In Which We Play

 

Bon appetit 

My friends Drumstick and Hotfoot and I had a nice Thanksgiving dinner, really a late lunch. It was in a hotel downtown that until recently has been frumpy and teetering on the edge of shabby, but it's been all tarted up now and the dining room we were in is really very pretty. 

The Post Room

And the food was good, maybe not great, but really how much do you ever expect from Thanksgiving anyway?  Because it was a buffet, there was a greater range than the typical turkey day spread and you could broaden your culinary horizons.  In fact, I skipped the turkey (which I was told was dry, no surprise there) and had some very tender roast beef instead.  My theory is everyone wants the holiday dinners their grannies knocked out and certainly over the years and years that I cooked that is exactly what I recreated, but since that wasn't available, I was perfectly satisfied.  My main complaint was the lack of mashed potatoes.  Personally, I regard no mashed potatoes as a crime against humanity and I thought about reporting them to the FBI but I decided to just let it slide. 

Afterwards, lying around in a food induced coma (which the cat thought is the best idea ever) I was thinking about the tradition of playing games after a big dinner.  Because what else can you do?  My family always played a domino game called 42.  It is very much like the card game Spades with bidding and trumps and keeping track of score by the number of tricks you take. I believe we played dominoes because my grandmother was a very firm Southern Baptist and they had a prohibition against playing cards, but somehow dominoes were okay.  That's the kind of letter-of-the-law thinking that leads to accusations of heresy, but what the hell?

I vividly remember when I was young being lulled to sleep by the soft click of dominoes being shuffled and then when I was old enough, how thrilling it was to be allowed to play.  The game requires you to play as partners so there was considerable pressure to not fuck up.  My father's siblings were sweet and easy going right up to when it was time to play at which point the motherfucking knives came out.  They were all very good players and did not like to lose just because you were inexperienced.  My father once got so exasperated at my poor nephew Ace that he threw a domino at Ace's head.  I just watched and laughed because honestly, the kid was an idiot when it came to keeping track fo what had been played.  But it turned out I was a good player so I loved it and I miss those games.

Many years later, when I would host holiday dinners for my friends, we would end the evenings with rowdy games of Yahtzee.  They would be fueled with lots of champagne and enlivened with serious shit talking.  Channeling the spirits of my domino crazed ancestors, mrpeenee leaned into attempting to break my opponent's psyches.  If I couldn't win by rolling dice, by god I would at least imply that they had inadequate penises.  Good times.

Guys I'd like to play with: 

Whoohoo

A generous meat.

There's a lot of buttchops this week.  We give thanks.

I know I don't give enough space to daddies.  Sorry.

Asstastic

Last week, I focused on naked guys at the beach.  I don't know how I overlooked this fine, fine specimen.

Speaking of fine specimens.

Spread like a turkey getting ready to be stuffed.

In Which We Ponder the peenee Life

 

The latest chapter in my unauthorized autobiography.

My cat Toby was lying all snuggy next to me when he started to make that gagging urpey sound so familiar to cat owners everywhere.  "Don't you puke on me," I told him very sternly.  So he got up and went  down the bed to puke on my foot, which was a compromise, I guess.  I guess?  Anyway, as I was cleaning everything up, the whole sorry fiasco led to me singing "Don't puke on me Argentina. . . ." which I thought was funny, but not funny enough to make up for cat puke on my foot.

You may be surprised to learn that my name is not actually peenee, but these days, my government name pretty much only gets used on the address of all the junk mail I receive.  Indeed, the gang of miscreants I hang out with over on Chaturbate only call me peenee.  Anymore thinking about the name my mother bestowed on me in a fit of whimsy seems quaint and removed from me and I sort of think myself actually as peenee.

And speaking of Chaturbate (all the hip kids shorten that to simply CB,) my dear CB buddy Brainiac and I were recently discussing our experiences with ketamine therapy.  It's nice to have someone to talk to about this who understands the indescribable experience of the Sacred K Hole.  Friends with whom I have try to share these trippy details have one and all obviously decided I am simply a crazy old man.  And I am, but I'm also right about how profound ketamine can be. 

Artist's recreation of mrpeenee confronting the drug goblin urging special k on him.

