Another gem from my Boston-tagged YouTube video trolling...
There is nothing I love more than crazy genre-bending music. In fact, just last night I decided starting a death metal glee club would probably be one of the best ideas I've ever had.
So it's no surprise I find this "queerxcore" video by Youth of Togay for their track "Tough Gays" to be the most hilarious and scary thing I've seen in awhile (scarelarious?).
(Mildly NSFW due to mature screaming and adult situations with some junkyard dogs from Spike's.)
Never fear, I'll get back to my Bonnaroo projection-ing tomorrow!
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sausages, Sausages, Sausages, Sausages [Second Verse, Same As the First]
Not to be a lady who keeps her audience dangling (penis pun alert!), I must dutifully report that I am now the proud owner of the March 1995 Playgirl featuring Scott Bakula.
Exhibit A:
Ooh la la, indeed! I have dutifully read my first-ever piece of purchased pornography (say that five times fast!) cover-to-cover and I have a few findings to report:
1) 1990s Playgirl maintains an almost pathological insistence that the sole audience for this magazine is women. Every letter, every submitted fantasy, the editor's comments, everything was female-centric. There is no acknowledgment of a gay audience whatsoever. Which is funny because when I see a naked dude doing some artistic back bends in a jungle in front of a tiger, gaygaygay is all I can think. Well, that and Dude, sweet tiger!
2) It distresses me that so many of the fantasies in the reader fantasy section start with "I said no, but really meant yes" premises. Oy, ladies. Oy.
3) Also tragic was the fact that every bio on every naked dude in there did little to mask the career desperation of the wannabe A-list actors of the world. Every one was a star in the making back in 1995. And in 2008? Even their certified cover star Scott Bakula is a cult favorite at best.
4) I really do feel for the plight of male nude models. Looking at these photos it became resoundingly clear how philosophically complex the question "Where should I rest my junk?" really was. Where, indeed. Where, indeed.
Only on a dreary rainy day like today would I find such tragedy in a racy nudey magazine. Ah well--to cheer us up, here is a very apropos (and disturbingly hilarious in its own right) clip from The Kids in the Hall called "Sausages":
Exhibit A:
Ooh la la, indeed! I have dutifully read my first-ever piece of purchased pornography (say that five times fast!) cover-to-cover and I have a few findings to report:1) 1990s Playgirl maintains an almost pathological insistence that the sole audience for this magazine is women. Every letter, every submitted fantasy, the editor's comments, everything was female-centric. There is no acknowledgment of a gay audience whatsoever. Which is funny because when I see a naked dude doing some artistic back bends in a jungle in front of a tiger, gaygaygay is all I can think. Well, that and Dude, sweet tiger!
2) It distresses me that so many of the fantasies in the reader fantasy section start with "I said no, but really meant yes" premises. Oy, ladies. Oy.
3) Also tragic was the fact that every bio on every naked dude in there did little to mask the career desperation of the wannabe A-list actors of the world. Every one was a star in the making back in 1995. And in 2008? Even their certified cover star Scott Bakula is a cult favorite at best.
4) I really do feel for the plight of male nude models. Looking at these photos it became resoundingly clear how philosophically complex the question "Where should I rest my junk?" really was. Where, indeed. Where, indeed.
Only on a dreary rainy day like today would I find such tragedy in a racy nudey magazine. Ah well--to cheer us up, here is a very apropos (and disturbingly hilarious in its own right) clip from The Kids in the Hall called "Sausages":
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Golden Girls Go Lezby, But First Have To Figure Out What "Lesbian" Means [A Very Special Episode]
Last night I was jogging away on the treadmill at the gym--this is going to need sound effects: "do dodo dodoooo!"--trying my darndest not to fall off as I flipped through the channels on the attached TV screen, when I flipped onto an episode of The Golden Girls: "ohh... jackpot!"
It was mid-episode and Dorothy and Blanche were having some sort of heart-to-heart about Dorothy's "odd" friend Jean who had come for a visit. "La la la... jog jog jog... mis en scene..." when suddenly I pay attention again and their "odd" friend Jean is having a heart-to-heart with Dorothy (because, duh everything is heart-to-heart on Golden Girls). And then Jean confesses she is a (gasp!) lesbian and (double gasp!) has the hots for Rose!!
