Penis Size Schmear

In an attempt to figure out if the porn industry has a penis length minimum I came across the ever-accurate ever-hilarious yahoo answers hub. Fuck wikipedia when you have YAHOO ANSWERS.

Some curious chap in Australia was lucky enough to have some knowledgable mates to answer his very urgent, very erect question. Jordan, winner of best answer makes a very good point about juxtaposition of varying proportions (ahem penis-portions).

The other 6 answers are quite hilarious. Here are my two favorites:

Lamar's Alarm sure has some good tips! Or shall I call Lamar's Alarm two-two? Is two-two just an alter ego of Lamar's Alarm?
Mang I should really get a head-start on this routine for the 2013 new year! 2013 new year resolution to grow a 13 inch dick? Notice the female symbol next to the tips? Strange. Do I ingest the L-Argine, Vitamin E, Ginseng, Yohimbe Bark or do I rub these homeopaths on my dick? I'm confused. Can I just skip to the cockring (note cockring with a "0" in place of the letter "o").  Is JELGING a mixture of jogging, juggling, and jelly? Probably.
START a vacuum pumping regimen? Mang, I've been doing that one for years...I suppose it doesn't work without the other four parts of the routine.

Hey "Mr. Soon to be Cut Up and Ripped" I also want to know, so I will have a peace (penis) of mind as to whether or not I can make it in the porn industry.  You (Mr. Soon to be Cut Up and Ripped) might do well in BDSM...do I sense some dom-sub interplay happening. I think yes! Well I wish you all the breast. I mean best. (bad pun-is sounds like bad penis maybe)

[Good night and good penis pump]

In case you think I'm crazy or you think this is crazy because you think this couldn't possibly exist here's proof: http://au.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080103170149AAKmeNv

Advertisement Schmear

So lately I've been noticing the monopoly google has over advertising. Every time I check gmail there's a new headliner advertisement that's about dancing, theatre, or dishwashers? What the fuck is the internet trying to tell me?
Also, on OkCupid I see ads for American Asshole (American Apparel) with models and their shirtless tights campaigns in compromising positions. Those American Asshole ladies are werqing hard for the money--no disrespect to them, but I will rip Dov Charney's pervy and unethical business model to shreds. He isn't only selling sex. He's selling (propagating) his greasy male gaze and the worst part is people are buying it (digesting it) and probably regurgitating it by taking provocative "fotos" and posting them on their facebooks/flickrs/and submitting them to Dov Charney to post on his "model" section of American Asshole. Gross. Is this a way to reuse and recycle capitalism? Hmm.

Wait. Why did I write this again?
Ah yes, I went on my OkCupid account to check my messages only to find this on the left side of the page:

What the hell Hanes? Not only are you trying to sell me bras and undies, but you're trying to sell me the idea that by buying Hanes' bras and undies there might be a chance that I will get some heteronormative action on OkCupid?! Where's the inclusivity of other sexual preferences here? Where's the representation of minorities?
I don't want to save 10% on my order--the fuck kind of discount is that on Christmas mangggg?

Well I'm off to look for some cheap after Christmas sale boxers where the discount will be at least 50%.

Congratulations

Mr. Doughman.
You have successfully pointed out the obvious.

This fellow is right. In my OKC profile picture, I happen to be focusing intently on a batch of scones that I had made that day...and yes, I fucking made them with the power of my mind (I'll give Eckhart Tolle, writer of "The Power of Now" a run for his money).
So thank you sir for pointing out the obvi and complimenting me on my scone-producing concentration. Based on our stats we could be scone-lovers and lukewarm scone-friends. 12% of the time we would get into scone fights...not bad?


And now Lumpy Space Princess has something to say about all this.

I'M READY FOR YOU NOW BRAD. ISN'T IT OBVI?
I'M SO READY

Are you fucking kidding me?

Your weekly edition of...
Are you fucking kidding me?

A man by the name of Carlos J. Lee decided to take it upon himself to write a book that all women (why not men also or any gender of that matter) can refer to while in a relationship with a man.
The martyr he is! No really. He is a self-proclaimed every(bad)man meaning he has worn every hat on the "badboy" rack. That is his selling point--we should give money to this man who has done every bad thing possible to 200+ women. We should listen to him because he has: "hit it and quit it", "cheated", "sexually manipulated", "home-wrecked", and "obliterated any modicum of self-confidence" of 200+ women?! Can someone please explain to me why he is entitled to publish and sell this book and ask for a whopping $19.95 for promised advice that could be as valid as a magic 8 ball?! No thank you! I think I'll use my common sense for free.

The fact that this book was written with an agenda: to directly targeted for women who god forbid can't think for themselves because *ahem* we are so stupid and can't use our brains, intuition, or morale...because women aren't equipped with those HUMAN attributes!
"WE NEED A MAN TO SAVE US FROM OTHER MEN"!
What does the conception of this book mean?! In 2012?
In the first four words, the ever-brilliant, Carlos J. Lee has managed to gracefully offend two communities: those of us who do not appreciate being called a bitch in a derogatory manner and those of us who do not appreciate "retard" being used as an insult.

