Category Archives: Nothing To Do With Porn

25% of US Teenage Girls Are Dirty, Filthy Whores

STDs in Porn

So says the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). They just ran some sort of study that says “One in four teenage girls in the United States has a sexually-transmitted disease”. The CDC brags that the study is “the first in its kind to examine the prevalence of common sexually transmitted diseases among adolescent girls”. So let’s face it: a quarter of teen girlies are, in fact, dirty, filthy whores.

No, wait.

They’re dirty, filthy sluts…cause I’m sure almost all of them don’t charge for hitting the puss; however, any that do charge for it are way smarter than the ones giving it away for free.

HPV was the most common STD of the lot, followed by chlamydia, trichomoniasis, and herpes. I grabbed a pic of those fantastic purple and yellow dots outlined in the pretty Easter egg blue.

HPV’s are pretty!

Apparently, black girls are the dirtiest of them all, as half of them have Stank Puss. White girls and Latinas don’t even run a close second, unless you combine them. Does this tell us anything about our society?

Does this tell us anything at all?

Here’s where it gets even more disturbing: “Analysts say some doctors are also reluctant to discuss screening with teenage patients because of confidentiality concerns, knowing parents would have to be told of the results.”

Hey, that’s a comma splice! When I was a teacher, I’d deduct 5 points from that AP writer’s paper due to an error in punctuation.

When I was at ASU a girl gave me chlamydia, but that makes sense, cause she went to school at The U of A (our arch rivals). She was a dirty Wildcat, and I was a clean Sun Devil. It’s so easy to blame anything on anyone from Tucson.

No, wait. Let’s Blame It On Yoko.

Better yet, let’s blame it all on Bush and the retards he’s hired to tout Abstinence Only Programs and making sex something dirty that’s difficult to talk about. Let’s blame it on the retards at the local level — from your high school Principals to the people who get together in groups on pray on Sundays and then afterward pat themselves on the back and call themselves “good”.

Did I ever tell you about a girl I banged named Nancy who gave me The Crabs?

I grabbed a pic of those ugly, six-legged critters, and they may be ugly, but unlike HPV, crabs are fun! I was actually on the phone with Nancy when I discovered a few of them playing a game of tag in my undies. They were chasing each other, and it got so wild I had to do a pube check while on the phone with her. My balls were very itchy, and I couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on. That’s when I discovered my pubic lice.

First thing I did was tell Nancy I had to hang up. I didn’t tell her why. I just hung up. And then I screamed.

Just then my pal Mike called. My brain was in the middle of a melt-down when he said, “hey dude, I gotta tell you two things.”

I don’t think I even answered him.

“I’m banging Nancy. I know you guys are kinda hanging out, so I thought I’d tell you.”

“Uh huh,” I replied, watching the crabs do a dance around my limp wiener, almost like a lost tribe of pygmies dancing around a tiny Totem Pole.

“And I think she gave me crabs.”

That’s how I knew it was Nancy.

But maybe Mike gave them to Nancy and Nancy gave them to me?

Does it really even matter? Cause all you gotta do when you get a case of the crabs is spend about 10 bucks on some shampoo at Your Local Corporate Drug Store, and they vanish in minutes. Then, when you peel off your tighty-whiteys a bit later, all that’s left is a pile of dead crabs near the skid marks in your undies.

That’s not 1/2 as bad as the clap, which I’ve never got, but I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about….mainly that green goop runs out your pee hole and the shot hurts like a motherfucker.

10 bucks, embarrassing yourself at the check out stand at the drug store…or green goop, a shot, and embarrassing yourself at the doc’s office.

I choose crabs; hence, crabs are fun! In fact they make me kinda giggle now. In a silly sorta way!

Some people think porn stars are dirty. In almost 6 years of hanging around — and occasionally having sex with some of them — I’ve yet to catch anything from anyone. Which is a really dumb thing to say, cause with my luck, any day now my ween will turn green and fall off.

