do bad things to me?'. I'd be freaked out about the dirt, damn it! Clean that thing off, man! I'm a lowly mortal, human. I could get some horrible infection from soil-based organisms of a malicious ilk. Not happening. Not even for Bill. No.

Monday, September 22, 2008

They may mean the same thing but I don't think of them the same way (Lucy's rant on breasts, penises and better words for them)

They may mean the same thing but I don't think of them the same way (Lucy's rant on breasts, penises and better words for them)

You know, I was thinking about words the other day. Well, several other days...today, too. I've noticed, specifically about anatomical words, that they conjure up different images, even if they mean the same thing. For instance: Tits, breasts and boobs all mean the same thing. Yet, when I think of tits, I think of cute little breasts. Perky, spunky, full of life and vitality-Chi, if you will. Regardless, I picture something small. Something alive and vibrant but compact. When I think of boobs though...I think of big breasts. I'm getting confused but I'm pressing onward. 'Boobs' just conjures up the idea of voluptuous, seductive, sensual, Salma Hayek type breasts.

Interesting aside: When I hear someone saying something along the lines of ''wow, she's got huge tits'', I think 'Isn't that like 'Wow, she's a really tall midget'? '.

Then there's the word 'breasts'. Ugh. I hate that word. My chestial area feels oppressed just thinking about that term. Breasts make me picture dull, lifeless, hopeless, middle-of-the-road, mammogram having, depressed, hasn't-been-touched-properly-in-ages, fixtures of melancholy reality. They belong to the soccer mom who doesn't cheer because her drunken husband is making an ass out of himself next to her. They belong to the woman who's staring at a stool-stained pair of tighty whities by her washing machine and wondering why she didn't end up being a ballerina/actress/model/queen/other stuff she wanted to be in her youth before her perky tits or voluptuous boobs turned into simple breasts. The word brings me down, people. It makes me think of exams and pumps and real life things that are not wonbooberful (combination of boob and wonderful). It makes me think of the downside of feminine anatomy words.

Now, let's talk about male anatomy. I claim a Ph.D. in phallology (*Phallology from Phallus, Phallic, etc.). You may not have known that. It was attained in Iceland during a rough period in Icelandic history where they had a low point in that field and they just couldn't get it up. Now, when it comes to the peniacal model, the more technical, the smaller the mental image. Seriously. The word penis conjures up the image of an executive model. Something that is skittish, shy, doesn't like sunlight and belongs on a businessman with a horrific tie. The head of a turtle that doesn't really want to come out of its shell. Not inherently good nor bad, just a little bit hesitant and sad.

Then, there's d*ck. That term conjures up something else. Fraternities, fun, bars, urinals, trucks, blue jeans with a bulge. Something mischievous and relatively outgoing. Penis conjures up a bit below average, while d*ck conjures up something a bit above average. Macho. Yeah, when I think of d*icks, I think of happiness. You can't say happiness without piness. I mean, penis. You know what I mean. But, then again, the word penis-you see how complicated this gets?

Now for c*ck: When I think of c*ck, I think of something to approach with trepidation. Something you must be careful with or an ovary will be knocked up into a lung and cause lifelong asthma (I've heard stories). Something that is great to show off but frightening to use. Like an expensive, commercial grade juicer. ''It's great. You can juice a whole pineapple! Ack! Turn it off! We're all gonna die!''

I think of the big guy in the group who is 6'9 and strong enough to lift a car but he's relatively uncomfortable walking around in an antique store for fear that he might sneeze and destroy everything in it. Every time he goes into an attic, he gets a concussion. He had to take a yoga/contortionist hybrid class to get into his Chevy. The guy who can't pick up a potato chip without crushing it into crumbs. I think of a Bengal tiger. He's trying to be playful with the zookeeper but he's accidentally killing him. I also think of pulling an SUV into a tight parking spot. Aside from the pollution that he can't help, you think he's a decent enough bloke of a vehicle but it's nerve-wracking to drive him. I'm getting a little bit off track here.

To go back to what I'm ranting on about: Why do I picture these different things for the same word meanings? They don't imply any particular size, shape or personality. I often wonder about celebrity phallology. It's a hobby. There are assumptions, presumptions and bias involved. If I were to guess what Rush Limbaugh's penis looked like, I'd probably call it a penis. If I were to guess what Leonardo DiCaprio's was like, I'd picture something I'd call a d*ck. If I were to guess about Vin Diesel, I'd probably use the word c*ck. But, then again, I've heard rumors that he's a legend in Hollywood. In short (no pun intended there, obviously) I've heard he puts the 'wood' in HollyWOOD.

