In Which We Return

 

If you look below this post, you'll see that the last post I put up here on Blogger is a sniffy little tirade about how I will NEVER darken these doors again.  Back then, 7 years ago, Blogger had just threatened a ban on adult content and I was not interested in picking up what they were putting down so I skedaddled. And yet, here I am back, tail between my legs.  So who could have put my tail there?  Blogger's competitor WordPress, to whom I had fled all those years ago, that's who.

A couple of weeks ago I got a terse message from WordPress announcing that I had been busted for posting "sexually explicit material" and that my blog would therefore be suspended.  Pissy bitches. And by suspended, they actually meant deleted.  I had no access to my own blog or any way to contact my followers.  They did let me download a file of my posts, but that turned out to just be lines of code.  Thanks to my fellow blogger Scarlet, from Wonky Words  and Mags from 63 mago, I got my hands on a converter that shook out the code into something more legible, but even that was just the text with no pictures and none of the comments, which were my favorite part.  Insult to injury, the posts are jumbled up out of order.

So 7 years of work, gone.  I am keenly aware of how unimportant this blog is, but to me, it was a kind of diary; if I wondered what I was doing 3 years ago, for instance, I could always dip in to the archives and find out.  The loss of it and the futile hassle I went through trying to retrieve it left me frustrated and sad for the last few days, but I have decided to just shake it off and move on.  I hope I'm not being bitter when I say WordPress has decided it is no longer content with being a platform for blogging and now wants to be a host for commercial websites so even before I got kicked off I didn't actually fit in anymore. Anyway, here I am back where I started, me and my smutty little blog.

Some of that material they found so distasteful:

Who could object to such tasteful and tasty Muscle Pussy?

One of my favorite pictures EVER, and now in color.

The always alluring Blake Clunes.

Another long-time favorite, tragically, an anonymous one.

Teasey in red.

"Yeah, everybody says it's big...."

Surely, people standing in line behind him must occasionally just squeeze that.

Next to godliness, baby.

How do you navigate through life with an ass like that?

Emilio Contento, costarring his massive titties.

One Less Blogger Blogger

Blogger, the site which publishes my blog, has decided my brand of smarm is not to their liking.  Since I am not interested in having some corporation decide what I can and cannot write or include, my reply to them is a simple "Go fuck yourself."

Since I cannot get motherfucking Blogger to automatically forward you,  anyone still interested in my scintillating insights and pictures of naked muscular youths can find us at

mrpeenee at wordpress

A Master of Distraction

 So this is the moraine of paperwork on my desk I'd sworn to get to this evening; some of it goes back to December.  Taxes to file, bills to pay, snark to snark.  But first I had to find the camera to take a picture of it and then Saki wouldn't get off the chair and then I had to go get some cookies and then I remembered that when Secret Agent Fred and I were watching reruns of RuPaul's season 4 Drag Race, I had meant to find a picture of Fred's favorite member of their Pit Crew, Shawn Morales.

So obviously I had to get all that out of the way and now Saki is back demanding I make a lap for him to sit on.  Who knows if, or when, any of the paper beast will be tamed.

And once again, Saki commandeers the good chair.  Am I supposed to file taxes standing up?

Boxing Day

Sorry I've been distracted, but I've been shipping off all kinds of goodies to New Orleans and my life has been an absolute whirl of packing tape and cartons and pissed off kitties who do not appreciate change, not one bit.

I have known for months and months that I would be sending all the furniture and knick knacks I've bought here so of course that meant I completely ignored packing until the night before the movers came calling to load up the Pod when I burst into a frenzy of relocation.

Have you heard of the wonders of the Pod?  The company drops off a shipping container in your driveway,  you stuff it full of your flotsam, and they pick it back up to ship it off to your destination.  It's possible flying monkeys are involved.

Part of the thrill of dealing with the company is announcing that "the pod people are coming on Wednesday," which sounds a lot like the vilains from some cheesy 50's sci-fi flick are dropping by for drinks and a couple of hands of bridge.

Naturally, I have spent the last few days since the pod left bumping into things I meant to ship off in it.  Books.  Linens.  Speakers.  Cats that refuse to stop pissing in the corner because they're mad that I shipped the bed I thought of as mine but turns out it's "ours."  Stuff.

Bonne Année et Bonne Santé

I went off to Peet's Cafe this afternoon for a cup o' joe and some tasty bit and when I'd finished, I wandered off to the restroom to return the coffee, so to speak.  Of course it was occupied, so I waited and waited.  And WAITED.  Usually that's bad sign because Peet's, although dear to my heart, is a regular on the homeless guy circuit and any occupancy this long almost always concludes with some bag lady, having finished god knows what, wandering out leaving a pungent aftermath.

Thankfully, though, this time it was a mousy and respectable looking asian man who handed me the key without making eye contact and then scurried off.  I stepped in and was faced with a sort of still life: the wrapper from a moist toilette directly in front of the toilet and about halfway between it and the trash can, the corn husk from a tamale.  I wondered briefly what story all this implied, but then immediately knew that I didn't really want to know.   I peed, washed my hands and kicked the detritus into more discreet positions so the guy in line behind me wouldn't think they were mine.  You need to think about things like that in a small town.

I have no idea what tamales and toilettes have to do with this post, I was actually going to write about how I hoped this would get up before midnight and thus bolster my anemic count of entries for December.   I have three this year.  In 2008, my most prolific year, I had 18.  I keep saying I'm going to do better, afterall, I'm not doing anything else.  But then the cat or porn or, most often, slacker sloth gets in the way and suddenly there are no posts magically appearing.

I'm sure it's not apparent, but I put thought into these gems of deathless prose.  Some anyway.  Frequently, I'll get stuck struggling with the exact word I want tantalizing out of reach.  Maybe those this-is-your-brain-on-drugs ads were right; whatever.  So I'll wander off trying to come up with the word "judicial" or "soliloquy" and come back later only to realize the whole thing is hash, delete it and start all over.  Or go watch porn.  It happens.

Tonight though, I was determined to force something out, however hashish, since I'm located on the Pacific Coast and thus of all my little blog friends, I'm pretty much the last one left here in 2014.  Unless there's some lurker from Guam out there, and how likely is that?  And you'll be reading this in 2015.  It's like a really, really slow time machine!  With crappy spell check.

So anyway here is my last muscle pussy of the year (and a particularly demure one at that) and possibly your first one of the new

Happy New Year.

Season's Beatings

A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn't it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don't know when I'm being serious, so when I announced "I think masturbation is life affirming," our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn't joking.  Spanking one's monkey is pleasure for pleasure's sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you're not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here's to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Everything is Relative

I had just clicked on a blog I'm rather fond of (brutos eros) and run across this charming tableau

when the guy who does my taxes (Taxguy) called to chat about how painful my relations with the IRS were going to be this year.  The whole thing made me wonder about karma and the coincidence of the universe and the similarity between insufficient deductibles and buttplugs.

Also, I think the red bucket lends an ominously festive note, don't you?

Also, here's my crixmus card for all you mischievous miscreants

Thank you wondermark comics