STDs in Porn

Look What The Easter Bunny Brought Me…

My Apple Airport Express

Don’t you hate it when bloggers apologize for having nothing to say? Or being too lazy to update their blogs on a regular basis? Or being too busy?

Yesterday Jesus rose from the dead about 2008 years ago, which has stirred up a whole lot of trouble ever since. And I suppose I could Google something like “origin of The Easter Bunny” to figure out why we have cute bunnies dropping secret eggs all over the place for all the children to find in order to celebrate the resurrection of a Lord and Saviour, but to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit.

(We have a new verb to add the lexicon that is Standard American English: to “Google” things. See how this works? As society evolves — or devolves — we make up new words).

Anyways, what I do care about is the fabulous toy my Easter Bunny brought me — an Apple Airport Express! Get this — I plug the Airport Express into the wall in my front room, and my iMac talks to it, and sends the Airport Express signals that contain my iTunes right into my old home stereo, and the next thing you know I’m streaming iTunes through my whole house!

iPods and iTunes and iMacs…all words that didn’t exist a decade ago.

You probably know all about Airport Express, and I kinda did, until I made it all work, which, in typical Apple fashion, was as easy as Adrianna Nicole peeing on Sunset Boulevard after a long night drinking icey margaritas at El Conquistador.

Suddenly, bootleg versions of Radiohead were streaming through my home! And Elvis Costello’s first three records! And Vic Chestnut! And Bright Eyes, too…although I much prefer the manly name “Conor” to the super-gay “Bright Eyes”.

Bright Eyes is something a 65 year-old Cat Lady names the 54th kitty she’s rescued from the pound.

The other really cool thing about this whole Airport Express / iTunes / iMac madness is a juxtaposition of technologies: the Apple set up works perfectly with my tube electronics that were produced (and considered cutting-edge technology) in 1962.

As far as I’m concerned, my tube electronics are still cutting-edge, yo.

Now it’s Dance Hall Reggae in the shape and form of Phyllis Dillon, which means it’s time for me to dance naked in my front room with Maggie by my side and a cup of coffee in my hand.

Wouldn’t you love to live next to a chubby white dude who dances naked in his front room with the windows open?

I can’t dance, by the way…not to save my life.

Take a sec and picture that, why don’t you?

A Few of My Favorite Things, Lately.

Annette Schwartz

I took the day off from making smut today, and I gotta tell ya, I needed it. I think I’ve shot 25 scenes in the last 2 weeks, and I’m so burnt out I can’t even think straight. Ask anyone who’s hung around me lately.

I did some of my very favorite things today: first, I slept in. On a scale of 1 – 10, sleeping in scores a 9.5.

Then I went to my very favorite coffee shop and enjoyed a super-yummy latte with my very favorite friend Adrianna Nicole. We go here often, and every time we’re there we love to gossip and gossip and gossip, mostly about the porn industry. Today’s topic was Sasha Grey and her new “agency’, which, we feel, is nothing more than way to find her boyfriend a job. On a scale of 1 – 10, gossiping scores an 8; gossiping about Sasha Grey scores closer to a 9.

After coffee is was on to The Flea Market. I fucking love flea markets. If I could, I’d marry one. Why not? I invited Adrianna to go, but she had an anal scene today, and it takes her a mighty long time to clean her ass correctly so no doodie winds up on the floor. On a scale of 1 – 10, flea markets pull a “Nadia Comăneci” — a perfect 10.

Here’s a list of my scores today: Michael Kirby’s book “Happenings” about the NYC art scene circa 1966; a 10″ x 13″ original black and white photo of Ringo Starr and Peter Sellers from The Magic Christian; three LP records — The Box Tops’ “Non Stop”, Miles Davis’s “Sketches of Spain” (an original issue Columbia Six-Eye), and a very minty copy of “The Batman Theme as played by The Markets”; and three super-kooky “hip-pocket” records from The Doors, Van Morrison , and The Fallen Angels; and finally, 100 slides I found in the bottom of a box from a 1961 family vacation to Mount Shasta.

