by Tironius, created Sunday, August 30, 2009, with permalink
Satisfying sex with Surf Girl comes full circle
Sexploit#14: ‘Surf Girl’ in Wakayama, Japan
This one has a background to be told. You see, it all started (flashback effect, screen goes wobbly) in the fall of 2003. I was studying in Japan at the time and was in the clutches of a vicious long-distance relationship with a woman who must never ever be named again. Ever. I took a day-trip out to a beach in Wakayama. I had this idea in my head that I needed to try surfing. I got to Wakayama city and I noticed that there was a girl in the station who had dreadlocks and a giant surfboard under her arm. “Perfect!” I thought, “I’ll just follow her, she is obviously wave bound.” I rode the trains to the very remote town of Isonoura. Couldn’t have had more than 3,000 people in it. When I exited the train I approached the surfer girl and struck up a conversation with her, and she taught me how to surf. Now she was very sexy. Very curvy and beautiful little body on her. Nice gams, nice legs, and a darling face like an Eskimo. But, being the pussy-whipped dork I was, I stayed devoted to my evil bitch girlfriend back in America. So, the surfer-girl and I had a harmless day of fun at the beach.
That day in the sun would turn out to be the bain of my existence for the pain-stricken remaining six months of hell I spent with the American girl. Every damn day it was “well, why don’t you just go back to your little surfer slut..” or “I bet it’s not as good as your little surfer whore can do it…” or “Maybe you would like me better if I could surf like what’s her name…” Thanks to a good friend, Tironius, and strangely said girl’s best friend’s advice I got out of that hell-hole, and my cock was free to run wild again.
She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking.
Now, like all of my sex stories, this one is dripping with irony. I was crucified everyday for a completely benign, one-day relationship with a friend at the beach. I did nothing, and to be honest hadn’t really thought about doing anything. I spent day and night convincing the American that I was innocent! But then the universe has a way of bringing these things to be.
Skip ahead a year or two and we find me back in Japan. This time working. I got in touch with the surfer girl and we decided to hang out somewhere—get some drinks. We went to a local stir-fry joint in my neighborhood and got smashed after work. I told her she could stay at my place since her sister’s place was so far away. She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking. Oh man, it was like this woman’s anatomy was custom built for mine! It was like a perfectly fitted glove. I rocked her several times, and it was really rather stellar. She was 27 and in her prime. Gorgeous body, the product of all that surfing and the softest tits you could ever imagine. I took her to pleasure town over and over again.
And while I was banging into oblivion, a wry smile came over my face. Ah, at last it had come full circle. The irony complete. Here I was, banging the very girl that I had so vehemently argued that I wouldn’t. If only she (the American) could have been there to see it. If only there were some way she could feel the burn of that one. I mused about writing an email off to that effect, but my mind wandered to other things.
There were later encounters with the Surf-Girl. There was the trip to Hakone. We went to a “Spa-World”—an indoor fun park of baths and hot-tubs of all different types. At the traditional Japanese hotel, we partook in some of the most passionate love-making of my career. Again, the fit was amazing.
EXTRA: How many penis metaphors can we find in a story about porn?
by Tironius, created Monday, April 21, 2008, with permalink
We count the number of dick references in recent article in Variety
Here’s how it works: when we find a cheesy metaphor to cock in the explanation of this industry, it will be highlighted in italic type with a number to its corresponding sidenote — like this one — where a colorful explanation of things awaits. The original article is entitled, “Hard times ahead as porn goes soft?”Cocky Variety columnist Peter Bart writes about the economy’s effect on pornography sales, and my friends, does this prick stiffly nail it with the double entendres, painting the industry’s downturn with penetrating metaphorical visuals of the male member, thus creating a fun game for all of us to find and critique each one. Let’s probe this article and find just how many times can a writer use the same gag? (Note: sorry IE users, you’ll have to sit this one out.)
1, 2 & 3: It’s a one-two-three punch right out of the gate, folks, as this column launches with two great puns before lift-off. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s certainly ‘hard times’ indeed equating financial uncertainty of an industry with a good old fashioned erect penis — fleshy, at attention, and ready to impale, this pun aims to please. And not six words later do we see — BOOM! — the right hook as this editor, or his staff!, has tons of fun with this headline as the industry’s push for softcore porn is described with the wrinkled winky of an apologetic virgin. Surely, these writers have blown their load already in just the first few words! Not true, theirs more pearls of thick, white comedy ahead.
