Hallowe’en, 2008

Originally Posted
Monday, February 19, 2007
for “Greenwich Über.”

DILDO – a phallic object used for sexual stimulation

“On Valentine’s Day, the man bought a dildo for his wife because he was an utterly useless and loathsome person.”

It is well documented that women have used penile surrogates throughout history, often taking the form of foreign objects such as vegetables or scimitars. However, the actual word “dildo” can only be traced back to the Middle Ages, when it had its original spelling: “dilldough.” Dilldoughs were elongated loaves of bread impregnated with the oils and leaves of the dill plant, which peasant women in parts of Europe and Africa would insert into their vaginas for a variety of reasons: to house the bread while traveling to avoid taxation, to hide it from their neighbors or children, a generally ineffective deterrent to rape, Tuesday, and as a repellent to witchcraft. Dilldoughs for pleasure were not developed until the nineteenth century, because women had not yet evolved clitorises until this point.

(From The Vespasian Psalter – Naughty Bits, Eighth Century A.D.)

~ Jake Gynosaur, Ph.D

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Dear Sir or Madam,

We are now circling the drain. Symptoms of our penultimacy are all around us. The explorers rest on their traveled laurels. Discovery is an elitist’s game played by the demonized godplayers. Indefatigable ignorance is inseparable from virtue. Genius withers in the glut of screaming opinions. Originality dies its umpteenth death; its shallow grave is raided by the grandsons of Irony.

Our impending end will most likely come in the greatest of anti-climaxes, which will immediately become the smallest of footnotes as our irrelevant point of view is erased. We are but blind, hairless apes clothed in mock dignity, blessed with the intelligence to abuse and inhibit our preposterous survival instincts and to make ourselves utterly miserable.

However, misery is a choice. As is outrage. Offense. Guilt. Everything we feel. Choice. Do you feel ashamed for the privileges you were born with, even if they are what your ancestors broke themselves for you to have? For your health, while millions rot of diseases, which only try to survive like any organism? For your money, which is only invisible numbers whizzing between computers, representing paper representative of precious metals that never existed in the first place? For your happiness, all but fleeting chemical gifts in a brain that bobs in an entropic sea of neuroses and insecurity?

If the have-nots suffer, and the haves lament the have-nots, then no one is happy. I say, forget the wretched and the unlucky. You only have a handful of decades to pilot a factory of pleasure, pain, and waste before you’re shoved back into the eternity from whence you came. It would be a pitiful thing not to enjoy it.

Forget the environment. The earth hasn’t noticed you anyway. Forget fashion and beauty. Everyone’s too fixated on how ugly they are to care how stupid you look. Forget the poor and the needy. They derive more joy out of simply breaking even than you ever would have gotten with your disposable income.

Will we pay the price for a lifestyle of ecstatic apathy? Absolutely. The grand joke is, however, we would have suffered anyway. Ruin is inevitable. Wouldn’t you rather deserve it? Isn’t there a part of you that wants to be the one that brought the Trumpets of Gabriel? Burn the candle at both ends. Break the candle. Burn more ends. Repeat until all is ends and burning.

You’ll find that you won’t be whimpering when the sky opens up. As I’ve said, change is a fool’s errand. It’s all coming down. So, laugh and revel in the condemnation of Human Ambition. Your wasted life is your absolution.

What should you do now? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Just don’t spread the word. If we’re going to ride this wave as long as we can, we can’t all be in the passenger’s seat.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Friday, October 24, 2008

Originally Posted
Monday, February 12, 2007
for “Call Edge Hue Moor.”

JISM – a vulgar slang term for semen (also jizz or j-spray)

“Rumbletum Bear and Tricky Duck saw that the dead prostitute’s mouth was caked with Old Mister Owl’s jism.”

The Welsh painter Dafydd Morgan was touring the United States in 1849, exhibiting his new series of portraits. Each of the portraits featured somebody from the village where Morgan was born. The paintings also featured an original style, dominated by white, translucent smudges throughout each piece.

During a question-and-answer session in Philadelphia, Morgan was asked if he had a name for his original style of painting, to which he responded, “It’s Smudgism.” This was invariably misheard as “It’s my jism,” due to the accent. The meaning of the new word “jism” was understood from the context of the dirty, dirty foreigner and Dafydd Morgan was tried for offending the sensibilities of the aristocracy, was found innocent, but was summarily stoned to death anyhow. The paintings were burned, but the word “jism” remained, presumably because it is the only word on Dafydd Morgan’s tombstone.