I got it all for about 60 bucks. Not a bad day!

While I’m spouting off on shit I really dig, here’s a few of my favorite things, lately:

Michel Gondry: this dude is a fucking genius. I mean that. He’s 2008’s Picasso, James Joyce, and Kubrick all rolled up into one. People will discuss his work 100 years from now. He’s so talented it makes me sick. I don’t care if it’s a Levi’s ad, or a Weezer video, or one of his “stories”, no one makes better movies than Michel. Not even me. Here’s a YouTube of My Favorite Director In The Whole Wide World solving a Rubik’s cube with his nose.

Beulah: a couple dudes who worked in a mail room in San Francisco around 1995 started a band. I wish I woulda known it back then, when I lived there. I’ve listed to “Yoko” more times than I want to admit.

A Langer’s #19 Special: Pastrami, swiss, and slaw with Russian Style Dressing. It’s the best meat I’ve ever put in my mouth, and that’s saying a lot. And whatever you’re thinking right now, No Way Am I Gay.

Annette Schwartz: I want to make Annette my wife. I want to move to Munich and eat bratwurst and drink beer with Annette. I want Annette to teach me German just so I can coo sweet nothings in her ear while we make beautiful music. I want to hold hands with Annette and stroll the grounds of the Nymphenburg Castle while we discuss the names of our future children. I’m gonna write all sorts of love poems and send them to Annette so she dumps her current dude for me. I’m gonna call my mom and have her talk to Annette so Annette herself can break the news: I’m moving to Germany to be Annette Schwartz’s love slave.

Seth Is Superbad

Seth Is Superbad

So the other day I’m walking Maggie in this trendy LA neighborhood called Larchmount when a super hot chick walks up next to me, arm-in-arm with her dude.

She’s brunette, kinda punk-rocky Goth Girl, and from what I can eavesdrop she’s telling her dude about something sexy concerning lesbians, which is all right up my alley.

She’s petite, and she’s brunette, and she’s looking kinda like Juno from Juno meets Enid from Ghostworld.

Kinda one in the same. Kinda not.

Did I mention she’s brunette?

Or that I’m a sucker for brunettes…a real trick for them, especially if they’re less than five feet tall.

I bet her all-time favorite band is Joy Division.

I’d say she was closer to 5’4″, but that’s OK, cause she was a little punk rock and a little Gothy and totally brunette.

Here’s the best part of my story, and really the only redeeming part of this whole blog — she’s arm-in-arm with Seth from Superbad. It’s apparent from his wardrobe that he’s single-handedly trying to bring back the Porkpie hat, which only works in rare cases, one of them being if you’re Seth from Superbad.

He’s also sporting quite the beard, which, combined with his spiffy hat, is really cool, especially if you’re a Hasidic Jew strolling down Fairfax Avenue during Passover on your way to Canter’s for some yummy Matza Brei.

Fun fact #329: Pastrami killed more Jews than Hitler. That’s according to Mr. Doron Pepperscone, AKA The Minion, AKA the Greatest Male Performer in Porn that you’ve never seen (yet).

Anyways, we walked down the sidewalk together — me and Seth and his Punky Brunette Score — and my ears were burning for their conversation. But I couldn’t eavesdrop too much, cause Larchmont also happens to be Dog Heaven, and all the Yuppy Puppies piss on everything, and Maggie’s nose was in sensory overload, and she would stop every few feet to soak up with wonderful smells that are dog urine: piss soaked trees, dog urine on parking meters, and benches and telephone poles…all drenched in the wonderful yellow stuff.

I did catch them leaving. They walked up and jumped into his superbad black Cadillac car, and then Seth and Enid Juno zoomed off into the night.

And Maggie’s head high in the air — sniffing furiously — taking in all that Wonderfulness.

