Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. I recently posted a scene from a romantic painting featuring Ms. Marini and myself on Facebook, along with which I announced the tally for a vote deciding on the sexiest people on the social networking site in which we won in a landslide. True, the vote took place in my living room at 2:00 a.m. after a night of binge drinking and crying and my pug Winston and I were the only two participants. But it was still a vote. My reasons for selecting Ms. Marini and myself were based on purely mathematical calculations: she figures in easily 75% of my masturbatorial fantasies while I am included in an astonishing 100% of them. No male comes remotely close to my figures when I lay them out on a spreadsheet, and Ms. Marini's closest competition came from circa 1975 Linda Ronstadt and the cute redhead checker who smiles at me sometimes at Ralph's, who each appear in paltry 6% of my erotic fantasies. Numbers don't lie and when confronted with statistics like that, it is impossible to deny that we are the most desirable people on the social network. In fact, the only other dude who even got any consideration was the college kid who used to live down the hall from me and occasionally shows up unexpectedly in my fantasies as a pizza delivery boy. I have no idea what that's about and I'm always pretty shaken up by it during the afterglow but I'm not going to worry about it. When you're the sexiest man on Facebook, you have more important things to think about. Like what my next sexual fantasy about Mara Marini will be. Maybe we'll just stay in and order a pizza.
Becky Epstein Roberts. I celebrated Ms. Marini and my new titles as The Sexiest People on Facebook by making a series of faux-romance novel covers featuring us while my beloved pug Winston did his best to kill the mood. Of all the things to be horrified by in this collection of nightmares, Ms. Epstein Roberts took exception to the fact that one of my nipples was exposed in one, stating "Your nipple is terrifying. Chestal nudity. *Brrrr* Winston saves the photo, though. He really is like bacon - anything you put him on is automatically enhanced by at least 45%."I'm not sure how she devised that math (although I have no problem with its results) but I do disagree with her on the horrors of the nipple. Things don't get really interesting in any scenario between a man and a woman until the nipple makes an appearance, although I grudgingly admit that the male nipple is the far less appealing option of the two types of nipples that are available for viewing. But this is a family website and I have far too much respect for Ms. Marini to digitize her lovely face atop an exposed nipple belonging to someone else, so I bit the bullet and allowed myself to be the one with the bared milk duct. But I hope Ms. Epstein Roberts keeps her "*Brrrr*'s"to herself the next time my shirt is off is public. When your nipple is on display, the last thing you want is a reminder of how cold it is.
James Jaeger. I saw the movie Guardians of the Galaxy last Sunday (I almost referred to it as a "film"but it is assuredly not a "film" but a "movie") and dismissively summed it up as "cute" despite its garishness, derivative characters and storyline, and patronizing emotional devices crapped out to connect to its mass audience. Mr. Jaeger thought I went too easy on it, condemning the comic book movie for its brutal violence by ranting "My true horror, though is people keep saying: 'It's just a comic book.' No...this is not what comic books have been about until the last fifteen years or so. Until the last decade, not every hero needed to be as brutal as the characters in Watchmen. Wolverine, Lobo and the Punisher were the exception, not the rule. Now even Wonder Woman, my favorite character, is a sword wielding murderer who comes from a race of rapists and baby killers." Mr. Jaeger reminds me of when my father would bitch at me that comics had gone to pot since he read Flash Gordon and The Shadow and that damned hippie Adam West wasn't a patch on Lewis Wilson as Batman in the old Columbia serial. But I'm not dismissing Mr. Jaeger's harsh denouncement of comics todays compared to those of his youth because they carry a serious message; namely that it's time for him to schedule a colonoscopy. If he's anything like my Dad, getting worked up to a lather over Wonder Woman could be symptomatic of a benign polyp growing in his rectum. It could become a tumor and then he's blaming the world's problems on those kids and their damned loud music. By the time it's inoperable, he's keeping all the balls they accidentally kicked into his yard. It's a sad end to a once great life.
