In Which We Finally Offer Free Art

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In Which We Consider the Rise of the Machine

 

Today is Talk Like a Pirate Day, a holiday very dear to all of us here at mrpeenee, Inc.  I don't have the energy remind you scurvy dogs of it's history and traditions, go here for some of that.  But let me just say avast ye blackguards, clear your poop deck and prepare to be boarded.  Surrender your booty, etc., etc., etc.

Now on to our story,

Earlier this summer, I mentioned that I have been dabbling in the brave new world of AI smut.  My efforts were strictly limited to pictures of naked guys, or semi naked guys, because I'm a very visual smut queer.  Just as a side note, while there are lots of sites that generate AI images, almost all of them are very prissy about no NSFW stuff.  Bitches.

Anyway, a while ago our dear chum Mikey from over at Chaturbate asked if I had considered using something like ChatGPT for writing.  I hadn't; for one thing, I had just considered writing AI to be useful for either applying for jobs or cheating on your homework.  I will now take a brief pause to thank the great father that I need to do neither.  Also though, I like writing, or rather, to quote the great Dorothy Parker, "I hate writing but I love having written." Writing is a lot of effort, but so is fucking and I don't want a computer to do that for me either. 

Still, I'm very conscious of how erratic both my spelling and punctuation are.  I know I drop in commas like they are decoration on a Christmas tree, and sprinkle semicolons around with gay abandon.  If AI can help calm all that down, then maybe it would help. 

I decided to test it out by taking some random paragraph from last week's blog and running it through the GPT wringer.  The immediate problem was that the AI wanted to punch up my pathetic little effort instead of just tidying up the random punctuation. 

Here's what it came back with initially: 

Want me to take it further into over-the-top humor (like full-on dialogue between you and the cats about their survival plan), or keep it in this dry, sarcastic vein?

I suppose I should be flattered that it recognized I was trying to be dry and sarcastic.  Since apparently my only choices were a kitty dialogue or sticking with my usual bitchiness, I opted for bitchiness.

My original:

As you see in the picture above, they have both now decided my bed is our bed.  Toby regularly snuggles up next to my side with his head on my shoulder which has to be the most adorable thing since cats were invented. Octavia also likes to settle in next to me.  If she gets here first, Toby will climb over one or both of us to jam himself in between her and my armpit so that I find myself at the bottom of a pile of cats as I just try to watch the news on PornHub.  Also, both of them will only settle down on my left side so that I am between them and the door.  Obviously, they are privy to inside information about the zombie apocalypse and they have decided that when the undead inevitably burst in, me and my luscious brains will provide a distraction for the cats to make their getaway.  Ingrates. 

And the new and improved AI version:

As you can see in the picture above, both cats have officially declared my bed to be our bed. Toby, in particular, likes to wedge himself against my side with his head on my shoulder, which is honestly the most adorable thing since the invention of cats—or sliced bread. (Though, let’s be real, cats would never admit sliced bread was useful unless it came with tuna.)

Octavia also likes to curl up next to me, but if she gets there first, Toby turns into a furry little bulldozer. He’ll climb over one or both of us just to jam himself into the prime real estate between Octavia and my armpit. The end result? I’m buried under a cat pile, trying to breathe, while desperately attempting to watch the news on… PornHub. (Don’t judge. Some people read newspapers. I just prefer my headlines delivered… enthusiastically.)

To make things extra convenient, both cats insist on snuggling only on my left side. Apparently, this is a strategic choice: I am the designated meat shield. Clearly, they know the zombie apocalypse is coming, and when the undead inevitably burst through the door, my luscious, brain-filled head will be the all-you-can-eat buffet while my “loving” cats make their daring getaway.

Ingrates. Furry, adorable ingrates.

Honestly, I am not wowed by it.  I understand it sounds like me, mostly because it has grasped my undying passion for adjectives (I just love them modifiers), but the changes it's made don't seem to improve anything, and the jokes that it added are just sort of clunky.  Also, the random nature of my comma usage doesn't seem to be any better.  If anything, the AI is given to even more capricious punctuation. 

I suppose if I really turned my attention to it, I could master chatGPT and wrestle it into doing what I want, but Octavia has been sick with a UTI and so I have been busy squirting antibiotics down her throat and mopping up puddles of cat pee so I'm not really in the mood for learning yet another program just because all the really cool kids are using it.  I'll just stick with naked guy images, thanks. 

Va va va voom

In the weeds.

Dorothy Parker also said "Heterosexuality is not normal it's just common."

Ahoy, ye bilge rats, and shiver me timbers.

I realize I am being rather erratic with my references here in the Nekkid Guy Section, what with Dorothy Parker, AI, and pirates, but that's why I can never be replaced by some GTP, or GPT or GTO or whatever it is.

This guy is AI.  Could you tell?  Avast and arrrgh.

In Which We Are Livin La Vida Gato

 

I am awash in cats.