Enid from Ghostworld

My Hero Iggy Pop.

Iggy Pop

If you know anything about “riders”, you know they’re the contracts musicians draw up with concert promoters. They cover all sorts of bases, like the venue the show is going to take place, as well as what kind of yummy food the band gets before (and maybe after) the show, as well as how much they’re getting paid…blah blah blah.

Van Halen became notorious for their rider, which asked for (among other things) a bowl of M&M’s to be placed out for the band, sans the brown ones.

You can read Iggy’s rider at The Smoking Gun, but I’ll save you some time and just highlight some of Iggy’s very favorite things:

Iggy wants a back stage room that looks a little “less like a typical rock & roll dressing room and more sort of…interesting.”

Iggy would like a “homosexual” to add a little “artistic flair” to his room.

Iggy would like a “kettle or water heating device” along with some “fresh ginger, honey, lemons, and a sharp knife”.

Iggy would like an English language newspaper.

Iggy would like “someone dressed as Bob Hope” to do “fantastic Bob Hope impersonations and telling all those hilarious Bob Hope jokes about golf and Hollywood and Bing Crosby”.

Best of all?

The following is a last-page addendum to Iggy And The Stooges current rider, outlining a show Iggy came up with:

Dead Dog Island:

By the way, if there are any Reality TV executives reading this — hardly likely, I know, but — here is my idea for a Reality TV show.

It’s called “Dead Dog Island”, where a group of contestants / dog lovers are asked what is their favorite breed of dog, then whatever they reply (for example, “Poodle” or “Labrador”) they are then presented with a dead dog of that particular breed, which they have to cook in a number of different ways, say about six or seven, and then eat it all up over the course of the next, oooh…two weeks or so.

But just to make it a little more difficult and sort of gameshow-y, all the knives are blunt, and they have to wear a pair of those enormous clown trousers, made out of wood or something, so that they can’t quite reach anything.

The first person to completely eat all his (or her) dog, and not be thrown off the island by the public for being too pleasent, or maybe unpleasant, wins another, live dog of exactly that same breed. And pots of money. And free dogfood for life (of the dog).

This all would take place on some romantic tropical island somewhere, so it would all be very visual and make really super telly.

Maybe there could be a celebrity version, with currently out-of-the-spotlight celebrities in it. Does anyone know if Cher is a dog lover? I think Steve Nicks probably is.

Oh, and no sicking it all up into a bucket every night when the cameraman goes to bed. That would be frowned upon…

The Club.

Andre The Giant

André the Giant had a daughter and at least two serious girlfriends. But then again, he was close to 7 and a half feet tall and weighed about a quarter of a ton, and never really paid much attention to his sideburns…which explains a lot.

Ludwig van Beethoven wrote a whole bunch of music instead of doing it.

So did Johannes Brahms.

James Buchanan, our 15th U.S. President, got close, but his (ex) fiancé gobbled up too much laudanum and killed herself.

George Washington Carver, Wilt Chamberlain, Eugène Delacroix, Matt Dillon, George Eastman, Leonardo da Vinci, Anthony Michael Hall, J. Edgar Hoover, and Langston Hughes.

But Hoover was an angry faggot, and Wilt got too much nookie to do it. I can’t really say much about the rest.

George Clooney did it for a heartbeat, but has sworn he’ll never do it again.

Ron Jeremy, Anthony Kiedis, Matthew McConaughey, Jim Nabors, Ralph Nader, Isaac Newton, Nietzsche, Jeremy Piven, Plato, Ravel, and Cliff Richard.

Cesar Romero was the first and best Joker…even better than Nicholson, but let’s see how he fares against Heath Ledger.

Rick Rubin, Nipsey Russell, Jean-Paul Sartre, Franz Schubert, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Baruch de Spinoza.

Then there’s Nicola Tesla, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Vincent van Gogh, Luther Vandross, Vivaldi, Voltaire, and The Wright Brothers.