Hard (1) times ahead as porn goes soft? (2):
Apatow, Segel look below the belt (3) for laughs
by Peter (4) 4: Do we count this one? Judges say ‘No’ as this is clearly not an intended pun, but rather a horrible, horrible choice by a mother who is clearly unaware of the cruelty of schoolyard children. Still funny. Bart
Economists are citing some dire portents of a recession these days, but they’ve missed one indicator I find especially disturbing: The porn business has suddenly gone flaccid (5).
5: Folks this goes to show these guys not are playing hardball here. It’s out there, unabashed and in-your-face. You can’t help but smell the smegma on this stinker.
The drop in porn rentals and sales is worrisome on several fronts: Till now, porn has been a recession-proof business. Further, with the country already in a dispirited mood (6),
6: Oh! He’ll lose points on this one, guys, as this was clearly an opportunity for a nice ‘have a headache’ joke, here.
the fact that porn has gone limp (7)
7: Checking the scoreboard now. He’s got a respectable six, folks, and we’re not talking inches. (This is counting the ‘dispirited mood’ lame-o-riffic reference, though we really shouldn’t.)
may indicate a true plunge in consumer confidence.
DVD porn is down between 10% and 30%, depending on which nook and cranny of the business you scrutinize. Joy King, executive vice president of Wicked Pictures, and a smart analyst of the business, says the smallest dropoff is in “couples-friendly porn” — films that embrace something of a storyline. Women account for roughly half of this audience, making their purchases in lingerie boutiques and toy stores (no, not kiddie toys).
By contrast, that sector called the “gonzo” side of the business is in serious need of fiscal Viagra. (8)
8: Boom!, and there it is folks. Viagra pops out its purple, ugly head surprisingly late in the story. No stranger to comedy, everyone, Viagra is a force to be reckoned; a gift that just keeps on giving and giving and giving in the comedy world.
Guys with an appetite for “gonzo” are going unrequited, which may help account for the closing of many DVD emporiums like the Movie Galleries in the Midwest.
One beneficiary of these trends is online porn — a business that’s lofty in traffic but shriveled (9)
9: Like a scared turtle — Jerry Seinfeld taught us that — this nice metaphor makes money easy to understand: Less money = a tiny winky. Makes me want to be an economist!
in terms of revenue. With sales declining across the landscape, employees at big corporations have a lot more time to check out the three-minute porn clips flashing across their computers. To the serious porn players, some of these clips are beyond hardcore — they’re, well, mega-gonzo.
Porn proprietors are doing what they can to meet their business challenges. Wicked Pictures, for example, is recycling its biggest hits, so customers can acquire “Space Nuts,” “Manhunters” and “Flashpoint” in one svelte — well — package (10).
10: I prefer the term ‘one svelte basket.’
At the same time, other producers are cutting production costs and special effects. Since these films already are made on skimpy budgets of $50,000 to $75,000, these cuts are not welcomed by the porn filmmakers. At the same time, some of their actors won’t mind completing their tasks in one take, rather than *wrestling (11)
11: Not counting it. Nope. No-siree.
Still, veterans of the porn trade are edgy about the downturn. A generation ago, they recall, when authorities cracked down on “Deep Throat” and closed many of the porn palaces, the country promptly fell into a serious recession. Economists attributed this setback to the ups and downs (12) 12: Did Peter slip one in while we were sleeping? We’re cautiously calling this one a ‘No.’
of energy prices, but porn analysts insist other sorts of fluctuations play a more urgent role in consumer confidence.
13: This dead horse keeps on getting beaten. Is there no mercy for the joke that wears thin — thin like tender, sensative skin?
Members-only (13) club?
There’s a certain dark irony in the fact that, amidst the squeeze (14)
14: Oh no he didn’t! He’s back in the game, folks! Gone are the jokes about erection status, here come the wanker jokes. Bring them on, I say. Bring. Them. On.
in porn, Judd Apatow appears to be on a crusade to defy the code by making the full-frontal phallus an important co-star of all his films. In “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” the latest release from the Apatow comedic assembly line, there are not only abundant dick jokes but also abundant dicks.
Until recently, the unofficial policy of the MPAA code was that the presence of a penis meant an automatic NC-17 rating. But Apatow, who has scored with films like “Knocked Up,” “Walk Hard,” “Talladega Nights” and “Superbad,” seems increasingly dependent on below-the-belt humor. “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” opens with a fairly tight shot of Jason Segel’s member and, as if to push the joke, it closes with yet another one. Apparently Segel doesn’t mind — he wrote the script as well as starred (Segel clearly is plugged into Apatow humor, as a graduate of “Freaks and Geeks”).
