fantasy football preview 2005
Jason posted on August 31, 2005

drugs and danger: a love story
Jason posted on August 30, 2005

It was a horrifying weekend.  Not in the monsters/sharks/giant-homeless-guy-standing-outside-my-window-having-sex-with-bags-of-trash sense, but in a different, more realistic and tangible way.  And yes, alcohol and narcotics were involved.  Guess you didn’t see that one coming, eh?

 

First, booze.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I like to drink sometimes.  I’ve actually been pretty good about this recently, though completely unintentionally.  I would like to say that I haven’t been getting that banged up as of late, but I’m not sure if this is true, as my memory is getting very poor.  I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night or how many daughters I have, let alone what I did three weekends ago.  I guess I could find out by reading here, but we all know that this shit is all made up anyway.

 

But if I’ve been taking it easy with the booze over the past few weeks, that went out the window this weekend.  Because there was a lot of alcohol consumption over the weekend.  Tons of it.  Scary amounts of it.  Both nights, my friends and I didn’t leave the apartment to go out until 1am after we were completely sloshed.  On Friday night, I got home after 4, and after devouring a few slices of pizza and most of a Chinese child I picked up on the street, I stayed up to drink the remaining two beers left in the fridge and a half a bottle of opened champagne that had been in the fridge since we moved in.  Not my finest moment.   

 

I’m not sure what time I woke up the next day, but I didn’t leave my bedroom until 6:15pm.  About an hour later, I was in the shower sucking down a Bud Bomber (a 16 ounce can of Bud) getting ready for the evening’s festivities.  By the time the weekend was all over, my roommate Brian, in a moment of unquestionable gaiety, said, “I just want you to know, I’m proud of you.”

 

Even so, the nights were relatively uneventful, or at least forgettable, due in no small part to all the booze.  When I woke up on Sunday, my brain seemingly on fire or getting eaten by ticks that had somehow burrowed into my head while I slept, I didn’t have any stories and couldn’t recall much of the previous two nights.  But such is life.  I knew I had a good time, save for my current state of dying.

 

And this is where narcotics come in to play.  Ever since my stress test, which proved that there was nothing medically wrong with my heart, I have been living with a little more abandon.  Not only does beer taste better, but before I would have been concerned about having a dinner that consisted of eight mini chocolate donuts, some leftover cheese fries, two slices of pizza and a pudding.  Thanks to the stress test, this dinner is probably the healthiest I’ve had in weeks.

 

Another thing that the stress test has breathed new life into is my drug habit.  Now when I say “drug habit” I do so only to impress you.  I know that women like bad guys, and so I use such a vague term so that all the ladies will think, “Geez - he’s a badass AND he has a tiny penis!  I want some!”  But in truth I have been (mostly) clean of (many) drugs for a fair (but shorter than I’d admit here) amount of time.  As long as this is understood, we can move forward.

 

This Sunday I was charged with picking up some contraband substances.  I’ve always been uncomfortable with this.  I don’t buy any drugs, I don’t handle them, I don’t have them in my room or even, if possible, my apartment.  I just feel like with my luck a buddy would say, “Dude, my girl’s coming in to town - can you hold some of my drugs for me for the weekend?”  And then that weekend, a cop would move in next door and would stop by to say hello with his drug-sniffing pet dog and would find an assload of drugs linking me to a major meth lab in Olathe, Kansas which in turn is linked to a major drug cartel from Oaxaca, Mexico.  Three months later I’d be in jail giving handjobs for fig newtons while my friend got high and banged his newer, hotter, druggie girlfriend who let him film her in the shower and sell it online for a fortune.  So I don’t like to mess with drugs in that way.

 

But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, and that was the case this Sunday.  I didn’t want to put the stuff in my pocket, so what I did was get my extremely underutilized gym bag and filled it with gym-type stuff (sneakers, shorts, pad lock, etc).  I figured this would make me look less suspicious and would also generally calm me down - I’m just a guy, going to the gym.  Nothing illegal going on here.  Not at all.

 

So I took off, did what I had to do, and was on the subway coming home.  No problems.  I got off the train and was listening to my iPod, happy that in two minutes I’d be in the safety and security of my old apartment.  It was then that horror struck.   

 

Thanks to a couple of crazies, NYC, like other big cities, is on a heightened state of alert.  This was exacerbated by the London bombings, when NYC moved to have some police officers in certain, high-traffic subway stations checking bags at random.  There are only a handful of these such stations - Union Square, Times Square, etc.  It just so happened that Canal Street, where I was about to exit, was one of these stations.