"Jog jog jog... jigga, whaaa?"
Lesbianism on The Golden Girls?!?!
It's a good thing I was running indoors because my mouth would have caught flies at that point.
Apparently, I was not the only one shocked the topic came up in the episode, as The Golden Girls themselves seemed a little unsure as to what a "lesbian" actually was.
And because I can never suffer the abuses of popular culture alone, I now give you the fantastic clip where Dorothy and Angela (hello, mother and daughter sharing a bed!!) discuss with Blanche what "lesbian" even means. Nooo not Lebanese, or an actress...
As cringe-y as some of their comments make me, it was 1986 so ah, brava Golden Girls for handling such a sensitive topic. Though for all her trouble and forthrightness, poor Jean gets the "I like you, but I just want to be friends" treatment in the end. (Girl, I feel your pain! Stay strong, my brave fictional-friend geriatric Sista!)
It was mid-episode and Dorothy and Blanche were having some sort of heart-to-heart about Dorothy's "odd" friend Jean who had come for a visit. "La la la... jog jog jog... mis en scene..." when suddenly I pay attention again and their "odd" friend Jean is having a heart-to-heart with Dorothy (because, duh everything is heart-to-heart on Golden Girls). And then Jean confesses she is a (gasp!) lesbian and (double gasp!) has the hots for Rose!!
"Jog jog jog... jigga, whaaa?"
Lesbianism on The Golden Girls?!?!
It's a good thing I was running indoors because my mouth would have caught flies at that point.
Apparently, I was not the only one shocked the topic came up in the episode, as The Golden Girls themselves seemed a little unsure as to what a "lesbian" actually was.
And because I can never suffer the abuses of popular culture alone, I now give you the fantastic clip where Dorothy and Angela (hello, mother and daughter sharing a bed!!) discuss with Blanche what "lesbian" even means. Nooo not Lebanese, or an actress...
As cringe-y as some of their comments make me, it was 1986 so ah, brava Golden Girls for handling such a sensitive topic. Though for all her trouble and forthrightness, poor Jean gets the "I like you, but I just want to be friends" treatment in the end. (Girl, I feel your pain! Stay strong, my brave fictional-friend geriatric Sista!)
Friday, January 11, 2008
Friday's Favorite FanFic Finds: My Ears! My Eyes! Bleeding! Edition [Part 5]
After a Celine Dion/James Blunt/lite rock medley nearly drove me to abandon my cart and sprint out of the grocery store yesterday--I guess that's one way to keep people to stick with their New Years diet resolutions--I was perversely inspired to theme this week's F.F.FF.F.s to the tune of some of my least favorite crooners.
It's hard to say which is more painful: listening to their songs in the grocery store, or reading the fanfic of their crazed fans.
We've got more ghosts, a pair of plastic pants, baby monkeys, and ah... Terry Schiavo?
Did I mention this would be painful?
Twenty minutes later, Josh descended the stairs and saw Sabrina in tears. She was sitting on the coffee table, facing the stereo. He could make out the very end of his version of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” coming out of the speakers.
“Bri?” She stood quickly, hastily dried her eyes and turned off the stereo. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. ‘Jesu Joy’ is one of my favorite songs and…my God, Josh, your voice…” He blushed as he gently wiped her tears away. “So, is this happy crying?”
“Something like that.” Something forever changed in Josh when she looked at him just then. Those eyes would be the death of him...
Back To Bedlam With A Carrot In His Pocket
By Africans
[Ed. Note: I think this next piece of fanfic was actually written by a Nigerian spammer. It's credited to "Africans," begins as a rant on how watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer will make a man out of a boy, has a segment with Dr. House that includes a posted picture of Hilter with the caption "Guest Starring Nathan Lane," and let's just say there's more to James Blunt's relationship with Terry Schiavo than what I could bring myself to post here. And you know if I'm exercising some sort of restraint, that shit's got to be pretty scary.]
Inexplicably popular singer “song” writer, James Blunt was known for his generosity, and acts of charity. He had sung to save Tigers, AIDS orphans, a blind gibbon baby, misunderstood people’s hero Tony Yengeni, and last but not least, another 1000 chincillas fated to die for Donald Trump’s replacement hair. He had been called by his manager, and asked whether he would be willing to sing by the bedside of one Terry Schiavo, who had been pronounced clinically brain-dead. There was very little hope of actually waking Mrs Schiavo, but it would be a good PR exercise, and bring something positive into the sad lives of her parents...