A year ago in April, I adopted the eighth cat I have lived with and named her, obviously, Octavia.  It turned out Octavia and I have a lot in common; we are both cranky old ladies with bad arthritis and a passion for snacks.  When I first brought her home, she approached her new living situation with admirable caution.  She made a beeline for under the bed in the guest room and stayed there.  I was willing to not force the issue and let her come to me in her own good time.  She ate and used her box (the benchmarks I use for if a cat is okay) when I was out or sufficiently unconscious.  After a couple of weeks I decided maybe we should be more friendly and that's when I discovered her fondness for snack products.  I lured her out from under the bed by rattling a bag of cat treats.  That got her attention.

Once she associated me with snacks, she decided we were going to be best friends and after I got her some steps to make getting into bed easier on her stiff joints, she joined me up here regularly.  It was very sweet.

Then a year ago, the much missed Super Agent Fred died and I inherited his cat, Toby, aka The World's Most Sweetest Cat.  I quarantined him in my bathroom to let him get used to this brave new world, a setup he immediately protested against because he wanted to hang out with me.  So sweet.  Octavia also protested against the setup, but only because she opposed another cat in her space.  Her exact words were, "Nope, I'm out," and she retreated back to her fortress of solitude under the bed. 

It was a situation that left me very unhappy.  I had adopted Octavia specifically because I was looking for a senior cat so that I could provide a more comfortable space than a cage and a kennel for her to live out her last whatevers.  Just as a side note, Octavia has scuttled that high-minded plan, once she became ensconced and living on a diet of fancy wet food, she has thrived.  She has made it very clear she plans on outliving me.  But still, I was very conscious that just as she had really settled in comfortably, Toby appeared and really upset her. 

It took months for her to start to tentatively interact with this interloper.  Toby's approach to the world is Let's Be Buddies and everyone is immediately his best friend.  He simply could not understand why Octavia was so chilly and hostile.  But eventually she warmed to his charms and now she lets him very enthusiastically groom the back of her head.  He also likes to groom the back of my head, for that matter. 

As you see in the picture above, they have both now decided my bed is our bed.  Toby regularly snuggles up next to my side with his head on my shoulder which has to be the most adorable thing since cats were invented. Octavia also likes to settle in next to me.  If she gets here first, Toby will climb over one or both of us to jam himself in between her and my armpit so that I find myself at the bottom of a pile of cats as I just try to watch the news on PornHub.  Also, both of them will only settle down on my left side so that I am between them and the door.  Obviously, they are privy to inside information about the zombie apocalypse and they have decided that when the undead inevitably burst in, me and my luscious brains will provide a distraction for the cats to make their getaway.  Ingrates. 

Speaking of pussy:

Coach's favorite.

What lovely, luscious balls

Everyone who has ever lived with a cat knows the exasperation of asking them "In or out?"

ME: How big is it?

HIM: 7 frosted and 1 plain glazed

ME: On my way

Absolutely asstastic

Daddy says it's spanky time.

In Which We Are Treed

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In Which We Take a Look-See

When I was a young boy, my grandmother had cataract surgery and I remember it as both dramatic and traumatic.  She was in the hospital for several days, bed bound and not allowed to move her head at all.  The whole thing had a very lasting effect on my memory.  Since then, I know they have made tremendous advances in the procedure, but when I was scheduled for mine, I still somehow held on to the idea that it was going to be at least somewhat serious.  Pooh.  I had it yesterday and as I told my niece, I have had manicures that were more problematic. 

So how did it actually go?  Beats me.  I showed up, they took my vitals, put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the operating room.  Once they had plugged me into the anesthesia, I noticed they were playing sort of soft rock background music, which seemed odd for surgery and I started to ask about it and to request a different tune, maybe some 80s classic like Joy Division, but that's the end of my memory of going under the laser knife.  The next thing I knew, I was walking out of the center being escorted by my friend Drumstick. 

And that was the that, no pain, not even discomfort. After I'd been home a while, I walked down to Peet's cafe for a celebratory brownie and then spent the rest of the afternoon snoozing.  The most notable effect on my vision has been the contrast between the eye that was worked on and the one that I'll get corrected next week.  The corrected eye sees everything in much brighter, clearer colors, with a slight violet tinge and the other eye sees the world in a dingier yellowish hue.  

The only real problem is that the difference between my shabby old eyeball and my fancy new one is so extreme that they cannot work together.  The optometrist at the surgery center gave me a new pair of glasses with my old prescription in one lens and a new one for my corrected side, which sounded like it would be an excellent temporary solution, but the difference is just too far off.  Each eye can see, but neither wants to cooperate with the other.  I have dealt with this by simply closing one eye or the other most of the time.  That's not bad, but it results in my depth perception being totally wiped out.  Stepping down off of a curb turns into an act of faith and navigating the four shallow steps in my lobby is nothing short of a thrill ride. 

I don't care.  I am delighted with getting that stupid cataract scraped out and this time next week I will be all up to speed.  Until then, I have the eye patch I bought specifically for this and which transforms me into a rakish pirate.  I intend to work that motherfucking look for all it's worth and demand that everyone address me as Pegleg Peenee. 

Aargh.

Boys who are simply an eyeful:

You could put an eye out like that.

Asstastic

Everybody should tell me how very brave and strong I am being, because editing this post has not been easy.  I only hope these pictures are actually the naked boys I hope they are and not knitting patterns.