15: It says that the country is saying, ‘Enough, already!’ to the same joke repeatedly pounding and pounding over and over again at the soft pink tissue of their brains. All right, everyone, that is it, as they say. And what’s the final total for number of double entendres in an article about pornography?: — Drum roll please… — TWELVE! Twelve hilarious dick jokes et al. for one article about pornography.
Is Apatow merely trying to be naughty? Evidence suggests that the shrewd young comedy writer-director has been successful in attracting the dating crowd — yes, both girls and boys — to his raunchy escapades. Further, testing shows that young women usually laugh at the sight of a pathetic penis.
So that news will send the purveyors of porn into yet another panic. At a time when “gonzo” is fading, “limp” is in. What does that say about the mood of the country? (15)
by Chris Maupin, created Saturday, January 19, 2008, with permalink
The Shadowy Underside of Korea
Experience with the oldest profession, in South Korea
It’s a March Friday and I have been pacing for an hour in the cold night outside a nondescript stairwell between two empty buildings in South Korea. Twin red-white-and-blue barber poles spin furiously just outside the black corridor between the buildings. I have circled this block ten times now, still lacking the courage to walk down those stairs.
What if it’s just a barbershop? Nonsense. Barbershops aren’t open at 12:30 A.M.
The brothel:
What if it’s expensive? — What if they don’t cater to foreigners? — Finally, I’ve never done this before. Round and round the barber pole in my mind spins, only to end up again at What if it’s just a barbershop?
I circle the block once more killing another ten minutes.
The stairwell again. My heart is a rib-ramming fist. Inside: a pungent cocktail of terror, teen-ish intrigue and curiosity. Outside: two barber poles and a taunting stairwell.
I’m inching my way sideways down the stairs now—my back to the wall and my palms soaked. My heart is an earthquake. I crane my neck to see the bottom of the stairwell. A glass shop door stands completely opaqued by a pink vinyl decal save for a five-by-eight inch rectangle. I knock softly with a trembling hand. At first, nothing. Then, like a magic-eight-ball , a woman’s ghostly face floats through the inky black to the small pane. She examines me with a polite smile before letting me in.
In the dim parlor I see her murky apparition. She is frosty pale with hair just blacker than the rambling catacombs of the brothel.
* Visage (‘vizij) » noun [usu. in sing. ] poetic/literary »
a person’s face, with reference to the form or proportions of the features.
She is maybe 38, but her visage* seems older. Painted toenails in cheap flip-flops join two frosty white legs that disappear under a pair of pink silk shorts ringed with black lace.
† Camisole (‘kameh-sole) » noun » a woman’s loose-fitting undergarment for the upper body, typically held up by shoulder straps and having decorative trimming.
Above a matching camisole† hovers her face, punctured by two completely black, mascara encrusted eyes.
Almost apologetically she motions to the slippers by the door and then disappears behind a curtain to a nearby room. Two low whispers carry through the womb-like brothel. In a television’s flickering blue light I can make out a large space filled with random furniture covered in bed sheets.
“Zing!” the curtain slides back revealing the whore in pink leaning over a sofa talking with an obese woman in a huge T-shirt. The fat woman glances over her shoulder to size me up, mutters something to the whore and then returns to watching her soap opera at a near-mute volume.
“W60,000,” ‡‡ $60 USD the soft-spoken prostitute informs me on her return. She counts the bills and then hands them to the sow behind the curtain.
“Do you want a massage or — (crude palm fist gesture indicating sex)?”
I mimic the palm and fist gesture.
“This way.” She motions.
A chilling thought enters as I follow her through labyrinthine underground brothel: Is that woman her pimp?
We pass two dark, curtained rooms with doctors’ tables and hand showers. The rooms appear completely water-proof with drains in the floor. How large is this place? I wonder. I trail her, adolescently gawking at her trashy shorts shifting in the dark. My cock is hard with fear and lust when she stops. There, at the end of a shadowy and narrow hallway is a small ten-by-ten foot room with a weak red incandescent bulb and a short curtain door.
She utters something in Korean and motions for me to undress. How much do I undress? Is this where we have sex? But before I can ask she has already disappeared again. Lying naked and paralyzed on a cotton floor mat, I gaze at the office-like drop ceiling in the pale red glow. In another room, I can hear her rummaging through cabinets and boxes. A sink runs then stops. I can’t help but be reminded of that awkward wait between assistant and dentist.