Funny how I’m all about the first blog of 2008 being my marital status, which is the same as all the fellahs I’ve just mentioned: nil.

Maybe Chris Rock — who’s been married over a decade — said it best: married and bored, or single and lonely.

Sometimes it’s tough to come off as a straight, middle aged dude who’s never been married and is just fine ‘n dandy with it. It’s always tough to come off as a middle aged dude who’s bachelor and straight.

No Way Am I Gay!

Neither is Al Pacino, Billy Idol, Drew Carey, Gene Simmons, or Vin Diesel.

I’m not sure about Kevin Spacey or Quentin Tarantino. I’d say Tatantino is straight, and I bet Spacey’s bi.

I’m willing to bet large amounts of money that Carl Lewis and Ricky Martin, are, in fact, totally gay.

Does anyone really know about Morrissey? He ain’t hitched yet, either. He’s also celibate. Then he’s asexual. Then he’s straight. Then he ain’t tellin’. And didn’t he say something about Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others? And does that have anything at all to do with Morrissey’s sexual preferences…or what I’m blogging about?

Why not really digress?

I used to eat a lot at House of Pies, in LA, which is right down the street from Glen Danzig’s old house. One day I was very excited about eating breakfast for dinner there, cause I’m all about Breakfast For Dinner, and then topping it all off with a beautiful piece of strawberry creme pie, which House of Pies is known for; but alas, House of Pies was closed that night, because the health department shut them down after finding a whole lotta bugs in their kitchen.

I wonder if Morrissey was as bummed as I was, cause, word has it, he loves House of Pies as much as I do…or once did.

For all the times I ate at House Of Pies, I never saw Morrissey there…not once.

Damnit.

I’d walk into House of Pies always keeping an eye out for him, though.

What would you say to Morrissey if you saw him at House of Pies? Introduce yourself as a fan? Try and say something clever? Or funny? Or funny and clever? Do you comment on his choice of yummy House of Pies fare? Maybe recommend the Strawberry Creme pie? If he’s at the counter, do you sit next to him and just pretend not to know who he is…and just observe, like a coy, creepy stalker?

How about you’re sitting at the counter next to Morrissey, pretending not to know who he is, when suddenly his cell phone rings, and it was Johnny Marr!

Recommending the outstanding pie to Morrissey would be a really dumb move, cause everyone who eats at House of Pies knows how good all the pies are — not just the Strawberry Creme.

Plus, it’s called House of Pies. Duh.

I’m a bachelor, and I’ve never been married, but I got close once or twice — and there’s some nights I go to bed lonely, but there’s a whole lotta nights I go to bed happy as a clam.

Which, of course, is a cliché.

And what about The House of Pies? I haven’t been back since they were shut down, but I pay attention: after reopening, they were given a “C” by the Health Department…then, a few weeks later, an “A”, and since then, it’s been up and down for The House of Pies.

Would Morrissey ever eat at a “C” rated restaurant?

I know Cherry Poppens won’t, cause she told me.

As for me, well…I suppose, in the end, it depends how hungry I am.

Morrissey

I’m all about The Apple.

My iMac

In 1981 I was a junior in high school, and I couldn’t figure out algebra.

I fared well the previous year in Geometry, but God damned algebra kicked my ass. What aggravated me the most was how easy the text book examples were, but when the book threw the actual problems at us…well, forget about it.

It was the only “D” I ever earned, and trust me, I earned it. It was also the only class I ever dropped (in high school) and, with a semester left, I needed some other “math” class to replace it.

Enter “Computers” — a brand new class my counselor pointed out — and, she assured me — the very best part of the class was the lack of any math whatsoever. I signed up on the spot.

Can you believe they gave us a math credit to sit around and play “Spelunker”? We’d have a large keyboard next to a phone, and the handset on the phone was placed over these two black suction cup thingys, and we’d dial into a mainframe somewhere, and BAM!

