Barbie Gets FEMEN-ed

FEMEN, the topless protest group, has developed and used the female breast as its means to gain oomph. Without doubt, the bare breast is a tower of power when it comes to generating interest and fervor. Now the group has underscored the objectification of women vis a vis its protest of the the just opened Barbie House in Berlin. Germany, not New Jersey (a message to my only imagined follower)

I don’t know exactly what the fuck they were

 trying to prove, but it makes fantastic pictures.

Indeed, this particular protest does require a bit of thinking. After all, Barbie is an iconic doll created back in 1959. To give those too young to know a reference point, here is an image of what 1959 was all about. It's the tail end of that year's Cadillac...

OK, that is an image reference from 1959, when Barbie became public. Hmmm, come to think of it, those tail lights look like bullet bra encased tit shapes. What was going on back then anyways?

Through the years Barbie has been not only adored and admired, but vilified and minimized as well. Initially, just a doll to dress and to fun, it became a way of life. An expression of so much vacuous value, never! The plastic form presented an unrealistic image of exaggerated sensuality much like the ever famous Playboy Vargas girls. No woman could possibly have the geometric prowess of what really was an idea of fantastical delight. So, so what?

Just how many people, both X and Y, have been destroyed and twisted by the imagery of Barbie cannot be guessed. Sexuality is personal and mostly under the covers. To think of women and men, who could and would covet Barbie in human form, is as absurd as the notion of Babbo Natale. These kinds of things simply do not exist. And just as the disappointment of the revelation that there is no Santa Claus scars for life, so does the realization that people are NOT Barbies. Fiction, fuck fiction.

Perhaps both Barbie and Santa Claus set the bar too high. While FEMEN and many others argue, with some good rationale, that Barbie objectifies women, couldn't the same be said for Santa Claus. Does he not objectify insane notions of old fat men giving away gifts while flying in a sleigh led by reindeer. Every white haired paunchy male, arguendo, becomes a failure. Fathers and grandfathers are damned!

Surely people would be hard put to live in a world of pure reality. Where would be the fun, the hope and the excitement? Imagine movies proportionate to everyday life. While folks would be able to

meet standards of cinematic average, that easy attainment of acceptance renders the acquiescence valueless. The slippery slope of containing hyperbole is treacherous.

Naturally Barbie's legs are too long and skinny, her hourglass figure is organ crushing, her hair lacks split ends and ber boobies are a plastic surgeon's Mona Lisa. No woman can be expected to look like that! Without saying specifically, Barbie must be perfect in all other ways as well. Saying specifically, the inference of her sexual prowess is ear splitting. Now there it is! There it always is!

While the Germans are hoping to have a little to-do with this pink production this summer, FEMEN's bare-on has turned the lens to clearly delineate anew the Barbie conflict. Kudos to our bare chested cousins, but where does this stop? Maybe Barbie is too sexed up to be acceptable... Maybe Santa Claus and Mickey Mouse and toy guns and GI Joes and Little Red Riding are not as repugnant. Now... speaking of LRRH, the wolf, just what's with that wolf? Does HE really eat the girl?

And by the way, does FEMEN itself objectify women in its tactics to gain attention? Or to restate it, is the baring of the tit an act of object-ification of women? Hmmm... face it male tits are just not gonna work!

Ciao 

Smallest Penis Contest

Maybe it's a gimmick or maybe just in good fun. No matter, the honor of having the smallest penis somehow is inglorious. But without giving short shrift to the notion of winning is everything, perhaps the Kings County Bar's upcoming dick-off is gaining underdog attention. Yep, on July 20, in Brooklyn NY, the contest will take place. The rules are not set-out in their entirety, since the answer to the question of resting versus erected size is not offered. Is girth a consideration? Or cock head proportion? Or cut versus uncut (cut men lose 20-30% of their penile masses)? Or ball size? Will there be several awards' categories?

