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“A man is known by the company he keeps, and also by the company from which he is kept out.”
—Grover Cleveland

Following in the footsteps of his daughterfucking partner Min Zhu, Subrah Iyar credits his daughters Leena and Nikhita with inspiring his current business venture. Five years ago, Iyar vowed not to waste any time getting to know his daughters better now that his workflow has leveled off. Which brings us to the question: How much “better” did Subrah get to know his daughters before pumping up his workflow? We shall surely find out the next time I pay him a visit.


Dig the now avatar of Ganesha. Because daughterfuckers are known by the company they keep, and also by the company from which they are kept out.

On 2 May 2005 I banished Min Zhu from his company and my country. Start packing, Iyar.
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As savvy politicians are wont to observe, victory has a hundred fathers but defeat is an orphan. The progenitors of WebEx number four: high-powered financier Scott Sandell, salesman extraordinary Subrah Iyar, brilliant engineer Min Zhu, and his bodacious daughter Erin Yier Bargeld. Here is a graphic representation of their relationship:

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Dr Thurgood: Larry! 
Larry David: Hi. I know I don’t have an appointment, but I got a bill in the mail today… am I to understand that you charge me for talking to me on line in a baseball card show? Is that possible? 
Dr Thurgood: Well yes, it is. 
Larry David: Dr Thurgood, we spoke for all of three minutes! 
Dr Thurgood: Let me just point out, Larry, that sometimes when people suffer with what I might call the more dramatic forms of narcissism, they have a hard time gauging how long they have been talking about their problems for themselves. 
Larry David: You’re saying I’m a narcissist? 
Dr Thurgood: Larry, maybe I can help you understand this way. I had a client, he was quite an illustrious, well-known director. I don’t want to reveal who he was, but he did direct Star Wars… And he enjoyed, in his repertoire of things that he liked, to see prostitutes. Now, in that particular situation, if he were to hire a prostitute, let’s say for an hour, which was normal for him… 
Larry David: You might as well call him George Lucas, I mean that’s who directed Star Wars
Dr Thurgood: Oh, well, I would never say that. I would never say that. 
Larry David: Well, you just told me who it was. 
Dr Thurgood: I merely alluded to the fact that he was a well-known director. Now, one of the things he needed to complete his work, it was important for him… 
Larry David: Everybody knows who directed Star Wars
Mr. Thurgood: Well, not everyone is in show business, Larry.  
Larry David: Okay, good… all right, go ahead. 
Dr Thurgood: My point is… 
Larry David: God only knows what you’re saying about me! 
Dr Thurgood: No one asks about you. 
Larry David: I didn’t ask about George Lucas, but you just brought him up! 
Dr Thurgood: I merely said “a well-known director”. And here’s my point: he used to frequent prostitutes. And very often he would hire them for an hour, which was their minimum, but it only took him three or four, maybe five minutes to complete the shot, if you understand what I’m saying. However! they considered it fair and he considered it fair to pay them for the full hour—that was the way they did business. 
Larry David: First off, I am appalled by what you just said to me… 
Dr Thurgood: He has a right to do what he wants. He is an adult. 
Larry David: It’s supposed to be confidential! 
Dr Thurgood: And it is. 
Larry David: You’re not supposed to be telling people! 
Dr Thurgood: It’s merely my way of illustration. My point is that people need various things to help them function, and my hope is that I was doing that for you. Well, it was good to see you. 
Larry David: And congratulations, doctor, I think you’ve stumbled upon the perfect analogy for exactly what you do. 
Dr Thurgood: Well, it’s somewhere between a hobby and a profession for me, just as it is for them.  
Larry David: Uh huh. 
Dr Thurgood: Good seeing you. 
Larry David: Okay. 
Curb Your Enthusiasm, Season 8, Episode 9
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An Essay on Man
An Essay on Woman
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
A wild, where weeds and flow’rs promiscuous shoot;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield;
The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;
But vindicate the ways of God to man.
Awake, my Fanny, leave all meaner things;
This morn shall prove what rapture swiving brings!
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just a few good Fucks and then we die)
Expatiate free o’er that lov’d scene of Man,
A mighty Maze! for mighty Pricks to scan;
A wild, where Paphian thorns promiscuous shoot,
Where flow’rs the monthly Rose, but yields no Fruit.
Together let us beat this ample Field,
Try what the open, what the Covert yield;
The latent Tracts, the pleasing Depths explore,
And my Prick clapp’d where thousands were before.
Observe how Nature works, and if it rise
Too quick and rapid, check it ere it flies;
Spend when we must, but keep it while we can:
Thus Godlike will be deem’d the the Ways of Man.
I
I
Say first, of God above, or man below,
What can we reason, but from what we know?
Of man what see we, but his station here,
From which to reason, or to which refer?
Through worlds unnumber’d though the God be known,
’Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
He, who through vast immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
Observe how system into system runs,
What other planets circle other suns,
What varied being peoples ev’ry star,
May tell why Heav’n has made us as we are.
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies,
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
Look’d through? or can a part contain the whole?
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
Say, first of Woman’s latent Charms below,
What can we reason but from what we know?
A Face, a Neck, a Breast, are all, appear
From which to reason, or to which refer.
In ev’ry Part we heavenly beauty own,
But we can trace it only in what’s shewn.
He who the Hoop’s Immensity can pierce,
Dart thro’ the Whalebone Folds vast Universe,
Observe how Circle into Circle runs,
What courts the Eye, and what all Vision shuns,
All the wild Modes of Dress our Females wear,
May guess what makes them thus transform’d appear
But of their Cunts, the Bearings and the Ties,