Pain in the ass Tom Ashworth, who is doing his best to topple Jesse Merlin's place as my #1 enemy of the year. I left my beloved pug Winston at the home of my nemesis Misty LaRue during my recent trip to San Francisco, and when I walked out the door Ms. LaRue immortalized this image of Winston waiting breathlessly for me to come back to him. I made the mistake of posting the picture on Facebook (the social networking site on which I am the sexiest man) and Mr. Ashworth responded "She had to drug the dog, then drag him to the door to look like he was missing you." Mr. Ashworth has a lifetime of employing drugs to manufacture the appearance of emotions that he is too dead inside to genuinely feel, so I can forgive him that bit of wise-assery. What gets him on the list is trying to redeem himself by adding "My Grandfather's dog Shep starved himself to death after Pop Pop's death, it broke my Grandmother's heart again...I was there." If you look at Winston's enormously fat ass, you'll immediately realize that he's not going to miss a meal for any reason and if I was to drop dead in front of him, he would eat my face and genitals before the neighbors even began to notice an unusually foul stench coming from beneath the door jam (as opposed to the usual foul stenches they notice every day). I suppose that's a good thing because at least the tiny handful of people who mourn my death won't also have the additional tragedy of Winston kicking the bucket from malnutrition to deal with. With all the chemicals I pump into my genitals to try and get them to work, there have got to be some vitamins mixed in there somewhere.
Jessicah Neufeld with the headshot that is bound to ruin her life. I speak from experience. Jessicah Neufeld who supports me by playing a leading role in one of the one-act plays that make up Eclect-a-Fest, in which I star as Thomas Jefferson in the headline piece Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers. Ms. Neufeld has slowly been crawling up my rectum in order to make a home there since I mistook her for my personal dresser and maidservant when I first encountered her in my star dressing room (another misunderstanding; since it turned out that my star dressing room was meant to be used by all the actors in the production). What really annoyed me about Ms. Neufeld was when she saw some Facebook posts I had made about Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin, and wondered if I knew him. Apparently she's never met Mr. Merlin (nor does she know that the bastard was ranked as my #1 enemy of last year) but they share the same agent and she's seen his headshot a number of times. It always held a fascination for her because her childhood nickname was Jesse and her childhood dog was named Merlin so she naturally felt that she and Mr. Merlin have a supernatural bond. Having been associated with Mr. Merlin for several years, I can assure Ms. Neufeld that the only dog he is reminiscent of is Cerberus — the three-headed hound who guards the gates of hell. That's not a bad idea; maybe I'll station him at my dressing room door to keep the riff-raff out. That pesky dresser/maidservant will be the first one I sick him on.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. I recently posted a scene from a romantic painting featuring Ms. Marini and myself on Facebook, along with which I announced the tally for a vote deciding on the sexiest people on the social networking site in which we won in a landslide. True, the vote took place in my living room at 2:00 a.m. after a night of binge drinking and crying and my pug Winston and I were the only two participants. But it was still a vote. My reasons for selecting Ms. Marini and myself were based on purely mathematical calculations: she figures in easily 75% of my masturbatorial fantasies while I am included in an astonishing 100% of them. No male comes remotely close to my figures when I lay them out on a spreadsheet, and Ms. Marini's closest competition came from circa 1975 Linda Ronstadt and the cute redhead checker who smiles at me sometimes at Ralph's, who each appear in paltry 6% of my erotic fantasies. Numbers don't lie and when confronted with statistics like that, it is impossible to deny that we are the most desirable people on the social network. In fact, the only other dude who even got any consideration was the college kid who used to live down the hall from me and occasionally shows up unexpectedly in my fantasies as a pizza delivery boy. I have no idea what that's about and I'm always pretty shaken up by it during the afterglow but I'm not going to worry about it. When you're the sexiest man on Facebook, you have more important things to think about. Like what my next sexual fantasy about Mara Marini will be. Maybe we'll just stay in and order a pizza.