No, but forreal he should think about abridging the title: "BITCH ARE YOU RETARDED?: STOP BEING A DUMBASS! EITHER HE LOVES YOU, HE'S IN LOVE WITH YOU, OR YOU'RE JUST SOMETHING TO DO FOR RIGHT NOW. EITHER WAY, LEARN THE DIFFERENCE, AND WHEN TO WALK AWAY."

http://jezebel.com/5968936/why-is-itunes-selling-a-book-called-bitch-are-you-retarded

Honourable mention: the fact that Carlos J. Lee forgets to include the people who don't identify with a gender/queer folks who might want to get into on the "Bitch Are You Retarded...." action. Maybe those folks are happy they aren't included in his bogus advice book.

CARLOS, WE DON'T NEED YOUR HELP--YA HEAR?

WERQ

Hi there,

Just showing some fun stuff from my live & media class.

Forts of Communication!

The Forts of Communication installation was a collaboration between my ever-talented friend Deanna and I. We were toying with the idea of virtual reality, specifically the internet and how it carves a seemingly safe and private space for individuals. We also really wanted to build blanket forts. HAHAHHA. We reasoned that blanket forts could represent a physical representation of this safe, private, fantastical place where anything is possible (because the internets is a place of imaaaaagination). We used three projectors, a shelf, a table, Christmas lights, wool, and a severely discounted Ikea circus tent. We got our professor to go into the circus tent! Fo'seriously that was all I needed. No grade, no final crit...just for him to go in there and send a message to the other blanket fort. Ah yes, the act of sending a message was also incorporated. We set up literal lines of communication using wool tied to either fort. The top line would read "send" while the bottom line would read "receive" much like an email or an aim chat window. We used carabiner clips to hold paper messages--it was expected of the participant to write a message, attach it to the carabiner, and slide the carabiner from one side to the other.

We got some funny messages in the end, and the installation looked beautiful in the space.

Cheers!

A schmeary-merry Compilation of OKC messages

I'm hoping to add more as I call on the OKC experts of my generation. I've been talking about the messaging etiquette on OKC lately with my friends and many of them have been getting the most awful one-liners. Sometimes I wish those one-liners could be elaborated on--really so then I felt that there was more effort put into the writing of the message.

One liner hall of fame:

"Hey there I work out, take good care of myself, and drink milk and I think you're sexy."

or

In response to my friend being a dancer someone wrote her:

"i go to lines so SUCK IT" 

("lines" as in Alonzo King Lines Dance Center)

Some of these one-liners are almost as bad as youtube comments. 

Some one-liners are just so darn creative:

Really though I can't imagine why this guy would be on a dating site...he's so charismatic. 

Some OKC one-liners should consider writing Op-Eds:

Alright then...I say: FUCK THE POLICE!

Then you have the men who are just so excited:

A little hot to trot there aren't you? I can appreciate the compliment on my profile...but I have no reason to reciprocate your request of meeting me BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW YOU MANGGGG!


So there are the lack-luster, effortless one-liner messages and then there are these...randoms:

"Before work at 6am I was on my way out the door, then realized I forgot my umbrella (it's pouring rain)..So I scavenger everywhere, then realize its by the front door, missed it. So I get to Bart, run up the escalator just in time to get on the train as the doors were closing. Sat down, a deep sigh of relief, and then wait? Where is my umbrella? It was on the passenger seat in my car. 

No worries, nobody got desperate and broke in for it in the parking lot ;). 

So you must be one of those people who holds the free hugs signs? We have probably hugged before, in between snacks n' naps. 

How did you get into dance?"

Sometimes you get messages from folks who have something legitimate to ask. That's always nice to get:

I will answer questions about armpit hair and pubes with great delight! That's why I got an OkCupid profile ya dingus!

And then you have the people who are like recurring nightmares...

Look who's back? 

"ALLKNOWING mentioned in my "All-knowing Ok-Stupider" post  is really intent on telling me how wrong I was about never contacting him. Is he really trying to guilt trip me about this 11 days after making it pretty hilariously clear that I don't want to see him? Check out my previous post--it involves iguanas and bearded dragons. 

Also, in other news I will never be complete by OkCupid standards:

Until then I'll be relaxing on a rock soliciting my friends for the best one-liners on OKC. 

Wait I should be doing something el-

Rendezvous Schmear

Hi there,

I thought I would share with y'all my lovely time at the Thai restaurant courtesy of OkCupid. I had scheduled a "rendezvous" or what I like to call meeting with a fellow I had been chatting quite enthusiastically with.  We'll call him "the mincer" for lack of a better WWE Wrestler Pseudonym (hahahah). He wasn't a WWE wrestler. He was a radio journalist  doing amazing work for a well-known public radio station in the Bay Area. He went to an ivy-league and had a 2009 Toyota Camry--all things that I found to be attractive at the time. (SIGH) On paper he sounded really cool and very cultured--very humble about his roots and his profile was written with just the right amount of cynicism.  I should've of known his diction (dick-shun) was too good to be true!