The nice Connexions, strong Dependencies,
The Latitude and Longitude of each
Hast thou gone throu’, or can thy Pego reach?
Was that great Ocean, that unbounded Sea
Where Pricks like Whales may sport, fathom’d by Thee?
II
II
Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find,
Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less!
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove?
Presumptuous Prick! the reason would’st thou find
Why form’d so weak, so little and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder Reason guess
Why form’d no weaker, meaner and no less.
Ask of thy Mother’s Cunt why she was made
Of lesser Bore than Cow or hackney’d Jade?
Or ask thy raw-boned Scottish Father’s Tarse
Why larger he than Stallion or Jack Ass?
Of systems possible, if ’tis confest
That Wisdom infinite must form the best,
Where all must full or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due degree;
Then, in the scale of reas’ning life, ’tis plain
There must be somewhere, such a rank as man:
And all the question (wrangle e’er so long)
Is only this, if God has plac’d him wrong?
Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
Of Pegos possible, if ’tis confess’d
That Wisdom infinite must form the best,
Where all must rise, or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due Degree;
Then in the scale of various Pricks, ’tis plain
God-like erect, BUTE stands the foremost Man,
And all the Question (wrangle e’er so long)
Is only This, if Heaven plac’d him wrong?
Respecting him whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though labour’d on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
In God’s, one single can its end produce;
Yet serves to second too some other use.
So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
’Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
When Frogs wou’d couple, labour’d on with Pain,
A thousand Wriggles scarce their purpose gain:
In Man a Dozen can his End produce,
And drench the Female with spermatic Juice.
Yet not our Pleasure seems God’s End alone,
Oft when we spend we propagate unknown;
Unwilling we may reach some other Goal,
And Sylphs and Gnomes may fuck in woman’s hole.
When the proud steed shall know why man restrains
His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains:
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s God:
Then shall man’s pride and dulness comprehend
His actions’, passions’, being’s, use and end;
Why doing, suff’ring, check’d, impell’d; and why
This hour a slave, the next a deity.
When the proud Stallion knows whence ev’ry Vein
Now throbs with Lust and now is shrunk again;
The lusty Bull, why now he breaks the Clod,
Now wears a Garland, fair Europe’s God:
Then shall Man’s Pride and Pego comprehend
His Actions and Erections, Use and End.
Why at Celaenae Martyrdom, and why
At Lampsacus ador’d chief Deity.
Then say not man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault;
Say rather, man’s as perfect as he ought:
His knowledge measur’d to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point his space.
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
What matter, soon or late, or here or there?
The blest today is as completely so,
As who began a thousand years ago.
Then say not Man’s imperfect, Heaven in fault,
Say rather, Man’s as perfect as he ought;
His Pego measured to the female Case
Betwixt a woman’s Thighs his proper Place;
And if to fuck in a proportion’d Sphere,
What matter how it is, or when, or where?
Fly fuck’d by Fly, may be completely so,
As Hussey’s Dutchess, or yon well-bull’d Cow.
III
III
Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib’d, their present state:
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flow’ry food,
And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood.
Heav’n from all creatures hides the Book of Fate
All but the page prescribed, the present state,
From boys what girls, from girls what women know,
Or what could suffer being here below?
Thy lust the Virgin dooms to bleed today,
Had she thy reason would she ’skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last, she likes the luscious food,
And grasps the prick just rais’d to shed her blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv’n,
That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heav’n:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Oh! Blindness to the Future, kindly given,
That each m’enjoy what fucks are mark’d by Heaven.
Who sees with equal Eye, as God of all,
The Man just mounting, and the Virgin’s Fall;
Prick, Cunt, and Ballocks in Convulsions hurl’d
And now a Hymen burst, and now a World.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore!
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Hope, humbly, then, clean Girls; nor vainly soar
But fuck the Cunt at hand, and God adore.
What future Fucks he gives not thee to know
But gives that Cunt to be thy Blessing now.
— Alexander Pope
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Deshon Marman, 20, a University of New Mexico football player who was in the city to attend the funeral of a close friend, former Lincoln High School standout David Henderson, was being held at San Mateo County Jail on suspicion of trespassing, battery and resisting arrest.
    Marman grew up a block from Henderson in the Bayview neighborhood, and the two were teammates at Lincoln High School and City College of San Francisco before they transferred to separate four-year universities. Henderson was shot May 26 on Kirkwood Avenue and died 11 days later.
    On Wednesday, San Francisco police got a call about 9 a.m. that someone was exposing himself outside a US Airways gate, Sgt. Michael Rodriguez said.
    An airline employee spotted Marman before he boarded Flight 488, bound for Albuquerque, and complained that Marman’s pants “were below his buttocks but above the knees, and that much of his boxer shorts were exposed,” Rodriguez said.
    The employee asked Marman to pull up his pants before he boarded the plane, but he refused, Rodriguez said. Marman allegedly repeated his refusal after taking his seat on the plane.
    “At that point he was asked to leave the plane,” Rodriguez said. "“It took 15 to 20 minutes of talking to get him to leave the plane, and he was arrested for trespassing.” Marman allegedly resisted officers as he was being led away.
—Justin Berton, “Grieving Passenger’s Sagging Pants Lead to Arrest”,
The San Francisco Chronicle, 16 June 2011
Folk etymology
connects saggin’ with backwards niggas.