Becky Epstein Roberts. I celebrated Ms. Marini and my new titles as The Sexiest People on Facebook by making a series of faux-romance novel covers featuring us while my beloved pug Winston did his best to kill the mood. Of all the things to be horrified by in this collection of nightmares, Ms. Epstein Roberts took exception to the fact that one of my nipples was exposed in one, stating "Your nipple is terrifying. Chestal nudity. *Brrrr* Winston saves the photo, though. He really is like bacon - anything you put him on is automatically enhanced by at least 45%."I'm not sure how she devised that math (although I have no problem with its results) but I do disagree with her on the horrors of the nipple. Things don't get really interesting in any scenario between a man and a woman until the nipple makes an appearance, although I grudgingly admit that the male nipple is the far less appealing option of the two types of nipples that are available for viewing. But this is a family website and I have far too much respect for Ms. Marini to digitize her lovely face atop an exposed nipple belonging to someone else, so I bit the bullet and allowed myself to be the one with the bared milk duct. But I hope Ms. Epstein Roberts keeps her "*Brrrr*'s"to herself the next time my shirt is off is public. When your nipple is on display, the last thing you want is a reminder of how cold it is.
James Jaeger. I saw the movie Guardians of the Galaxy last Sunday (I almost referred to it as a "film"but it is assuredly not a "film" but a "movie") and dismissively summed it up as "cute" despite its garishness, derivative characters and storyline, and patronizing emotional devices crapped out to connect to its mass audience. Mr. Jaeger thought I went too easy on it, condemning the comic book movie for its brutal violence by ranting "My true horror, though is people keep saying: 'It's just a comic book.' No...this is not what comic books have been about until the last fifteen years or so. Until the last decade, not every hero needed to be as brutal as the characters in Watchmen. Wolverine, Lobo and the Punisher were the exception, not the rule. Now even Wonder Woman, my favorite character, is a sword wielding murderer who comes from a race of rapists and baby killers." Mr. Jaeger reminds me of when my father would bitch at me that comics had gone to pot since he read Flash Gordon and The Shadow and that damned hippie Adam West wasn't a patch on Lewis Wilson as Batman in the old Columbia serial. But I'm not dismissing Mr. Jaeger's harsh denouncement of comics todays compared to those of his youth because they carry a serious message; namely that it's time for him to schedule a colonoscopy. If he's anything like my Dad, getting worked up to a lather over Wonder Woman could be symptomatic of a benign polyp growing in his rectum. It could become a tumor and then he's blaming the world's problems on those kids and their damned loud music. By the time it's inoperable, he's keeping all the balls they accidentally kicked into his yard. It's a sad end to a once great life.
Pain in the ass Tom Ashworth, who is doing his best to topple Jesse Merlin's place as my #1 enemy of the year. I left my beloved pug Winston at the home of my nemesis Misty LaRue during my recent trip to San Francisco, and when I walked out the door Ms. LaRue immortalized this image of Winston waiting breathlessly for me to come back to him. I made the mistake of posting the picture on Facebook (the social networking site on which I am the sexiest man) and Mr. Ashworth responded "She had to drug the dog, then drag him to the door to look like he was missing you." Mr. Ashworth has a lifetime of employing drugs to manufacture the appearance of emotions that he is too dead inside to genuinely feel, so I can forgive him that bit of wise-assery. What gets him on the list is trying to redeem himself by adding "My Grandfather's dog Shep starved himself to death after Pop Pop's death, it broke my Grandmother's heart again...I was there." If you look at Winston's enormously fat ass, you'll immediately realize that he's not going to miss a meal for any reason and if I was to drop dead in front of him, he would eat my face and genitals before the neighbors even began to notice an unusually foul stench coming from beneath the door jam (as opposed to the usual foul stenches they notice every day). I suppose that's a good thing because at least the tiny handful of people who mourn my death won't also have the additional tragedy of Winston kicking the bucket from malnutrition to deal with. With all the chemicals I pump into my genitals to try and get them to work, there have got to be some vitamins mixed in there somewhere. 