 

I saw the cops at the bag check table just past the turnstiles and I froze.  It was a mish-mash of emotions, but the general feeling was somewhere between seeing a werewolf eating your cousin and watching your girlfriend have sex with 50 Cent.  In that instant, my life and my future flashed between my eyes.  I could see the headlines and news snippets: ”Blogger Jason Mulgrew arrested for drug possession, shits self”, “Internet Personality Jason Mulgrew, serving time in prison for possession, had a psycho-sexual breakdown yesterday.  Mulgrew started crying before simulating violent intercourse with his mashed potatoes.  He was eventually tranquilized…”, “Jason Mulgrew was released from prison today after serving six months for possession.  He announced that he was going into the Peace Corps, but only under the condition that he was granted a license to kill…”

 

I suppose I could have gotten back on the train and traveled to a stop without this checkpoint, but I didn’t think of that at the time.  Instead, I moved forward, trying to act as naturally as possible.  I knew, from seeing these checkpoints before, that many bags were not searched.  I was hoping that my chubby, affable white self would not arouse suspicion, but at the same time I knew I was very hungover, looked like an alcoholic, hadn’t shaved, and what was a fat fuck like me doing with a gym bag anyway?

 

I turned up my iPod, straightened up, and walked through the turnstile.  I headed straight for the stairs, and never looked back.  When I reached daylight, I felt like I was going to cry.  I hustled down Canal Street, cutting through the Chinese people and the tourists who I usually despise, and wanted to hug each one of them.  I wanted to grab the nearest 170 year-old Chinese lady and say, “I don’t care that you and your people are the reason this neighborhood smells like pubic hair on fire!  I love you!”  I wanted to grab the nearest 300 pound, fanny-packing wearin’ momma from the Midwest and say, “Welcome to New York City!  It doesn’t even bother me that you walk slowly around the streets and stare at me like I’m a circus freak because I live above the Italian restaurant you’re overeating in!  Let me hold you!”  It was truly a beautiful moment.  

 

Despite the hangover, the rest of my Sunday was quite enjoyable.  I relaxed, smoked a ton of my newly-acquired pot and ate almost a whole pizza.  Really, what more can you ask for on the Sabbath?  And speaking of the Sabbath, I’d like to thank God for making me white, chubby, and unassuming.  Because otherwise, right now I’d be balls deep in mashed potatoes and fig newtons in exchange for the steepest price of all - my innocence.  And $12.  And twenty minutes of slow dancing.  You get it.

mom b-day, ESPN fantasy, Corolla, emails, music (Sweat)
Jason posted on August 26, 2005

This week was my mom’s birthday, so I sent her a card.  I also got her the extravagant gift of a new light fixture for the porch, which is kind of a strange gift.  I guess when people get older, they want different, more mature things.  But I can’t see a time in my life when I’ll want a new porch light as a gift.  Of course, I won’t live long enough to have grown children, but if I did, our birthday gift conversations would probably go:

 

My son: “Dad, what do you want for your birthday?”
Me: “I was thinking, maybe some mace?  Bob next door has this fucking dog that won’t stop barking, so I’m gonna go fucking mace it.”

My son: ”I don’t think you should mace the neighbor’s dog, dad.”

Me: “Oh yeah?  Well, I didn’t think I should have come inside your mother, so I guess we all live and learn.  How is she anyway?  Is she dead yet or is she still dating that black guy?” 

 

But anyway, I got my mom a birthday card.  I hate buying birthday cards, or any greeting cards, because they’re lame.  I’m actually hoping to start my own line of greeting cards, and I bet if my potential business partner could just STOP TAKING BONG HITS FOR ONE FUCKING MINUTE we could make some serious cash with this.

 

So for my mom’s b-day, I picked out a card that had two little girls on the front, with their backs to the camera.  They’re wearing white dresses and one is leading the other by the hand.  It’s a lovely little image.  On the inside, it says, “Thanks for always being there.  Happy Birthday!”  It’s a classy little card, meant for one woman to give to another woman, maybe her sister or a friend.  But I gave it a little personal style by changing the front image of the card just slightly, writing “Jason” under one of the little girls and “Mom” under the other little girl.  Sweet.  