The fashion actually transitioned from prison culture, said author-youth advocate Judge Greg Mathis of the “Judge Mathis” show.
    “In prison you aren’t allowed to wear belts to prevent self-hanging or the hanging of others,” said Mathis, who at 17 once served eight months in jail. “They take the belt and sometimes your pants hang down. The same with no shoestrings in your shoes. You aren’t allowed to have shoestrings. Many cultures of the prison have overflowed into the community unfortunately.”
    Saggin’ also has sexual connotations in prison.
    “Those who pulled their pants down the lowest and showed their behind a little more raw, that was an invitation,” said Mathis. “[The youth] don’t know this part about it. I always tease and tell them that they better be careful because some man who has been in prison 30 years who comes home and doesn’t know any different may think it’s an open invitation.”
—Margena A. Christian, “The Facts Behind The Saggin’ Pants Craze”,
Jet, Vol. 111, No. 18, 7 May 2007, pp 16-18
Deshon Marman is expected to plead guilty to possession of crack with intent to sell.
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The trouble with Martha Nussbaum’s analogy between revulsion at “taking the penis of one man and putting it in the rectum of another man and wriggling it around in excrement”, and discarded disgust-based policies, from India’s denigration of its “untouchables” to the Nazi view of Jews, to a legally sanctioned regime of separate swimming pools and water fountains in the Jim Crow South, is that only the first moral sentiment has a sound basis in physiology. Any sort of anal penetration is intrinsically harmful, even when it gets done by a proctologist, just as any sort of radiation exposure is harmful, even when it is administered for therapeutic or diagnostic purposes. The physical effects of anal penetration, precipitated by the concomitant trauma to the connecting tissue, are analogous to injecting raw sewage into the recipient’s bloodstream. Incontinence is another common and well-documented effect of receptive anal intercourse. By contrast, no health liabilities inhere in being a Jew or a Dalit, or mixing different races at a common water supply. If in doubt, consult your doctor.
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     “Molte son le volte che li muscoli componitori de’ labbri della bocca movano li muscoli laterali a sè congiunti, e altrettante son le volte che essi muscoli laterali movano li labbri d’essa bocca, ritornandola donde da sè ritornare non po, perchè l’uffizio del muscolo è di tirare e non di spingere, eccetto li membri genitali e la lingua.”
—Leonardo da Vinci, De vocie, in Edmondo Solmi, “Il trattato di Leonardo da Vinci sul linguaggio «De vocie»”, 1906
“There are many occasions when the muscles that form the lips of the mouth move the lateral muscles that are joined to them, and there are an equal number of occasions when these lateral muscles move the lips of this mouth, replacing it where it cannot return of itself, because the function of muscle is to pull and not to push except in the case of the genitals and the tongue.”
The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, translated by Edward MacCurdy, 1939
     “I tell you that one?…I tell you about the Polack who thinks Peter Pan’s a wash basin in a cathouse?…The difference between erotic and kinky? Erotic you use a feather, kinky you use the whole chicken?”
—Elmore Leonard, Stick, 1983
     I write about what people do to each other. It isn’t pretty.
—Derek Raymond, The Hidden Files, 1992
     HANNAH: Sex and literature. Literature and sex. Your conversation, left to itself, doesn’t have many places to go. Like two marbles rolling around a pudding basin. One of them is always sex.
BERNARD: Ah well, yes. Men all over.
HANNAH: No doubt. Einstein—relativity and sex. Chippendale—sex and furniture. Galileo—‘Did the earth move?’ What the hell is it with you people?
—Tom Stoppard, Arcadia, 1993