(Self-Portrait of Dafydd Morgan from
“Degenerates of Wales and Their Art” by Meinwen Whorehouse)

~ Prof. Jess Seagold

Friday, October 17, 2008

Originally Posted
Friday, February 2, 2007
for “Pallid Boomer.”

XXX – an identifier for pornography, especially pornographic movies

“The father warned his children not to look in the folder labeled “XXX” or else he and their mother would get divorced and punch them.”

The X’s in “XXX” originally meant the same as the X’s in the phrase “XOXO,” which means “kiss, hug, kiss, hug,” as one might put at the end of an informal letter to one’s mother or priest. Up through the late 1950’s, it was considered indecent to have a man kiss a woman more than three times in a motion picture, and those that surpassed this limit were labeled as “XXX” or “kiss, kiss, kiss” and were thus deemed unsuitable for anyone under the age of thirty-five. Standards have since changed and today the X’s refer to the amount of penises inside a single orifice.

(Photo courtesy of the Portsmouth Island Smut Society)

~ Dr. James Grape

Friday, October 10, 2008

Originally Posted
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
for “Knowledge Zoomer.”

Hi there. This is something you perhaps didn’t know about me, but I just happen to have a huge penis. It’s worth getting out of the way. It’s the first thing you’d notice if we met. It’s just, I mean, I am packing. It is big. The ladies, they always have something to say about my guy, and the fellas, well, I often catch them trying to sneak a peak too. Who could blame them? So, today I thought I’d treat the world to a window into what it’s like… to have a huge, huge penis.

Well, first of all, the penis is approximately four and a half feet long. Wait, hold on, I have the official Guinness measurements right here… uh, ah yes. 137.22 centimeters length and 98.41 centimeters girth. Yep. I would have the record, but apparently there’s a man in India… and y’know.

I have to wear special pants. They’re poly-blend with a double-reinforced inseam and they have a… like a nylon pouch, almost, which houses the phallus and attaches to the left leg with Velcro. I’ve only got one pair — navy blue — because they cost eight hundred dollars to make and my health insurance doesn’t cover it. Because there is no precedent. Y’know, sometimes… I have to do without.

It’s not fun, you see. My penis drags along the ground because it’s longer than my leg. I would have to be over eight feet tall to properly accommodate it. The good news is that apparently there is a loophole in the local indecent exposure laws, so if something peeks from the duct tape apparatus inside my XXXL sweatpants, there’s no hassle, not that anyone would know what it is anymore if they saw it. The tip is kind of gray and lumpy… it gets infected so easily. Some days I come home and there’s just an enormous, pus-filled blister that wasn’t there during that morning’s smeg hunt. Yeah, you see I have to clean the secretions out of my rather large foreskin every morning. I was never circumcised. I could never be circumcised.

No, I can’t have erections. If I ever were to become erect, the blood loss would surely kill me, or at least drop me into a severe coma. I have to take special pills to prevent becoming erect. When I first saw the doctor, I had her check to see if it was, perhaps, a tumor that could be removed, but no, turns out it’s all meat. Also, it seems that my kidneys have descended into the shaft and if I did have my penis surgically reduced, they would fail and I’d have to be on dialysis for the rest of my life.

There was this one doctor who had a theory that perhaps my member was an epigastric parasite, a conjoined twin that failed in the womb, only placed in my groin, and so it masqueraded as a penis. The other doctors don’t agree with him, but I kind of like to. Y’know, in the mornings, when I’m lifting my penis up in the harness above my toilet to urinate out of the hole the doctors put to facilitate my bladder, I like to think, “At least I’m not him.”

My urethra is quite large. I’ve never had any problems with evacuating kidney stones. That’s a blessing. But once, I did have a family of mice living in there for a while…

My balls? Oh, they’re mostly normal. Tucked away. Although, my left testicle is a bit oversized and my right is splintered into what my urologist has deemed a “teste cluster,” which is incredibly rare. I guess I’m just lucky.

Do I have a name for it? What, like, Mr. Happy or something? Yeah, sure. How ‘bout Mr. Horrible? Scratchy, Lumpy Beast-Shlong. Leaky STD Boat. The Ironic Virginator. Constant, Agonizing Burden In The Unending Shitshow That Is My Life. How about those? Because that’s what it is! Jealous?

~ Justin Gogglesmith