 

I don’t know if my mom has gotten it yet, but I wonder what she thinks when I do shit like that.  All she ever wanted was a normal, well-adjusted son, and I’m sending her birthday cards intimating that we’re both little girls.  What a fucking weirdo.

Anyway, again, happy birthday mom.  I know you say you don’t read this, but there’s no need to lie about it.  And my god, I’m sorry.  Truly, truly sorry.

  

*************************************

 

When I got home from work last night, I caught the fantasy football special that was on ESPN.  Basically, Chris Berman moderated a mock draft of ESPN personalities and Nick Lachey.  And it was the most worthless hour and a half of my life.

 

First, because of the complete lack of fantasy football knowledge.  I have my two main football drafts next week, so I was hoping to get a little more information.  I was sorely disappointed, because these assholes had no idea what they were talking about.  It was only an eight person league, but what the hell is Julius Jones lasting until the 4th round?  I should have known it was shit when the Buffalo defense was taken in the 3rd, but I stayed with it.  What a mistake.

 

Second, a major part of fantasy drafts is the shit-talking that goes on during the draft.  This show tried to create some of that, most notably with Steve Young going after Mike Ditka, but the result was so uncomfortable I had to put it on mute and look away on several occasions.  Also, the other owners couldn’t bash the players themselves, as they work for ESPN.  So in a real league, people might make disparaging comments like “Kurt Warner sucks and his wife looks like a busted lezbo”, that didn’t happen here.

 

So I’m thinking of doing a fantasy football preview next week, or at least I’ll let you know how my teams turned out, because I have to have some sort of backlash to this program.  Wish me luck.    

 

*************************************

 

Last night, I watched a little of the Adam Corolla show on Comedy Central, “Too Late with Adam Corolla”.  I love Adam Corolla, but I don’t know much about him, so I guess it’s more like infatuation.  I do know that back when he and Jimmy Kimmel hosted ”The Man Show”, I used to plan my Wednesday nights around it because it was so fucking awesome.  However, I’m not much of a late night talk show guy, so I haven’t seen much of Kimmel’s or Corolla’s new shows.

Corolla’s show wasn’t bad.  His monologue was very up and down, but he had a dynamite joke (which is the purpose of me writing this).  He was talking about how the government warned that terrorists would be posing as homeless people, so he had a suggestion that would counter that and reduce crime: give police uniforms to every homeless person (”There’d be a police presence everywhere!“).

 

Anyway, check out the show if you get a chance.  Not too shabby.

 

(I thought this section would be much funnier before I wrote it out.  Oops!)

 

*************************************

 

I got some interesting emails this week.  The first comes from Morgan from Denver, who offers some Bang Bus insight:

 

Dude -

I hate to spoil it, but I think Bang Bus is fake.  I know, I’m sorry.  I was broken up when I found this out as well.  I was looking for something interesting to watch one night and stumbled across an “adult” site that we had signed one of my friends up for with his parents’ credit card while we were in college.  Since I was the bastard behind the joke, I remembered the login and it was still active.  I went to a video that had some sort of plot to it (school girl who forgot her book in a classroom and went back and got railed by janitor and teacher) and started being dirty.  I looked and noticed the girl was the same girl from one of the Bang Bus videos.  Maybe she just wanted to start her porn career, but it severely damaged the credibility of the Bus in my eyes.  I would hope those girls would never come out in public again (except to bang me).  Sorry for the awakening. 

 

As if this didn’t suck enough, Alex at “Fuck Your Couch” (who does excellent sports-related work on his blog) totally de-bunked my “Bang Bus is real“ theory:

 

Sorry to rain on your parade, but the Bang Bus is unfortunately fake. I was as crushed when I learned as you are now. 

 

Here’s a quick synopsis on how it goes down: http://www.local10.com/news/3927246/detail.html

 

And here’s a more detailed version (actually kind of a fascinating read): http://www.miaminewtimes.com/issues/2004-10-14/feature.html

 

So that goes to show you how much I know.  Perhaps I should pay more attention to the dialogue and the drama in the scenes and pay less attention to the booby sex and subsequent facials.  Oh well.

 

Also, if you read that second article, you may never watch porn again, or in my case, at least for another twenty minutes.  But while we’re being misogynistic, here’s an email from Jeff in Savannah, GA:

 

Have you seen this yet? I don’t know about you, but I think the only way this could be any cooler was if the background was, like, a living room or something and you could throw her into sofas and lamps and stuff…

         

http://www.izpitera.ru/lj/tetka.swf [safe for work]

 

I don’t really have anything to add to that, except that it made me laugh pretty hard.  Let’s just move on before I say something that disqualifies me from ever being in a relationship with a woman again.  