At the outset of an eponymous 1832 novel, Honoré de Balzac caused Louis Lambert, his precocious Swedenborgian hero, to air out his doctrines of meaning:
—Souvent, me dit-il, en parlant de ses lectures, j’ai accompli de délicieux voyages, embarqué sur un mot dans les abîmes du passé, comme l’insecte qui flotte au gré d’un fleuve sur quelque brin d’herbe. Parti de la Grèce, j’arrivais à Rome et traversais l’étendue des âges modernes. Quel beau livre ne composerait-on pas en racontant la vie et les aventures d’un mot ? sans doute il a reçu diverses impressions des événements auxquels il a servi ; selon les lieux il a réveillé des idées différentes ; mais n’est-il pas plus grand encore à considérer sous le triple aspect de l’âme, du corps et du mouvement ? À le regarder, abstraction faite de ses fonctions, de ses effets et de ses actes, n’y a-t-il pas de quoi tomber dans un océan de réflexions ? La plupart des mots ne sont-ils pas teints de l’idée qu’ils représentent extérieurement ? à quel génie sont-ils dus ! S’il faut une grande intelligence pour créer un mot, quel âge a donc la parole humaine ? L’assemblage des lettres, leurs formes, la figure qu’elles donnent à un mot, dessinent exactement, suivant le caractère de chaque peuple, des êtres inconnus dont le souvenir est en nous. Qui nous expliquera philosophiquement la transition de la sensation à la pensée, de la pensée au verbe, du verbe à son expression hiéroglyphique, des hiéroglyphes à l’alphabet, de l’alphabet à l’éloquence écrite, dont la beauté réside dans une suite d’images classées par les rhéteurs, et qui sont comme les hiéroglyphes de la pensée ? L’antique peinture des idées humaines configurées par les formes zoologiques n’aurait-elle pas déterminé les premiers signes dont s’est servi l’Orient pour écrire ses langages ? Puis n’aurait-elle pas traditionnellement laissé quelques vestiges dans nos langues modernes, qui toutes se sont partagé les débris du verbe primitif des nations, verbe majestueux et solennel, dont la majesté, dont la solennité décroissent à mesure que vieillissent les sociétés ; dont les retentissements si sonores dans la Bible hébraïque, si beaux encore dans la Grèce, s’affaiblissent à travers les progrès de nos civilisations successives ? Est-ce à cet ancien Esprit que nous devons les mystères enfouis dans toute parole humaine ? N’existe-t-il pas dans le mot VRAI une sorte de rectitude fantastique ? ne se trouve-t-il pas dans le son bref qu’il exige une vague image de la chaste nudité, de la simplicité du vrai en toute chose ? Cette syllabe respire je ne sais quelle fraîcheur. J’ai pris pour exemple la formule d’une idée abstraite, ne voulant pas expliquer le problème par un mot qui le rendît trop facile à comprendre, comme celui de VOL, où tout parle aux sens. N’en est-il pas ainsi de chaque verbe ? tous sont empreints d’un vivant pouvoir qu’ils tiennent de l’âme, et qu’ils lui restituent par les mystères d’une action et d’une réaction merveilleuse entre la parole et la pensée. Ne dirait-on pas d’un amant qui puise sur les lèvres de sa maîtresse autant d’amour qu’il en communique ? Par leur seule physionomie, les mots raniment dans notre cerveau les créatures auxquelles ils servent de vêtement. Semblables à tous les êtres, ils n’ont qu’une place où leurs propriétés puissent pleinement agir et se développer. Mais ce sujet comporte peut-être une science tout entière ! Et il haussait les épaules comme pour me dire : Nous sommes et trop grands et trop petits ! “Often,” he has said to me when speaking of his readings, “often have I made the most delightful voyages, carried along by a word down the abysses of the past, like an insect floating on a blade of grass consigned to the flow of a river. Starting from Greece, I would get to Rome, and traverse the extent of modern ages. What a fine book might be written of the life and adventures of a word! Doubtless it has received various stamps from the events that it has served; it has revealed different ideas in different places; but is it not still grander to consider it under the triple aspects of soul, body, and motion? To regard it in the abstract, apart from its functions, its effects, and its actions, is it not a matter of falling into an ocean of reflections? Are not most words colored by the idea they represent externally? To whose genius are they due? If it takes great intelligence to create a word, how old does it make human speech? The combination of letters, their shapes, and the look they give to the word, are the exact reflection, in accordance with the character of each nation, of the unknown beings whose memory survives in us. Who would philosophically explain to us the transition from the sensation to a thought, from the thought to a word, from the word to its hieroglyphic expression, from the hieroglyphics to an alphabet, from the alphabet to written eloquence, whose beauty resides in a series of images classified by rhetoricians, and forming, as it were, the hieroglyphics of thought? Was it not the ancient mode of representing human ideas as embodied in the forms of animals that determined the shapes of the first signs that the Orient used for writing down its language? Then has it not left its traditional traces within our modern languages, which have all inherited some remnant of the primitive speech of nations, a majestic and solemn tongue whose majesty and solemnity decrease as communities grow old; whose sonorous tones ring in the Hebrew Bible, and still are noble in Greece, but grow weaker under the progress of our successive civilizations? Is it to this time-honored spirit that we owe the mysteries lying buried in every human word? Is there not a certain fantastic rectitude in the word TRUE? Does not the compact brevity of its sound contain a vague image of chaste nudity, of the simplicity of truth in all things? The syllable exudes an ineffable freshness. I chose the formula of an abstract idea on purpose, not wishing to pose the problem with a word that should make it too easy to the apprehension, as the word FLIGHT for instance, which is a direct appeal to the senses. But is it not so with every word? They are all stamped with a living power that comes from the soul, and which they restore thereto through the mysterious and wonderful action and reaction between thought and speech. Might we not speak of it as a lover who draws from the lips of his mistress as much love as he gives? Thus, by their mere physiognomy, words call to life in our brain the beings whom they serve to clothe. In the way of all beings, they have but one place where their properties can fully act and develop. But perhaps the subject comprises a science to itself!” And he would shrug his shoulders, as if to say, “But we are too high and too low!”