Anyway.  Cats and drugs and Chaturbate chums, it's a sweet life.  You know what would make it sweeter? More naked guys: 

Let us all pause to remember the boys of summer and their butt-pussies.

I understand in less fortunate parts of the world, it is already snowing.  Eeks.

I am staunchily opposed to snow in all its many icky forms.

I was 18 years old before I ever actually saw snow in person and that was OK with me.

The boys at CB all think I am afraid of snow.  That is obviously bullshit; I am simply deeply suspicious of it

I once asked a friend from Chicago what sleet was, since I had only ever read the word.  For a moment, I thought she was going to smack me.

Let us not think of snow, but instead focus on Mike Betts' lovely, lovely buttchops.

In Which We Recoup

 

But I don't want to be the bigger person.  I don't want to be the adult in the room. I don't want to go high when they have gone low.  I'll tell you what I do want, I want an insurrection.  When do I get a coup?

I understand plenty of the people who voted for Trump did so because they're afraid of change.  The world is rushing forward and they feel like they're being left behind.  Oh boohoo.  Do you really think putting your money down on the fascist ticket is going to change that?  Because it's not.  Trump and his plutocrat pals could not care less about your problems. But worse are the ones who find him repellent but still voted for a lying, racist felon because they didn't want a woman president.  Sometimes I think my brain is going to explode.   

That's all the ranting I'm allowing myself today.  In other news, Peet's, the world's finest cafe, has returned the seasonal delight of iced gingerbread to their menu.  Its annual inclusion on the menu is a delight for me, even if its appearance does mean that the mewling, tinkling tunes of Christmas music are looming ever closer.  Please goddess, spare us just a little longer from Silent Night.  Every year I feel like Mariah Carey starts bleating just a little sooner.  Mariah Carey is on the horizon, like Godzilla coming for Tokyo.  Stop it, goddam it, stop it.  Okay, okay, so I lied when I said I wasn't going to rant anymore.  

Guys to help bolster our spirits: 

Peek a boo.

Some people are all about the feets.

Naked guys are brought to you this week by Big, Hairy Bitches.

Also, ass, ass, ass.

Sometimes shaving is just a crime.

Dmitry Averyanov,  always welcome around here.

Hard workin' and yummy.

Asstastic

In Which We Are Maintained

The building I live in changes light bulbs in our apartments for us.  I don't know if that is the norm for apartment maintenance, but that is certainly how we roll here in the fancy schmancy life.  Two of my bulbs had passed on to the great fluorescent afterlife, one of them quite a while ago, but I had put off requesting change because I find it so intrusive.  Plus it wasn't like I was stumbling around in the dark, there are plenty of other lights to go around.  But one of them was the one over the sink in my bathroom where I stare at the ravages of time in the mirror, so I broke down the other day and put in a request and just now the light bulb guy showed up. 

He seems nice enough; turns out our regular maintenance man, whom I like, is in the hospital.  "He may have to go to rehab" was the alarming and obscure sum total of the info this guy was willing to share. I didn't want to pry, it seemed rude, and my delicacy was rewarded by this new maintenance man not saying anything else.  Maybe there's a code of silence among janitors.

Actually his reticence was okay with me, fix my lights and get out, that's my motto. Part of the reason why I find it so intrusive is that they insist on doing any of this maintenance stuff during the day.  In fact, this latest incursion happened at 10 IN THE MORNING, if you please.  As usual, I think this whole morning thing is highly overrated. 

The cats and I were sound asleep and I don't know which of us was the most alarmed.  One of them responded by running in the bathroom to take a huge and particularly smelly dump. As is so common amongst his brethren, Mr. Maintenance Guy was spiffed up with a substantial dose of affordable cologne so between the cat poop and him, the experience was very fragrant. 

I'm going back to bed.  Here are some guys I wish were accompanying me: 

Speaking of mirrors . . . .

I understand my hope that this is not PhotoShop might be simply wishful thinking, but I have to have my dreams.

I am pretty sure I have featured this guy and his anteater snout before, but I am such a fan of him.

I was wondering when we would get around to buttchops.

