Have you ever wondered what it might be like to have sex with a giant throw pillow? I surmise that it would be as (if not slightly more) exciting than sleeping with Paula Abdul. Paula is capable of exhibiting about as much pizzaz as a three toed sloth filling out a loan request form. Her sleepy demeanor and slurred speech seem like the product of a six egg vicodin omelet. I want the old Paula back. The one that seemed like she could make you scared to ever have sex again on account of her sending you to the verge of cardiac arrest. Unfortunately, though, we're a long way from "Straight Up".
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Let's face it, folks. If Meryl Streep is faking an orgasm, you are gonna have no fucking idea. She has more Oscar and Golden Globe nominations than ANY ACTOR OR ACTRESS EVER. You could be accidentally inserting your penis into Meryl Streep's belly button, and she'll have you thinking that you're going to work on her g-spot like a stump grinder digging up the roots of a 600 year old oak tree. However, it must be taken into account that the opposite is true as well. You could be at the top of your game, giving Meryl Streep the most thorough and invigorating plowing she's ever received, and she could be drowsily leafing through an outdated issue of Good Housekeeping during the whole experience. She can probably even fall asleep on cue. Can you trust someone like that? Do you want to risk sleeping with someone who can access the personality of Julia Child two seconds before climax? There are risks involved here, people. You need to choose your battles.
Posted by Eric at 1:41 PM
Oh, Mrs. Ray... If only your reasonably attractive face could transcend your offensively dorky personality. Confirm my suspicions and tell me that your husband listens to his iPod while you copulate. Personally, I would rather listen to an audio book of Ian Mckellan reading Howard Zinn's People's History of the United States than hear the noises that might emit from your mouth during intercourse. Your voice sounds like that of an anxiety-ridden possum suffering from laryngitis.
Why did you have to create an acronym for Extra Virgin Olive Oil? Why do you insist on attiring yourself in crew-neck long sleeve shirts that you tuck into your Old Navy jeans? This is not justifiable behavior, Rachel.
But wait, wait, hold on. What's that? What did your marsupial voice just croak to me? You say you want to completely redeem yourself by posing for a photoshoot in FHM? Prove it, Ray.
I know. I didn't think they were real either. Until I read an interview with Mrs. Ray in the Huffington Post in which she defends them and says she would do them again in a heartbeat. Damn, Rachel. I had no idea you got down like that.
Posted by Eric at 12:45 PM
Fabolous, stop spelling your name at me. I understand that you have a pretty ill flow, and you're good at matching your hats to your sweatshirts, but this is not a spelling bee. I'm sure that your multi millions of dollars and generous helping of swagger ensure a slew of loyal fans will be ready to drop their undies at your command, but I hope what you perceive to be the clever incorrect spelling of your name does not make its way into the bedroom.
Also, we need to address the fact that you look like what might happen if Barack Obama had sex with Eddie Griffin. It's an issue. And does your bling really need to be this tough, Fab? You're gonna give some poor girl a concussion.
As a heterosexual man, my interest in you ends with your raps, but I imagine you under the sheets with a lovely lady, your 25 pound chain catapulting into her forehead like a diamond studded trebuchet, constantly reminding her that you have replaced the "u" with an "o" because you got it like that.
Posted by Eric at 11:51 AM