 

*************************************

 

Six Songs:

 

“Don’t Walk Away Eileen”  Sam Roberts

I like this song, but I feel like I would LOVE this song if I heard it in high school.  That probably doesn’t make any sense, but I really don’t care - it’s Friday. 

 

“Coin-Operated Boy”  Dresden Dolls

Sure, it’s about a minute and a half too long, but it’s a pretty awesome fucking song.  Sad, scary piano rock.     

 

“Gravity”  Sara Bareilles

If any of you ladies reading this right now can do this on the piano, email me immediately.  We’re going to move in together, so you can sing and play the piano while I smoke bowls and play with your hair.  It will be a beautiful little existence -  promise.

 

“If I Could Talk”  The Lemonheads

I hated this song when it came out, but I came across it recently and have been listening to it non-stop.  Weren’t this guys, like, the first hipsters, or am I totally wrong?

 

“Booze Me Up And Get Me High”  Ween

If I were in a band, I would close every show with this song.  A better boozy, sing-along, I can think of none.

 

“Gonna Make You Sweat”  Keith Sweat

Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for Great Moments in Jason Mulgrew’s Sexual History, brought to you today by Keith Sweat

 

Back in college, when I actually made out with girls, my friends and I had a competition.  This competition was to make out with a girl to the weirdest song possible without her stopping or saying, “What the hell song is this?”  You had to bring a girl home, put on some music, and make out with her to, say, Primus’ “Winona’s Big Brown Beaver” without her questioning the song.  Also, it had to be a FIRST TIME make out, meaning girlfriends or occasional hook-ups didn’t qualify.  Immature, yes, but totally awesome?  Definitely.

 

One night, I was at a party in the mods, which basically look like housing projects but serve as party central on BC’s campus.  This was my senior year, which was, sadly, my sexual peak.  I was dating a girl long distance at the time, but we had an unspoken ”don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it came to hooking up with other people. Or at least this is what I believed and what I was operating under. 

 

So anyway, I was at this party and I noticed this girl from across the room.  She was pretty good-looking, but definitely attainable, and I could tell she was an underclassmen.  We kept sort of making eyes at each other but I really didn’t know what to do.  I asked the party hosts who she was, hoping to find a mutual connection for an introduction, but they didn’t know.  And I had (and still have) no game, so I couldn’t go up and try to kick it to her.  So for a good two hours we just made eye contact.  Very mature.

 

But finally, she walked in my direction, as if she was looking around for someone.  She then came up to me and said, “Hi, have you by any chance seen a blond girl, about this tall?” (presumably her friend).  I assumed this was fiction and her way of initiating contact, so I blurted out, “No, but I’ve been trying to think of something to say to you to break the ice for about two hours now, so I’m glad you finally did it.”

 

Money.  So fucking money. 

 

The gods had smiled upon me this evening, for she made a face that gave the ”Ohhh!” look, as in “Ohhh! That’s so cute - let’s make out right now!” and sure enough we were making out in the kitchen of the party in less than ten minutes.  Shortly thereafter, we were fumbling back to my dorm room through BC campus, necking all the while.  I was on a roll, so I knew this was as good a chance as any to win our weird song competition.  

 

I already knew what song I wanted to use: Keith Sweat’s “Gonna Make You Sweat”.  First, because of the obvious: it’s a song about a guy making a girl sweat, presumably from some sexual act.  A simply preposterous basis for a song (not to mention the guy’s name is Sweat - get it?).  Second, because of Keith Sweat’s incredibly whiny voice, which I can barely listen to, and the cheesy early 90’s synth.  And third, because every fifth word in the song is either baby, girl or yeah.  Here’s the first ”verse”:   

Oh baby

Give it to me now girl

Yeah, there’s nobody here baby

But me and you, yeah girl

I wanna pull down the shades, dim the lights

Do what I wanna down to you yeah girl

Tell me now baby

I think you’re trying to play hard to get girl

Oh girl before the night is over

I bet, I bet I can make you sweat girl 

I mean, did they even write that before hand or did the producer say, “You know what Keith?  Just go into the studio and wing it.  No one’s gonna listen to the words anyway.”