Although some of them are easier to tell than others.  A buttchop like this is hard to miss.

Pegleg peenee says "Prepared to be boarded and surrender your booty.

Balance is so important.

Everything counts in large amounts.

In Which We Are Patient

 Look I know I talk a lot about my health concerns here, but I'm an old man and I don't have a lot of other exciting topics to explore.  Especially lately, I have been going through an absolute spree of doctor appointments.  I am single-handedly keeping the American medical community profitable.  

This festival of medicine started off with my consultation for my upcoming cataract surgeries.  And keeping with my new tradition of being handed off from doctor to doctor like a goddamn secret Santa present, they sent me to my regular doctor for a clearance that promised that I wasn't going to die in the middle of getting my cataracts scraped off. 

Speaking of being handed off, turns out my regular doctor's practice has been bought by yet another medical group.  This happens every couple of years, some corporation buys the old corporation and I get an email announcing I have to register for a new "patient portal".  I want to point out every time I have filled in all the information the portal demands, I still have to complete the same questions on a form the next time I go in.   Consequently, the last couple of times this has come up I just ignore the whole ridiculous mess knowing that by the time they catch on that I have refused, some other entity will buy them and the point will be moot. 

Once I luddited my way past their information gatekeeping, the physician assistant announced they  needed an EKG.  I'm always up for a good time, so I didn't protest.  Of course, nothing is simple, so the EKG showed that I have a slightly enlarged heart which, naturally, called for me to be referred to yet another specialist, a cardiologist.  I would like to point out this EKG had nothing to do with my eyeballs which were supposedly the reason I was there in the first place.  The PA airily assured me I was cleared for the surgery, but said I needed to get right on that cardiology thrill ride. So that's coming up in September.  Also I need a tetanus shot, because of course. 

That was yesterday, today's doctor appointment was my hematologist to talk about that silly old too much red blood cell stuff.  He looked at a bunch of numbers and asked me if getting a pint of blood drawn every month was helping. Why was he asking me?  Shouldn't he know that?  I said I couldn't tell any difference so he pretty much answered "Oh well. That's that. Nothing else else I can do" and shuffled me out the door.  What?  

I think so much of this medical frenzy is simply that the tests they run on me are actually too efficient.  The EKG senses a tiny blip and suddenly I'm scheduling a stress test with a heart doctor.  My blood work shows that I am barely over some threshold for my red blood cells and I am trotted off to the hematologist.  And every conference includes the phrase "it's probably no big deal, but . . . "  I think we should all be focusing more on the "no big deal" part of the equation.  

And so now here I am, blind, burdened with too many blood cells, and a big beautiful heart.  All the tests and treatments and procedures all come back to one insight: I'm old.  Well, I could have told you that.  In conclusion, as all these doctors inevitably wind up telling me, "let's keep an eye on that."

Here's what I really want to keep an eye on, 

Butt

Peek a boo

Such shapeliness must not be contained.

Why so glum, chum?

Buttchops of the World.

You know he giggles when he pulls his pants down.

This guy works under the nom de smut of Con Wh0re.  Whatever you say sweetie.

In Which We Take a Look

 

Last fall, my eye doctor announced I was developing cataracts.  I wasn't surprised particularly, I'm an old man and these things happened to old men, also they run in my family.  The cataract surgeon had a look-see and told me to wait for a while. My reply?  "Okie dokie."  But the thing about "for a while" is eventually the while part runs out. Thus this afternoon found me back at the surgeon with my pupils dilated to the size of a couple of Death Stars scheduling my cataract surgery.  Hot damn.

There was quite a few things I hadn't considered in the matter of getting my eyes chopped up.  I had vaguely assumed things would just go back to pretty much the shitty level my eyes were at before the cataracts developed, but of course that's too simple.  For one thing I am extremely nearsighted, for another, like most people as I got old, my eyes ability to adjust for reading or other close up focus crapped out so I was unable to see either far away or up close.  Great.  The surgery would correct not only the cataracts, but the myopia and the near focus as well.  Or rather, it will correct EITHER the myopia OR the near focus.  I had to pick one or the other. I'm pretty sure I went with continuing to wear glasses for distance, but not needing any correction when I'm fumbling my way through a menu. Since I have been wearing glasses for the last 60 years, the very idea of doing without was so inconceivable, I was flummoxed with the concept.  I wanted to explain that I just need to be able to clearly see pictures of naked men, but the medical profession never seems to get with the program when it comes to porn.

Anyway, now I'm home, completely blinded by the dilation, huddled in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and the cats rampaging in the next room.  I mentioned to Diane von Austinburg I'm worried that after the surgeries, I will finally have to see all the cat puke stains on my fancy rugs and I am not sure I am strong enough for that.

Speaking of naked men,

Because I am posting this while my eyes are so dialated they are mostly decorative, I will not have much to say about this week's boys.

I cannot see what I am putting up here very well, but I can make out that hog.

If some of these turn out to be kitties, I am not to blame.

I think I need some seeing-eye pussy.

I'm thinking Braille for butt.