The average penis in humans is 5-6 inches fully filled. Or so the story goes... Some fellas, though, pack less by dint of whatever... genetics mostly. Like baldness, some observers think cock size is handed down by the mother. The mother? Yes indeed in a study from Filigree and Tunnel, newborn penis size is on average 2.6 times longer than the clitoris of his just birthed mother. Of course, only vaginal births were studied by virtual imaging by the faux scientists' eye in the delivery room spy cam. The clitorises of ladies, who deliver by Cesarean section, are much smaller since the parturition pudendal pressure dynamics are entirely different. They were not included in the study cohort.

Another fact is evident. What you see at birth is what you get. Sure the stem will grow and develop, but limited by birth cavernosal mass. Somehow or another, penis endowment is a preordained proclamation. Understanding that, there is nothing a guy can do to change his fate. Going to the gym is not an option. Hormones like estrogen and progesterone are ineffective although anecdotally Filigree has been using fenugreek to help himself. But so what?

From a functional standpoint, getting in, even a little, is enough. After all, if the guy can deliver the goods, what does it matter, big or small. Well, he might be the father of more girls than boys due to the fact that X sperm swim longer and farther... but daughters are always good later in life. Especially when senility sets in and that little cock has reabsorbed into the abdomen and a guy has to sit down to pee.

Bragging rights are going to be turned on their head on the night of this schlong-off. Every dog has his day is an oft slurred cliche in most every bar in the world. The downtrodden, especially when lip loosened by Pabst Blue Ribbon beers, like to mutter their comeuppance.

To keep a level playing field, standard issue underwear will be given to each contestant.  Nudity is not required, but c'mon. Wetting will be in order. Surely the party will be alcohol fueled and undoubtedly fun for all. Beyond that, you gotta be there... What L stop was that again?

Ciao

 smallest penis in Brooklyn pageant (Brooklyn TBD)

We are looking for less endowed men who want to prove that good things can come in small packages.

Now taking applications for contestants in the first Smallest Penis in Brooklyn pageant, to be held July 20th. There will be cash prizes for the top finishers, as well as the coveted Smallest Penis in Brooklyn title and crown.
You must be over 21 and available in Brooklyn on the day of the competition. No photo or remote entries will be accepted.

This is a pageant style competition, and will involve talent, evening wear, and swimsuit elements. Nudity is not required, but you should be comfortable getting hosed down while wearing only skimpy underwear (we will provide the underwear!) You will have a chance to tell your story as well show your stuff.

For more info, please send an email to SPB.Brooklyn@gmail.com

• Location: Brooklyn TBD
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
• Compensation: cash prizes for winners

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/evg/3778939240.html

The Actress Within...

Life is a front loaded affair, she thought, as she idled in a nondescript park in her vanilla town, her existence safe,warm and dry. Indeed, hot might be a better word than warm as the midday May temperature pushes 85 degrees. The humidity coupled with that heat makes her armpits wet. She smelled like fresh cut grass with a touch of... Sensual... Years ago, she knew an Italian boy who sniffed and licked her THERE. Years ago...

As it turns out, she intuits that all of the high spots of her life have been hammered into the net as if a flying LeBron James had slammed dunked. Her graduations, her engagement, her-for-better-or-for-worse and the 2.0 births of her children. So normal is she, being Caucasian in a white America. Moreover, her top layer of aunts, uncles and parents were still living. Death had not yet eroded her hull like seawater eats out a ship with holes that cannot be filled.

Sure Freesta had it good, damn good, but... Hubby James was an adequate earner, a fit father, a dutiful husband and as loyal as an Irish setter. The fact that his last name is O'Halloran has nothing to do with the dog breed since they had no pets and especially considering she preferred cats. Cats...

Cats are not like dogs, at least when it comes to drippy devotion. No nutty tail wagging or face licking and the like. Calculating not, dogs are pretty much what you see is what you get. On the other hand, carnivore cats are sly, slinky and always figuring. Cats are smart and love with perception. Genetics are impossible to beat, so be clear, nothing against cats. Yet, in their relationship, married now 15 years, one of them is a dog and the other is a cat. Guess...