Spelunker!

The printer would spit out paper that told us what part of the cave we were at, and where we were going, and what kind of evil gnomes and dragons were in our path — and we’d slay them…or get slayed.

The bad news was writing programs in Basic and Pascal if we actually wanted a grade. My “programs” were as simple as my life was back then, and they amounted to multiple-choice quizzes with 4 possible answers — one of which was correct — to be presented to a classmate later. The program would tell them what questions they got right, and what ones they got wrong, and, at the end, would give them a grade printed out in the form of a report card.

For example, let’s say the dude who sat next to me was named “Joe Large”. I’d write a quiz that would ask:

1) Joe Large is

a) cool
b) smart
c) popular
d) a homo

2) Joe Large’s mother is named

a) Sue
b) Mary
c) Jane
d) Marge

and so on and so forth.

We would all laugh — even Joe Large would laugh — and then I’d write the next batch of quizzes. I’d even get a chuckle out of my teacher from time to time, and, by semester’s end, the 1/2 credit of math was all mine.

One day Teacher walked in with a box, and it was from a new company called Apple, and after he opened it and showed the Apple II off, we were all so excited we just about wet our pants. No more dial ups to the mysterious main frame! And…gasp…a monitor! You could see shit! And..gasp…two floppy drives! You could save shit and bring it home! And…gasp…memory in the form of a hard drive! 64K worth! What in the world could we do with all that space?

Write more quizzes, of course. Bigger, longer ones.

I played consumer the day after Thanksgiving and walked out of the Apple store with a big box. A new iMac! For the first time in 26 years, I’m back on a Mac. It looks so good on my desk that I kinda want to wet myself. The keyboard feels almost as good as a vagina. So, I’ve been busy dumping CD’s into iTunes, and getting used to a non-PC interface, surfing all sorts of porn sites without having to worry about Trojans and Spywear!

My iPod just synched up with my computer!!

Is it time to dump my Razor for an iPhone?!

I haven’t had this much fun since my slumber party with Barbie Cummings!

Here’s another quiz. See if you can get it right:

Billy Watson is
a) cool
b) smart
c) popular
d) a homo

My iMac

My Fucking Mouth.

Ouch.

I’m having an outbreak.

Isn’t that sexy?

No, I don’t have genital herpes, but I do get outbreaks alright, and they happen in my mouth, and they’ve been happening for a long time. Way before I got into this whacky business, so don’t blame porn.

Isn’t it easy to blame porn though…on just about everything?

Anyways, my mouth feels some someone’s holding a blowtorch to the tip of my tongue, and it started feeling that way yesterday, the day after I felt like total shit and just wanted to lay in bed all day. This makes sense, too, cause one of the things that’s always made my mouth break out in sores was stress and feeling shitty, and I shoulda just canceled all my scenes and just laid in bed.

Instead, I shot porn.

Blame it on porn.

There was a time I wanted to write a short story called “Blame It On Yoko”, but the only good thing I could come up with was the title.

I caught a The Butthole Surfers show a long time ago. Boy, were they fun! They used to project all sorts of disturbing imagery on a screen behind them while they played their oh!-so-happy music, and they loved to raid the library at the University of Texas’s medical school, where they’d “borrow” images of things like eye surgery and sexually transmitted diseases to display while they rocked out. Sores like mine were one of the images they’d have on the screen behind them, enlarged something like 100 times, so even the people in the back of the club wouldn’t miss out on the fun.

Wikipedia says I have an “aphthous ulcer” and they’re more common in women than men, and 10% of the population has a mouth kinda like mine…at least some of the time. My now-favorite encyclopedia also says they start popping up around the same time puberty does, which makes sense, cause that’s exactly what happened to me.

I thought I suffered from herpes simplex 1 for a long time, but those are cold sores, not canker sores.

But watch out! Cause herpes simplex 1 can cause number 2, and no one likes a number 2.

Butthole Radio