Lady has threatened to elbow me in the box if I keep complaining about how loooong it is until Figaro gets here. Elbow away, whore. Maybe it’ll help. You saw me walking down the street the other day – I’m becoming a dirty, pervy menace to society. Yet every other male creature smells like catsup so I couldn’t be unfaithful if I tried.
And that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you, gentle reader. This site has been averaging around 100 hits a day because of a link I posted to a naked Jude Law picture months and months and months ago for rhetorical purposes. Pathetic enough as that may sound on its own, it gets worse – you can’t even see his willy winkie wanky on the link, let alone him doing anything with it. Naked Jude Law Seekers, can’t you just love the one you’re with? Or find a picture of him with the willy wanky woo out? Geez. Who are you people? Are you straight men looking for confirmation of the rumour that his winkie wanky woo is teeny-tiny to help deal with your girlfs being in lurve with him cough like Calisaurus cough?
No - I choose to believe you’re all straight ladies and that the Internet is the Great Porn Leveller. I don’t think that would hurt. Porn’s great because sex is cool looking, and if women can manage to get as visually pre-occupied as men without losing their socially conscious attention span, producers might clean up their labour standards, bring back funk guitar soundtracks and cast male actors without moustaches. And if those three things happen I might even buy porn for reasons other than trying to make up for whatever inappropriate Sagittarial comment I’ve made to enrage or wound my homme de jour. Real women apologize, Mistress La Spliffe buys porn. So thank you, ladies looking for a peek at Jude Law’s willy winkie. Click here.
Speaking of porn, I’ve gone on a Jacques Brel binge. That man’s voice is dead fucking sexy, makes Charles Aznavour sound like a lawyer from Minnesota. His lyrics annoy me sometimes – they didn’t age so well – but who gives a fuck when they get sung with a baby-making voice like that. Rhythmically the poor guy seemed to get stuck in an epoch between the bouncey-bouncey-bounce-bounce-bounce of Edith Piaf and the tobacco brooding of Serge Gainsbourg – but once more, I can’t feel sorry for him with a voice like that. With a voice like that . . . making the nasality of the French language sound all tough and manly somehow, tackling those Rs like they’re me in some enchanting Utopia where Jacques Brel is alive, young, randy and into me. Oh Jacques Brel.