Reminiscent of the old Peggy Lee tune, Is That All There Is?, Freesta had a burning wonder about life. Disbelieving that her journey's happy mail was already delivered on this fine day in May of 2013, she couldn't help but think there must be more. Or at the least, she reasoned that she ought to live her life to the fullest. Same chatter and same pot roast, same poke-a-poke, same Saturday night, same, same... Perhaps it was selfish for her to want more. After all, wasn't she admitting that everything up to now wasn't IT? As she sat on a green slatted bench watching young mothers play date toddlers, she felt wet. There! Odd...

Thinking maybe she needed to go in a new direction, Freesta had to admit to herself that she always yearned to be a performer, an actress... un'attrice, he used to say. Back then, when she was in high school, she was the lead in a play called Sweatin' Jane. It was written by Perflounce Maxey and the work offered an insight into the emergence of women in the workplace. Multitasking was a new parola in those days. Ha! Back then in '89, things were different. The Gloucester County Times said that her performance in Jane offered the promise of much more to come. "Freesta Swieconik is a star in the making!"

But Ted and Margaret Swieconik said no to acting as a career. In truth, the stories of the director's couch were toxic to immigrants from Poland. Understandable indeed! A solid and dependable career, teaching or nursing for example, was their prescription for their only child. A job where a mother could raise her family and still work and always have a fall back career. Rational... The Italian boy said il suo addio finale on September 4, 1989 - the first day of her college. And so it went.

Some people have an inner fire, a curiosity, a yearning. Safe, warm and dry be damned. Risk takers perhaps, fools maybe, wanderlust? Feelings like these cannot be extinguished, only covered up, suppressed and minimized - for a while. And so on this day in May, things have changed for Freesta O'Halloran just a little bit. The mountain of her sobriety has been moved an inch, but some say the first increment in changing is the hardest.

Freesta is going to leave the park and her green slatted bench in a few minutes. Armed with the phone number of The Actor's Center, the ball will be set into motion later today. Where it goes, well, who knows? But she believes that the sky is the limit, that she will be an actress and that she will find the thread of understanding as to why she is here. Lofty thinking...

As she moved down past the lake towards the parking lot, a breeze pushed at her. Her smell filled her with memories of that Italian boy. How he groaned a little, a guttural groan, when he breathed her in so long ago. That thought moved her in a way she hadn't experienced in forever. Where was he? What happened to him? The last she heard he had moved to Italy, where he had immersed. Firenze maybe...

She wondered if right now was all there is, but her sixth sense told her No! Blessed with a unique sensory perception, Freesta knew the truth. There's is more, Much More... C'è più, Molto Più!

Ciao

Sarebbe da stupidi non credi?? Passare una vita intera a desiderare qualcosa senza mai agire!

It would be stupid don't you think?? To spend a lifetime to desire something without ever acting! 

December Deer

Multiple gunshot wounds... some say even one in the "jay"... took her out like a December deer. Hunting season is always good stuff in a weaponized country like America. Killing leaves a winner and a loser and it is sure fun to be the victor with the smoking gun. Oh yeah, thumpppp thumpppp goes the bullet as it enters and homes where ever it wants... even into the va-jay-jay.

People kill, always have, always will. Hey Cain, hey Abel. In the natural order of things, humans are 'cidal pazzo. Put any prefix on -cide... sui-, homi-, fratri-, geno-, patri-, matri-, ... Sure, the idea of killing cows and pigs and chickens and fishes for food is sensical... survival! But the notion of offing for fun or for anger relief or to feed a psychosis or to get even or for whatever certainly is, indeed, less well justified. If only a little...

Fast cars, fast bikes, fast love, she loved it fast. Coming and going, in and out, her lovers were festooned to a revolving door. Faces changed, smells didn't. Somehow scrotal bases all had that sweat and fungal sting. January had learned that by the time she had her fiftieth man. But like an epicurian looking for that quintessential ragout, she kept trying to find perfection.