Thus Balzac extends etymological naturalism of Cratylus into the realm of Romantic aesthetics. In keeping with his observations, etymological creation continues in our days. Accordingly, in a muchly discussed article published by The New York Times on 5 November 2006, James Gleick testified:
Much of the new vocabulary appears online long before it will make it into books. Take geek. It was not till 2003 that O.E.D.3 caught up with the main modern sense: “a person who is extremely devoted to and knowledgeable about computers or related technology.” Internet chitchat provides the earliest known reference, a posting to a Usenet newsgroup, net.jokes, on Feb. 20, 1984.
In a Usenet message dated 10 January 2004, OED lexicographer Jesse Sheidlower confirmed the policy of “accep[ting] Usenet quotes as archived on (formerly) DejaNews or (now) Google Groups, in certain circumstances.” Hence a specimen of OED draft entry dated March 2003, which reflects such acceptance in language unfit to print in our newspaper of record: Beware of Rodents! )
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Responding to tepid box office for his latest venture into transgressive ersatz hardcore, Ang Lee is developing a simultaneous sequel to his two greatest hits to date, tentatively entitled Crouching Penis, Hidden Arsehole.
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At the onset of puberty the fortunate schoolboy meets the most intense excitement that befalls a human explorer. What alien terrain stirred up more virile pilgrims than the landscape of female anatomy? Read more... ) Russian men classify vaginas in accordance with their location and orientation. The lowly sipovka, taking its name from a coarse pipe fashioned out of a bog reed or tree bark, finds itself closely aligned with the anus, and thus best suited for retrograde engagement in the dorsal-ventral position. The most common sinyavka, bearing a name shared by the herbaceous perennial “widow flower” of the genus Knautia in the family Dipsacaceae and mycorrhizal mushrooms of the genus Russula in family Russulaceae, angles away towards the front, equally suitable for manly address from front and rear. In the lay of this venereal land the pride of place belongs to the korolyok, the literal little king or golden nugget, standing proud towards the navel and yielding the finest fit for mutual engagement therewith. What other language can boast such sexual refinement? Read more... )