Vintage

In Which We Live with Cats

 Saturdays are important here at Chez mrpeenee cause that's the day when I change the litter in the cat boxes. Whoo hoo, such high times. I was finishing up with Octavia's (and getting ready to mop up the floor under her box where she had pissed, of course) when Toby climbed over in the bathtub AND PISSED IN THE DRAIN THERE. He did so with his back to me and an air of disturbed gravitas as if I were intruding. Naturally, I changed his litter, I had to clean the bathtub with bleach so now the bathroom smells like an abandoned swimming pool.  I also was faced with the distressing question of how long has he been doing this, distressing because I take baths in that bathtub.  Also, WHAT THE FUCK TOBY? 

Toby insists on being adorable even if he is pukey.

Kitty fluids have been on my mind a lot lately.  A few nights ago, I was cozily in bed when I heard the familiar yet distressing sounds of a cat puking.  I briefly considered unpacking myself from bed to go investigate, but experience has taught me vomit will wait.  I compromised by yelling "Stop that this minute" which had exactly as much effect as it ever does, which is to say, none. 

The next time I actually staggered to consciousness, I went on the hunt for puke, but I found none, or not any fresh puddles anyway.  My sizeable collection of very fancy, very expensive antique Chinese rugs are all liberally decorated with the dried remains of pukes gone by.  I clean them up with my fancy little vacuum/rug cleaner, but it can only do so much against the staying power of cat vomit.  Which brings us to Michael, the Insane Rug Guy.

Michael owns the best rug washing business in the San Francisco Bay area.  He is also a lunatic.  Dealing with him can be challenging, even if it is amusing. And honestly, I do find him pretty hilarious.  He has a schtick of pretending to be this cliche of an eccentric old Jewish guy.  Every exchange with him has to include an extra hour of his Henny Youngman imitation.  Diane von Austinburg was here for one of our interactions and hid in her bedroom where she said she clearly heard me yelling "Get out, just get out".  He brings with him some long-suffering Hispanic day laborers. Each time, I offer them a bribe, cash money, to kill him.  Each time, I can see them pondering if I'm being serious and if 40 bucks is worth a potential murder rap.

I usually get the rugs washed at least once a year, but I had been putting it off for a while.  The mystery cat puke was the boot up my butt that I needed to go ahead and schedule the comedy hour that is Michael coming to pick up my rugs.  I guess we'll see if this is the time the guys decide to take me at my word and off him. I just hope they wait until he has finished washing all my rugs. 

Nude dudes:

Marcel Rodriguez and his perky buttchops.

If you're just going to take a nap, you might as well take your pants off.  So inconsiderate.

The Eastern European charms of Peter Lipnick.

Ta-dah.

Also, I wanted to mention, days after I had given up looking for the missing cat puke, I found traces of it dried on the bottom of my favorite tennis shoes.  Dammit.

Why can't my rug washer look like this?  Huh?

A naked cowboy for my sweet niece Amber.  I know not every uncle and niece relationship includes naked humpy guys but ours does.  Are you complaining?

In Which We Check In on the Panty Music Scene

 

Here:

I don't usually bother with videos here at mrpeenee International because I find trying to post them to be too much trouble.  Jon over at Razzle Dazzle is much better at it than I am and always comes up with the most amusing bits to entertain us with.  But this particular one just seemed so ridiculously hilarious, I couldn't resist.

And why would I find this so diverting?  Let's break it down, shall we?

• It's a band in their underpants called The Skivvies.  Do I need to expand on that?
• The guy singing lead (who claims his name is Travis Kent, but let us refer to him simply as ManBun.) certainly understands what his strong suit is.
• None of these people should be singing in public.  In fact, it is one of the few performances of spoken word that is better than the subsequent attempt at belting out the tune.
• Things are stumbling along, aided in no small part by ManBun's strippin, when he unexpectedly breaks into that weird-ass Irish clogging thing.  Did you expect some Lord of the River Dance/go-go boy moment? No you did not.
• Again, ManBun strippin.  Jock strap.  Ass shot.  And tits so firm they don't bounce.

Here's some more private dancers for you:

I hope this satisfies those readers who complain about too many smooth, beautiful young men here.  Ingrates.

Back to our regularly scheduled cute guys.

Who would complain about this?

I just hope these boys never hear about how unappreciative you lot are about all their efforts.

Let us never speak of this again.