Found sprawled on her bed, her all white Lauren covers and coverlets made ruby by her own vitality. Hubby quattro was at work, curing and healing, when he got the call. The kind, which brings mortals to their knees, most mortals. Ring, ring... rushing home, he seemed aloof and detached at the scene, when he was heard to say, Why did it have to happen now? Now? Should her murder have happened at some other time? Was he going to lose a cruise deposit? Now?

At times like these, people are ascurry. Cops with donut guts, small town cops who know next to nothing about murder investigations gathered around like 700 level football fans. Curious was the fact that the husband, let's call him LeRoy to protect the guilty, hired an Uzzi lawyer within hours - to protect his interests. Who does that?, asked Gladys Pinto, a neighbor in this white and rich 'burb in Jersey. She was yellow tape standing, talking to Fred Strayer, as the ambulance took January's corpse to the local morgue for an autopsy. The sun was shining. A May day. A mayday for sure.

Hushhhh went the story. Right from the get-go, no news - a veritable news blackout. Newspapers are rags for advertising store sales. Powerful people and the prosecutors one and two have held the evidence cards so close to their chests that their nipples are sweat wet. Even the Mayor, a man with the kind of name that gets a kid punched out just because, was mum. Mummmm. A vigil was held and then another and then another. At a year out, people with half a brain wondered and vigil-ed again. Wonderment challenges bewilderment, anger is pervasive. After all, everybody watches TV shows about DNA and blood splatter and fingerprints and computer data bases. How could this murder not be solved?

Some guy sitting at the local clam shack restaurant, an outsider from Pennsylvania, was eating - what else, clams, as he said to his 30 years younger fucktard... had to be the husband, suspects one through ten in a case like this are the spouse. The dumb, nicely titted squeeze stared blankly as the former detective went on about a cover up. Flora didn't care about a local slay, why should she, she

was making a thousand simoleons to spend the day and night to service this 65 year old limp dicker. She was thinking he would need to take three or four 100 mg Viagras as the day played out. Guys are ridiculous, especially ones with long stinky foreskins!

At a year out, this murder case has gotten stale and cold. Like a corpse! January's is interred deep in the ground, nearby the lily white community where LeRoy still lives - in the house where the Rubenesque bleach queen was executed. January's grave remains simple, unadorned and stoneless. Stoneless, there is no memorial of substance for her? None with her name and her years of record, none with a pithy phrase? None with his name next to hers...

LeRoy

1947 -

He came and he healed.

Some say Kathryn Morris is coming to town. The show, Cold Case, is going to rescue the bumbling local crime solvers. Not that they could be called dunderheads.  Harummph! Rumors are so stupid, but some people around want closure and they want to believe justice will be served. After all, it's disquieting to think about a person being taken out like a December deer, for whatever the reason. Unless it was for survival. Even if her name was or is January - or April or May or June for that matter!

Ciao

Il Taglio di Capelli

(oppure il mio guanto di baseball)

Con il passare del tempo una persona cambia. La umiltà sostituisce la esuberanza. Quello che era così certo come un bambino, come l’idea di immortalità, diventa dubbio. Forse George Bernard Shaw, il commediografo irlandese e il co-fondatore della London School of Economics, aveva questo in mente quando ha detto: "La gioventù è sprecata per i giovani."

Oggi ho sessantacinque anni più otto mesi e due giorni. Purtroppo, ho iniziato a contare i giorni da quando ho rotto il mio fianco sei settimane fa. Il successivo trattamento chirurgico e di recupero mi hanno costretto a pensare alla mia vita, in particolare alla mia infanzia. Quello era un periodo in cui la felicità e la speranza erano le cose che conoscevo.

Da bambino sono andato alla scuola elementare Madonna Addolorata per otto anni e poi al liceo Sacro Cuore per più di quattro. Come studente, non ho lavorato troppo duro ma ho avuto la mia buona fortuna di avere una memoria eccellente. I miei voti erano A’s, che è stata una sorpresa per tutti. Invece di studiare, ho passato molte ore a giocare a baseball e a basket. E invece di leggere i libri di scuola, preferivo i fumetti, soprattutto Superman e Batman.