So, to recap: When I think of tits, I think of Nicole Kidman. When I think of boobs, I think of Salma Hayek. When I think of breasts, I think of my Aunt Marjorie who reminds me vaguely of the SNL character, Debbie Downer and always looks at home at a funeral dressed in black. When I think of penises, I think of badly dressed but otherwise nondescript businessmen. When I think of d*cks, I think of my favorite celebrities. When I think of c*cks, I think of that time I drove my old boss's SUV and wondered if he was compensating for having a penis instead of a d*ck or a c*ck.

Interesting note: Butt and Ass have the exact same meaning to me. A butt comes up in the old imagery center the same as an ass. Go figure.

Also interesting note: Nerve-racking and nerve-wracking are both acceptable and they are hyphenated. I just looked it up. See: nerve-wracking, nerve-racking. The Columbia Guide to Standard American English. 1993

PS: I didn't touch testicles and vaginas but those need a separate post. I can't just touch them casually in this post and I don't want to touch them and make the post too long.
PPS: I wonder if our friend Drowsey Monkey has thought about whether or not Vincent D'Onofrio is more of a d*ck man or a c*ck man. I'm sure she doesn't think he's a penis man.

Monday, September 1, 2008

I like your chicken sandwich but I don't like your chicken sandwich ''like that''. Okay?

I like your chicken sandwich but I don't like your chicken sandwich ''like that''. Okay?

by Lucy

To me, food and sex are not meant to go together. Oh, sure, whipped cream and chocolate syrup have certain applications, connotations and implications. I'm not denying that some sweeter fare is a given here and there. But, these commercials that play Barry White over a spinning pizza with bubbling cheese and pepperoni just aren't right. I know, bubbling cheese = hot. Pepperoni = Spicy and in its original form, was a phallic symbol. But, stop. It's wrong.

Remember that Seinfeld episode with George getting his food and sexy-time wires crossed? I got a little ill. Sure, I was still laughing because nausea and humor aren't necessarily in opposition but I was uncomfortable. Lucy doesn't dig this idea. Lucy has a hang-up with this thing. If Lucy ever had a fantasy about the pizza delivery guy, the pizza itself did not have a starring role, if you know what I'm saying. Neither did the breadsticks.

Savory, meat and potatoes type foods do not belong in the bedroom. Or the elevator. Well, I mean, you know. You know what I mean. Wherever someone's doing the Hoochie Coochie. I've had enough of this crap. It seems like every restaurant chain tries to make food fun and sexy in their ads. Your crappy MSG beef taco with greasy imitation cheese is not sexy. I have no sexual attraction to tacos or sausages or anything else you think has a symbolic nature to it. Have you seen that commercial where the chicken sandwich is with that guy in the sleazy hotel room? . . . And he's eating the sandwich (Eating it? Get it? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge)?. . . And, the cow kicks that door open and starts bellowing with the rage of a scorned lover? It says their chicken sandwich is so good you'll ''cheat on beef.''

I should protest this commercial. I think of sandwiches, I think of bread. I think of bread, I think of dough. I think of dough, I think of yeast. I think of yeast, I think of yeast infections. Are yeast infections hot? No. Not unless you're one of those special people that subscribe to Yeasty Pleasures monthly (published in Germany). Other than those creeps, no. No, it's not. So, the bread isn't sexy. What about the chicken, you ask. You pervert! No, I do not think of sexy time when I think of chicken, either. I think of chicken, I think of hens and roosters. I think of hens and roosters, I think of the cock-a-doodle-do sound. When I think of the cock- . . . I- . . . Oh, hey! Oh . . . Oh, no. . .

You know what? Forget this post. This is leading me into dangerous waters that I don't want to be in. Just forget I ever said anything. Certain wires should not be crossed. Not unless you want to get all weak in the knees during Sunday dinner with your whole family there just because you see a ''juicy'' roast. That's all I'm saying. It just can't end well. Please, take my advice and leave your sex and your food in their own little categories of pleasure. We're not in ancient Rome.