So we chat, correction, text/message enthusiastically and quip eagerly like children listing their holiday wishes on the lap of Santa Claus (a Santa Claus who is non-specific to any race or gender).
He writes things like "It's on like tarragon" and other lovely phrases that rhyme with sushi...it's all very charming and foreign to me. That feeling is foreign--that excitement bubbling up through my torso till I get a head rush sort of feeling. I get ready briskly to the sounds of "Neon Indian" and "Junior Boys". Briskly because trying too hard is bothersome for both parties (but I'd say mostly for me). I head out the door in my 1 inch heels because I wouldn't dare walk over the enormous hill by my house down to the other side of the restaurant district. Also, *side note* 1 inch heels are hot. In the world of heel length less is not necessarily more; more heel length is more visits to the orthopedist and lower back pain--SEXY yeah?! Anywaaaaay, I race over to the restaurant and realize there are two Thai places on the block and freak out that maybe "the mincer" has gone to the wrong one. Then I realize I vaguely recognize "the mincer" sitting on top of an anachronism--a newspaper dispenser. This makes me realize that he may be "out of time" and not existing in the dimension, but he is...enough for both of us to walk to the correct Thai restaurant. But before we can get to the restaurant a homeless man stops us to sell an infamous copy of "Street Spirit". "The mincer" being all wonderful or whatever, gives the homeless man some dollars and a nice conversation. They talk for a bit while I stand awkwardly cold. The homeless man asks if we are married or engaged--I laugh very loudly and nervously at this statement. "The mincer" answers "it's a bit too early for that" to which I eagerly agree. We move on to the warm Thai restaurant and quickly order food. We both get the tom kha--no surprise there and he gets the pad see ew because I told him pad thai was too overdone and mainstream. He didn't want me to judge him. (sadface) I didn't want to judge him either, but he seemed so completely uncomfortable with himself. His twenty-four year old, out of college, liminal space, unsure self...oh bugger! I order the yellow chicken curry and sticky rice--boring. Who's to say he wasn't judging me? So we talk about our family backgrounds and I spiel about my grandma for what feels like an hour. I feel like Woody Allen engaging in post-modernist intercourse--yuck. At some point he starts fixing the salt and pepper shakers and he notices me noticing him (not Akon style) and he gets defensive and talks about how he cut some kid with scissors once and might have had OCD as a kid...and then quickly mentions that he has grown out of it. I wonder if that's possible...to grow out of OCD. We talk some more and have our fair share of awkward moments. I can't tell for the life of me if he actually wants to be there listening to me talk about my grandma or taking shits or stinky feet or whatever the hell I end up talking about...we get the check and I offer to pay for my half of the check and he asks if I'm sure I don't also want to pay for him. I wonder if he wants me to call him an ass? We leave the restaurant and I leave feeling like I know less about this person than I did before I met him in person. I offer to walk myself home, and he offers me a ride so I oblige. I can't turn down a warm car ride in a toasty 2009 Camry (hmm maybe those 5 inch heels weren't such a bad idea--not that I have any). We take a ride past the 7-Eleven, past the awful "Twilight" billboard, and up and over the awful hill. "The mincer" rips apart the Twilight franchise the whole 3 minutes home. When we get to my house we sit and talk for a little while and he tries to work his Toyota Camry charm...unfortunately suburbia and tennis courts don't turn me on--both things he tried to joke about. Ayyyy. At some point I began to take off my seatbelt which caused him to attempt to kiss me. I don't move and he realizes this when it is too late. I do offer my cheek and he answers, "I've never had this happen to me before". He kisses my cheek hesitantly, coyly? I can tell he's judging himself and he asks to have a do-over and kiss me again because the first time wasn't "executed well". Oh jeez. I agree to let him kiss me again and this one is seemingly more meaningful, but strange. I quickly run out of the car, flustered and blushing. I amble into the kitchen (the heart of the house) unable to form complete sentences when my roomie asks how the "date" went. AYYYYY. "I. don't. know?", I utter. Then I scream, "I don't know" five more times over and explain the whole "date" in excruciating detail to my roomie. She gives me good advice and reminds me that I am not obligated to go on a second "date"...especially if I am so unsure about this once-OCD-scissor-kid-cutting-man.
I text him to let him know that I had a fun and confusing time. I also told him I was confusing (I don't recommend self-deprecation as a means to explain oneself--ever). We text a few weeks later and he asks me where I am. I respond that I am on a rock because...I am (or was). Hawai'i's a rock yo'. When I come back he asks me where the sun went because my absence has been obscuring the sunlight in San Francisco (which is complete bullshit because it's foggy/windy/cloudy 80% of the day). I don't respond.

I'll let him believe I obscure the sunlight.