Gold
By Cassie Morgan
And if you didn't hate me enough already, here are links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 of this weekly exercise in bad taste. Yummo!
It's hard to say which is more painful: listening to their songs in the grocery store, or reading the fanfic of their crazed fans.
We've got more ghosts, a pair of plastic pants, baby monkeys, and ah... Terry Schiavo?
Did I mention this would be painful?
Clay Aiken (feat. Ryan Seacrest)
On Air
By nieded
The dial continues to rotate, achingly slow until it lands on 102.7, and an all-too familiar voice washes through the room. In alarm, Clay slams back into the counter.
“Hey! Thanks for tuning into KIIS FM; this is Ryan Seacrest,” the cheerful voice announces on the radio.
Clay’s chest tightens, knuckles clenching around the sleek marble countertop. It sounds so real, so authentic: the way Ryan accents the wrong words with such enthusiasm.
“We’re going to play an oldie from my buddy Clay Aiken: ‘This is the Night.’”
It sounds too real, but Clay knows. He was there. Ryan’s dead...
Behind him something splashes in the soapy water, and he spins around, his head twisting faster than his body can keep up with. It’s a hand connected to an arm connected to a shoulder, reaching into the sink for the sponge. Another warm hand rests on the small of his back and he can hear and feel the hot breath against his neck.
“Hey,” Ryan says smiling. He dons a black t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, his hair artfully tousled because it was the first thing he did the morning he had died.
Clay shifts awkwardly around until he’s facing the ghost, Ryan’s hand now pressed gently against his chest. It’s been three years since he’s seen him, but God does he look real. He feels warm, alive. “You’re…” he mumbles. “You’re not… here. This is –”
“It’s whatever you think it is,” Ryan says, smiling gently. It’s a real smile – not one that’s patented pure smarm for television. This smile is softer around the edges of his eyes where crow’s feet gather, where his lips split because they’re chapped and the skin stretching across arching cheekbones are smattered with the beginnings of a beard. Clay reaches out, strokes the scratchy texture of his face with uncertainty, drawing his fingers down the outline of Ryan’s mouth before settling on the cool skin of his throat. He can’t find a pulse, no fluttering or solid rhythm. Behind him the twinkling piano of his song goes silent and the radio turns to static...
On AirBy nieded
The dial continues to rotate, achingly slow until it lands on 102.7, and an all-too familiar voice washes through the room. In alarm, Clay slams back into the counter.
“Hey! Thanks for tuning into KIIS FM; this is Ryan Seacrest,” the cheerful voice announces on the radio.
Clay’s chest tightens, knuckles clenching around the sleek marble countertop. It sounds so real, so authentic: the way Ryan accents the wrong words with such enthusiasm.
“We’re going to play an oldie from my buddy Clay Aiken: ‘This is the Night.’”
It sounds too real, but Clay knows. He was there. Ryan’s dead...
Behind him something splashes in the soapy water, and he spins around, his head twisting faster than his body can keep up with. It’s a hand connected to an arm connected to a shoulder, reaching into the sink for the sponge. Another warm hand rests on the small of his back and he can hear and feel the hot breath against his neck.
“Hey,” Ryan says smiling. He dons a black t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, his hair artfully tousled because it was the first thing he did the morning he had died.
Clay shifts awkwardly around until he’s facing the ghost, Ryan’s hand now pressed gently against his chest. It’s been three years since he’s seen him, but God does he look real. He feels warm, alive. “You’re…” he mumbles. “You’re not… here. This is –”
“It’s whatever you think it is,” Ryan says, smiling gently. It’s a real smile – not one that’s patented pure smarm for television. This smile is softer around the edges of his eyes where crow’s feet gather, where his lips split because they’re chapped and the skin stretching across arching cheekbones are smattered with the beginnings of a beard. Clay reaches out, strokes the scratchy texture of his face with uncertainty, drawing his fingers down the outline of Ryan’s mouth before settling on the cool skin of his throat. He can’t find a pulse, no fluttering or solid rhythm. Behind him the twinkling piano of his song goes silent and the radio turns to static...