In verità, a volte ero capriccioso. Per esempio, nei giorni caldi in primavera, quando il sole era brilliante, ho marinavo la scuola con i miei amici. Andaviamo al parco Brunsweid dove abbiamo sperimentato con le sigarette e la birra. Inoltre, di tanto in tanto, dicevo bugie bianche a tutti, ma mio padre. Abbiamo avuto un legame speciale basato sull’onestà. In realtà, quando saltavo la scuola gli dicevo presto! Credo che mio padre era come me quando era un ragazzo.

Uno degli eventi più memorabili della mia infanzia si è verificato quando avevo dodici anni. Quel giorno, 17 luglio 1960, era caldo e umido. Mio padre mi ha spinto per andare dal Cholly Russo. Avero capelli neri, spessi, ricci e molto lunghi. Avevo bisogno di un taglio di capelli! "Ma ha detto che sarebbe tornato in un'ora." Ha programmato di visitare sua sorella, Grazia, mentre ero con Cholly.

Nel negozio, le ventole circolavano l’aria ma era ancora afosa. Mi piaceva andare lì perchè ho potevo leggere le riviste mentre aspettavo. Oltre Popular Mechanics, Look, Sports Illustrated e Time, Cholly ha offerto Playboy. Ricordo ancora la Playmate del mese di luglio 1960 è stata Teddi Smith. Mamma Mia, ancora oggi!

Il mio turno è venuto proprio non appeno la porta si è aperta. Con stile, un uomo ben vestito è entrato, seguito da due uomini più grandi. Sembrava importante. Dopo ha chiesto a Cholly chi era mi, ha guardato mi e ha offerto un dollaro per passare davanti. Ho rifiutato perchè sapevo che la mia ora era quasi finita. Mio padre mi ha aspettato.

Cholly mi ha tagliato i capelli in fretta. Quando ha finito ho lasciato il negozio senza alcun incidente. Fuori, mio padre era seduto nella macchina. In questo giorno, mi ricordo l’uomo azzimato con i capelli sbrizzolati. Ha chiesto a Cholly di me. Il barbiere ha detto: "Lui è il figlio di Pete Bosco."

Pochi giorni dopo mio padre mi ha chiesto circa l’incidente al negozio del barbiere. Voleva sapere perchè non ho permesso "all’uomo" di passare davanti a me? "Non sapevi chi era?" Mio padre ha sorriso quando mi ha detto che l’uomo era Sam DeCavalcante. Era anche conosciuto come "Sam the Plumber" and "The Count.". Per il mio choc, il signor DeCavalcante era il capo della mafia di New Jersey. Immediatamente, ho sentito un vuoto allo stomaco. Per mia fortuna non è successo niente! Non dimenticherò mai quel taglio di capelli.

Infatti le miei riflessioni della mia infanzia sono edificanti e meravigliosi. Sono grato ai miei genitori e alla mia famiglia. Il Signor Shaw nonostante, forse la lezione più toccante è che la gioventù è uno stato della mente, non una misura dell’età. Non è mai troppo tardi per studiare o per giocare nuove cose. Come una lingua - italiana? O giocare in una squadra di baseball per gli anziani? Ora, dove ho messo il mio vecchio guanto da baseball?

Ciao

Ocean City Reckoning

Oggi, il 5 maggio 2013, era a bust. Er, sorry for the Italian start, but jumbled up is the order of the day. Sure, it's sunny, blue sky aplenty, but here in Ocean City NJ, it's 50 degrees with a 25 mph wind moving down the boardwalk like an air enema. With a bum left peg, face splinter time is almost a reality. Is it possible fake Pete Ramos broke his fucking hip...?

The real Ramos, Pedro is now 78 years old. He pitched major league baseball and had a final record of 117-160. Not that good, but noteworthy enough that Petersburg Findlay became Peter Ramos

back in 1971. Real Ramos had been retired for a year and fake Ramos was 24 and running from a pregnant sally and her crazed father. Nobody back then wanted to be swarthy sounding, so Ramos was a good ploy to use to disappear.