 

Anyway, so we made it back to my place and went into the bedroom, where my roommate Joe and I had a couch.  We were sitting on the couch smooching (the girl and I, not Joe and I) when I made my move and said, “I’m going to put some music on.”  At this point, we were both pretty drunk, so my only hope was to put it on and rush back to the couch to resume making out before she had a chance to process and respond to the song. 

 

And I did just that, but I did it too…vehemently.  I put on the song and then literally dove back to the couch to start kissing her again, so that she couldn’t object to the song.  But my lunge - and the weirdness of the song - freaked her out and she asked what I was doing.  I said “Nothing, nothing” and tried to go back to making out, thinking I was still in the clear because technically she didn’t question the song, just my antics.  All I had to do was get through the song without her saying anything about it, and I would win.

 

Alas, it was not meant to be.  I tried to kiss her after I told her nothing strange was going on, but she stopped me and said, “What is this song?”  Game over.  I tried to make fun of the situation and said, “What, you don’t like Keith Sweat?” but she looked at me like I was crazy, so I got up and put something else on (most likely something like Phish’s “Waste” or some other lame make-out song). 

 

She stayed the night but nothing much happened and I never saw her again.  I actually called her a few days later to follow up, but I think putting Keith Sweat on and then jumping at her squandered any smoothness my “I’ve been trying to think of something…” line built up.  Oh well.

 

That was the closest I ever came to winning the competition, and after that experience generally threw in the towel.  Who actually won, to this day, is embroiled in controversy.  My buddy Joel supposedly made out to “Dead Flag Blues” by Godspeed You Black Emperor, which is about the most angry and scariest song of all-time.  My other buddy Greg supposedly made out to the Super Mario Bros. theme, which I think personally tops Joel’s song.  But this songs are so ridiculous that none of us could ever imagine a conscious woman making out with a strange guy while they played.  And of course, we were operating on an honor system, because it’s not like their could be people in the room as witnesses.  I suppose we’ll never know the truth.

 

So that’s my Keith Sweat story.  And now it’s time for the weekend.  Joy.

 

innovations in pornography
Jason posted on August 25, 2005

Understatement of the year: there are lots of different types of porn.  I’m not talking about guy-girl, girl-girl, guy-girl-girl-girl-guy, or guy-girl-bear-hammer.  Nor am I talking about the various fetish porn movies out there, like S&M or feet stuff or people dressed as mascots or people doing animals or that weird movie I saw that my uncle was in with the naked aliens on the trampoline.

 

I’m speaking almost in thematic terms.  Perhaps two examples will help.  Two “reality-based” porn series (which means a number of movies released by the same company with the same theme) are MILF Hunter and Bang Bus.

 

“MILF”, for those not in the know, stands for “Mom I’d Like to Fuck”.  Each one of these movies starts with our protagonist, henceforth known as the Guy, in an everyday situation, i.e. at the beach, at Wal-Mart, at the supermarket, at a bar, etc.  Randomly, the Guy will run into a hot woman, most often a little older, and then he’ll F her.  Thus, the MILF Hunter series. 

 

This is all supposed to be a coincidence, but of course it’s not.  The women are actresses, not hot moms shopping or getting their dry cleaning (in one movie, the mom getting done asks, “Are you the MILF Hunter?”).  One thing I don’t understand about this series is that it’s never explicitly clear that the women are, in fact, mothers.  Most of them are a little older (tops early 40’s), but many are hot twenty-somethings.  It’s not like the Guy’s doing a chick while her baby sleeps in a crib or her toddler watches cartoons, so what justifies the “MILF”?.

 

Still, the MILF Hunter series works and is very popular.  Not particularly my bag, but at this point I think I’ve seen all the free porn on the internet, so I occasionally “rough up the suspect” to the MILF Hunter series.   

 

The second somewhat thematic reality-based porn series is the ever-popular Bang Bus.  As you can probably guess, the Bang Bus consists of three guys - a driver, a cameraman, and the guy who does the chicks - driving around in a van picking up chicks and f’ing them.  Unlike MILF Hunter, I think I actually believe this is real.  The reason is that they don’t just randomly drive around to pick up hot 20 year-olds.  How it usually unfolds is that the Guy (a different guy from the MILF Hunter series of course) meets the chick at a club the night before and does her.  Then he and his buddies (the cameraman and driver) pick her up the next day and film them as they have sex in the bus. 