Josh Groban
by Lu
Twenty minutes later, Josh descended the stairs and saw Sabrina in tears. She was sitting on the coffee table, facing the stereo. He could make out the very end of his version of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” coming out of the speakers.
“Bri?” She stood quickly, hastily dried her eyes and turned off the stereo. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. ‘Jesu Joy’ is one of my favorite songs and…my God, Josh, your voice…” He blushed as he gently wiped her tears away. “So, is this happy crying?”
“Something like that.” Something forever changed in Josh when she looked at him just then. Those eyes would be the death of him...
James Blunt
Back To Bedlam With A Carrot In His Pocket
By Africans
[Ed. Note: I think this next piece of fanfic was actually written by a Nigerian spammer. It's credited to "Africans," begins as a rant on how watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer will make a man out of a boy, has a segment with Dr. House that includes a posted picture of Hilter with the caption "Guest Starring Nathan Lane," and let's just say there's more to James Blunt's relationship with Terry Schiavo than what I could bring myself to post here. And you know if I'm exercising some sort of restraint, that shit's got to be pretty scary.]
Inexplicably popular singer “song” writer, James Blunt was known for his generosity, and acts of charity. He had sung to save Tigers, AIDS orphans, a blind gibbon baby, misunderstood people’s hero Tony Yengeni, and last but not least, another 1000 chincillas fated to die for Donald Trump’s replacement hair. He had been called by his manager, and asked whether he would be willing to sing by the bedside of one Terry Schiavo, who had been pronounced clinically brain-dead. There was very little hope of actually waking Mrs Schiavo, but it would be a good PR exercise, and bring something positive into the sad lives of her parents...
Bon Jovi
GoldBy Cassie Morgan
Jon shrugged off his denim jacket, letting it slide off his shoulders and fall to the floor. One backwards glance down and he forgot about it, winding a soft white towel around his shoulders, rubbing his sweat-soaked hair with another. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and he laughed out loud at nothing in particular, rolling his neck, popping it with a satisfied sigh.
He grimaced as he walked towards his dressing room, his pants sticking to his legs with each step. He scowled down at them; as much as the tight gold was a crowd pleaser, they weren't exactly the most practical item of clothing he had ever worn. He gripped the cord holding them up and was about to unlace them, when Richie's hands slid around his hips. Jon tilted his head and smiled, leaning back against him.
"Leave them on," Richie requested softly...
Limp Bizkit
by Siubhan
[Okay, so like, this WAS a story about me and Wes Borland from Limp Bizkit, but like, I just found out he's MARRIED! His wife Heather is SUCH a BITCH! I hate her so much! She's a total skank face. I hope she dies! So, like, I don't like him anymore, so this story's about Angel now, because David Boreanaz is totally hot, and he's divorced and all, so there's hope for me!]
Morning. I stretched languidly and smiled, thinking of the night before. Wes and I had saved a bunch of baby monkeys from animal experiments, then brought them back to the jungle where they belonged, then he wrote a song for me, and then we made love until the moon came up. Just another wonderful night with my wonderful man...
And if you didn't hate me enough already, here are links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 of this weekly exercise in bad taste. Yummo!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Your $5 Bill: Now, Gayer Than Ever!
The U.S. Treasury is rolling out a new, gussied up five dollar bill. Lincoln is back, more colorful that ever, and ready to party. And I'm loving the headlines he's generating:
Lincoln's $5 Bill Gets a Colorful Makeover -- CNN
$5 Bill to Have Splashes of Purple, Gray --The AP
Colorful New $5 Bill is Meant to Make Counterfeiters See Red -- The Wall Street Journal
The New $5 Bill is Like So, Totally Gay -- Me
I mean, see for yourselves:
And according to reputable historical sites like History News Network, GayHeroes.com, and About.com:GayLife, I might just be on to something here!
Lincoln's $5 Bill Gets a Colorful Makeover -- CNN
$5 Bill to Have Splashes of Purple, Gray --The AP
Colorful New $5 Bill is Meant to Make Counterfeiters See Red -- The Wall Street Journal
The New $5 Bill is Like So, Totally Gay -- Me
I mean, see for yourselves:
And according to reputable historical sites like History News Network, GayHeroes.com, and About.com:GayLife, I might just be on to something here!
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