In the early seventies, Ocean City was a dumpy, little Jersey shore town. A a man could lose himself there. Nobody asked questions, nobody cared. For 30 years Pete hustled for cash and in a seasonal shore economy, there was nothing but cash. Hard and green cash was and still is the ticket. Now the town is some gentrified, but still the rickety and worn boardwalk overlooks a 50 foot wide beach that needs sand replenishment every two years. Does no one heed mother nature?

It is spring on the mainland, where the temperature is 68 and there is a gentle breeze. No enema there. Folks, impatient, rush down to the beach towns thinking it will be a day to sun and surf. Call them fools, call them shoobies, call then fucktards... whatever. Once here, they spend stupid and leave as if they got something for their money. In its own way, the boardwalk life is a carney act.

Not fast, barely moving, the titanium porcelain Stryker hip is bullshit. He should have faced Skipper. The cuckold knew Pete was servicing his wife. Semi-hard like Dairy Queen custard from diabetes and shorted by birth and girth, Franklin Skipper Punce could not satisfy Marie. And Marie was, indeed, one hot mithia often having 5 orgasms a sex session. When Curly Top rolled in early 7 weeks ago, the second floor window jump was seemingly necessary, but a bad move. Pop went Ramos' femoral neck, which led to the bionic surgical insertion. Damn! Double damn!!

The best Pete could do is stutter stroll about a block. Stumbling up on the 'walk earlier, he snapped his Nikon 3100 here and there. The chubby girl at Kohr Brothers told him Hurricane Sandy took out the beach this year. Dark skinned, her name could have been Ramos, too. She seemed nice and he would have chatted her up more if he hadn't lost all of his brio now that he was a cripple. Oh, he liked rounded, soft women.

In three more weeks, the show starts. Memorial Day! Pete has a real job running old folks around and out of the Wesley Manor retirement home. Full time with benefits - sweet. Old people, like faux Ramos, need good health insurance. As he looks down the promenade, he realizes that life goes on with or without him or anybody else, for that matter. So, on this fine afternoon, after searching his soul, he heads back to Kohr's to chat with Mirasol. Tomorrow, more of the same... and more and more until he hits pay dirt. Pete is back...

Ciao

Griffon Gotta Eat

Alarming, yikes, is the story of the French tourist, who fell down a 300 meter slope in the Pyrenees. Within 45 minutes, a flock of Griffon vultures picked her body clean, leaving only clothes and bones. It is unclear whether the woman had died before the avian feast ensued. Hmmm.

The body was devoured. The Griffs are hungrier now than normally since the European health authorities have mandated all field carcasses be burned. The threat of bovine spongiform encephalopathy has terrorized the continent. Without the easy pickings, the old world birds have become more aggressive, even attacking living creatures. Naturally, the weak and the young are prime targets, although reports of attacks on adult cattle.... One farmer, Alain Larralde, reported seeing a group of vultures attack and start eating an adult cow.... "You can't imagine what it is like to see an animal eaten alive," http://www.ibtimes.co.uk/articles/464496/20130504/vultures-killed-fatal-cliff-plunge-pyrenees.htm

Vultures have a certain "yuck" factor, nonetheless are a necessary part of any ecosystem. Not to be confused with lawyers, vultures don't overeat for fear that too much gut fill will limit flying. Indeed, they will puke when threatened as a way of making flight faster. Nonetheless, the modus operandi of vultures of all stripes rings a nauseating peal for the well positioned and the genteel.

Griffons can be imposing with wing spans of 7 feet and body masses in the order of 20 pounds. With their hissing and growling, in some ways these birds are like hyenas. So loud and so meat hungry, creatures such as these are would-be horror movie favorites. Other Griffon reports have included the carrying off of live animals and groups of them sitting and watching children at play.

Right now the Griffon vulture is protected. Not surprisingly, French farmers want the go ahead to kill these ominous predators. While this is understandable such a stance is unlikely. Ecosystems are fragile... Perhaps the occasional loss of a tourist, a calf or a small pet is a price worth paying to keep the Griffon vulture in balance with nature. Hmmm, perhaps not! Now, how about those lawyers?

Ciao