Crossposted to [info]larvatus and [info]linguaphiles.
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Herewith a convincing candidate for the most nauseating screed in the history of mankind: Read more... ) Snatching lace from top-booted pussy’s vomit takes some kind of Victorian chutzpah. Thanks to Jack Campin for this inspirational tale.
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Your family has assembled around a festive table. All are in full feather. Most are slightly ruffled. One geezer stands out. They say he is somebody’s uncle. He came alone. No one knows his name. The tablecloth is bouncing above his lap. The putative uncle is jerking off. More like, just jerking.
    The adults are averting their eyes. They are chatting about current events. Their voices are strained. No one wants to be caught staring. Only a little child breaks rank, transfixed by this public display of affection. When the child grows up, he is going to be somebody’s sleazy uncle.
    Note for our visitors: The uncle is Los Angeles. The child is you.

nice people

Jun. 4th, 2007 04:06 pm
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Thus quoth Hermione Eyre in The Dictionary of National Celebrity, co-authored and inspired by Willie Donaldson:
Fry, Stephen (b.1960). Stupid person’s idea of a clever person.

Hilton, Paris (b.1981). Looks like a shivering whippet dipped in bleach. She is the great-granddaughter of hotel magnate Conrad Hilton and grand- niece of Nicholas Conrad Hilton (Elizabeth Taylor’s first husband). In November 2003 a private video of Miss Hilton locked into a variety of strangely unimaginative sexual positions with her boyfriend, Rick Solomon, was circulated on the internet. Her father was highly embarrassed, as was natural; the video was filmed in the top suite at the Marriott Hotel. Happily, family harmony has been restored.

Lawson, Nigella (b.1960). To make this tasty TV chef, follow these simple steps. Take one prominent Conservative MP and one Jewish heiress, and breed. Give the child a funny name, and watch it simmer with resentment. Do not be alarmed when it goes lumpy and left wing while an Oxford undergraduate. Give it a few more years and it will become curvaceous and wildly interested in cupcakes. Dress in tight-fitting womanly twinsets, add a little tongue-flicking sauce and a hint of self-parody, and serve once a week on the television. Healthy audience appetites guaranteed.

Thompson, Emma (b.1961). Unaffected luvvie. Expressions she uses on set to prove she’s one of the chaps: ‘Oh fuckity fuck!’ ‘Oh lorks! I’ve just come on!’ ‘Crikey Moses! My knickers have gone up my crack!’
Many such gems can be found in a biography of Donaldson by Terence Blacker, as reviewed in the TLS by David Sexton, the literary editor of Evening Standard.
larvatus: (Default)
The popping sound you never hear:
Your head departing from your rear.


Donald Pleasence and Françoise Dorléac in Roman Polanski’s Cul-de-sac
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    Pat Garrett: Say, I understand those Mexican señoritas are still pretty as ever down there.
    Holly: Yeah?
    Pat Garrett: Yeah. [Holly smiles.]
    Holly: Yeah.
    Luke: Yeah. [Luke smiles.]
    Billy the Kid: I know one’s waiting on you, hoss, with a knife. Remember them sisters?
    Pat Garrett: No. Which ones were they?
    Billy the Kid: That one you got up and asked how much you owed her. And she said. “Whatever you think it’s worth.” You threw a dime on her pillow. And the girl said, “If that’s all it’s worth, I might as well sew it up.” And Pat — [Billy laughs] — Pat said, “You could use a few stitches.” [Pat nods; Billy pauses; Holly and Luke laugh.] I didn’t feel she did.
    Pat Garrett: Son of a bitch. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.
— Sam Peckinpah, Rudy Wurlitzer, Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid, 1973
larvatus: (Default)
In honor of the winter solstice marking [info]larvatus’ first anniversary on LiveJournal, your host offers this valediction to all literary consumers:
amat qui scribit, pedicatur qui legit,
qui auscultat prurit, pathicus est qui praeterit.
ursi me comedant et ego verpam qui lego.
Who writes loves, who reads is reamed,
who listens itches, who walks by is a catcher.
May bears gobble me, and I who read, a boner.
― translated by MZ

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