 

What makes it more credible is that these chicks are mostly spring breakers who REEK of whore.  In porn, there are two types of starlets: girls who consciously want to make porn and do it for a living and sluts who are skanks and get off on the idea of being filmed (essentially, the professional vs. the amateur).  And if I know anything for studying porn for the past thirteen years, it’s that these girls are amateurs. 

 

That, in a nutshell, is the Bang Bus series.  Both MILF Hunter and Bang Bus have been money-making machines and have dozens, possibly hundreds, of movies out.  There are imitators (most notably Street Blowjobs - you can figure out what that one’s about) but these two are the most popular and most successful.

 

Well I have an idea that could join the ranks of MILF Hunter and Bang Bus.  I feel like I should get this copyrighted or trademarked before I lay it on you guys, but we’re all friends here (save for any of my ex-girlfriends reading this), so I’ll just put it out there: Tourist Porn.

 

Now bear with me…

 

Every day when I walk around my neighborhood, I see at least two dozen doable, good-looking or attractive girls pouring over the NYC subway map, looking at street signs, and discussing and pointing.  It occurred to me recently that these women could be an endless source of sexual escapades.

 

For one, they’re overwhelmed by the megapolis that is New York City.  They’re either in from Ohio, Kansas or Oregon or all the way from Germany, South Africa or Thailand.  And they’re looking to get the most out of the big city during their short time here.  What better way to enjoy NYC than with an experienced New Yorker who’s lived in the city for almost five years and has drank at nearly every bar (and pooped at 60% of them)?  Also, it’s not necessarily a bad thing that this new friend is quite famous in some circles, is it?  At any rate, they are vulnerable.  And that is an extremely sexy quality.   

 

Second, think about your sexual mores when you’re traveling.  When you’re in another city or country, everything is consequence free (”Sure, I’ll get drunk and have sex with this fat chick with the one ear - I’m in Prague for Christ’s sake!”).  Part of traveling is meeting new and strange people and trying to have sex with them.  It’s always been this way.  When we’re anonymous in an unknown land, we get a little braver and more adventurous and we do, in fact, wind up banging a fat chick with one ear (it was actually more like an ear and a half).    

 

The basis is there, and I think Tourist Porn would be a great idea.  I’ll set it up: attractive guy and cameraman are in New York City, walking around the streets with high tourist concentration (SoHo, Little Italy, Times Square, etc).  The team approaches a group of attractive or semi-attractive tourist girls, who are struggling with a map.  After giving the girls directions, the guys explain that they’re making a documentary about the social and historical development of New York City.

 

The chicks, naturally, eat this up (normal looking guy + artistic streak (filmmaker, musician, writer) = FULL BASEMENT ACCESS).  After small talk, the better looking guy suggests meeting for drinks later.  The girls agree.  The stage is set.

 

Exemplary boozing follows.  The girls are comfortable and relaxed, because the guys have earned their trust (little do they know that if all goes according to plan, they’re going to be naked on a dining room table with a hot dog up their butt in an hour).  I don’t need to bore you with the rest of the details - boozing at the bar, an invite to come back to the guys’ place, more boozing, turn the camera on, start making out, then finally some doing - because you get it. 

 

[And if they are reluctant to be filmed having sex, which is entirely possible, they can be easily convinced.  Perhaps with "So, you're from Romania, huh?  That's cool.  Do you know what 'opium' is?  You don't understand?  Ok, then smoke this - it's an American cigarette - very good for you" or "So, Korea, eh?  That's cool.  Are you interested in some American candy?  I know it says "Oxycontin" on it, but don't worry.  That's just another way of saying 'delicious' in English.  Here - take three!"]

 

I ask you: how could this not work?  It’s perfect!  There’d be minimal effort on the guys’ part and no serious production costs and you’d have girls that were a) vulnerable, b) a little crazy, and c) exotic!  Movie titles could be “Cammie from Poland” and “Some Chick With A Weird Name from Vietnam”!  It’s all there!  Someone get on this!

 

Alas, I can’t do this myself.  My lack of sexual organs, or rather my lack of sexual organs that inspire others to touch them, restricts my porn-making ability.  However, I’m willing to be the brains behind the operation.  So if anyone is interested in participating, please let me know.  And for the stag, if you look like Marky Mark, well, you’re already hired. 

the early years of internet dominance
Jason posted on August 24, 2005

Sizemore does it again
Jason posted on August 23, 2005