She closes the draw curtains behind her and kneels into the room. This time she brings with her a couple of plastic tubs similar to the ones in the shower rooms. Two steaming white towels accompany a condom and two plastic bottles. Frozen, I listen to her alien chit-chat.
“‘I like Americans — they are kind to women.’ The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.”
Squatting near me, she begins to scrub my cock with the hot wet towels. For me it’s an awkward elephant in the room; for her, an occupational hazard. Next, she removes her flimsy dime store lingerie with an almost masculine crudity—unabashedly exposing her brown anus as she bends over to step out of her pantyless shorts.
I endure a joyless blowjob, while examining her soft body — soft from a life of lying in a cot and waiting to be bought.
§ Warren » noun (also rabbit warren) » a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows.
• a densely populated or labyrinthine building or district : a warren of narrow gas-lit streets.
• Brit., historical an enclosed piece of land set aside for breeding game, esp. rabbits.
A ceaseless existence, spent here, in this warren §, sleeping and being slept with. A condom package snatches me from my daydream.
Now underneath me, she spreads her limp legs revealing a hairless cunt. Her breasts slide limply over her bony ribcage. My mind drifts to an old lover who had a rather loose yet shallow pussy. The whore’s pink eraser nipples are rubbing my chest. Before long, I am filling her with jets of semen.
We attempt some limited small talk while dressing. In a dreamy opiate haze, she tells me she wants to see America someday. I tell her she should do it — but somehow we both know it’s fantasy. But who is the trick to call the whore deluded?
Back at my shoes she compliments me on my penis-size. “I like Americans — they are kind to women.” The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.
At a different stair, she pats me on the rear and tells me to come again. I exit the plain metal door at the top and step outside to find myself in a completely different building on the street above—nothing to suggest that I just emerged from a brothel.
“This is the ‘bridge of no return…’,” the US MP informed us. “Cross this bridge and you will be stripped of all freedoms and will be forbidden to ever enter S Korea or the US Again. Cross this bridge and you are in N Korea’s hands.” The bridge was little more than 8 feet wide and and perhaps a hundred feet long or so. In the days of the Korean war, war prisoners were told to choose which side they would live the remainder of their lives in. Some chose wisely, others didn’t.
Hello everyone!
Cross this bridge and you will be stripped of all freedoms and will be forbidden to ever enter S Korea or the US again.
Yesterday I visited Panmunjeom [1] 1. The United Nations Joint Security Area and the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) a 4 mile wide ribbon of land that divides the two Koreas along the 38th parallel. The DMZ is perhaps the most militarized border in the world. Both sides are heavily walled and fenced. The DMZ itself is infested with landmines and anyone trying to make it across would not make it very far. Covered in guard towers on both sides, you often find yourself being watched by N Korean soldiers.
We started our tour at “Camp Bonifas” which was formerly known as “Camp Kittyhawk.” The once US military base is now under the Republic of Korea’s command and is the largest installation near the DMZ. We were briefed by an American MP on the history and background of the DMZ and Korean War. Then we signed UN waivers and got made the short drive to the JSA (United Nations Joint Security Area.) The JSA is the place where the DMZ narrows around a cluster of buildings and the two sides meet without fences. On the one side there is a large S Korean Building used to house officials, dignitaries and for other administrative purposes. Across from it is it’s N Korean counterpart - dubbed the “monkey house” because of the rude behavior of it’s N Korean Guard. In between there are no fences, no walls, nothing - only a series of portable type buildings used to hold negotiations and talks. Between the buildings the two sides soldiers stare eachother down and try to intimidate one another all day long. It was intense.
In the days of the Korean war, war prisoners were told to choose which side they would live the remainder of their lives in. Some chose wisely, others didn’t.
So there, at the JSA, I saw them.. The North Korean soldiers - just like on TV. Wearing their olive drab uniforms, gaunt, cold looking. They watched us through binoculars the whole time we were there. 2 from the Monkey house steps, and one from a guard tower. It was an eerie feeling knowing that all that separated us from those brainwashed fascist soldiers was an imaginary dotted line in the sand. The guide told us that when president Bush met with the S Korean president a while back, 2 N Korean soldiers entered the meeting room (illegally) and proceeded to polish their boots with an American flag on display. yikes.
After we left the JSA, we headed to a high hilltop observation tower on the DMZ border. Across the forest you could see it — N Korea and it’s flagship village known to the locals as “Propaganda Village” because it used to blare loud propaganda messages slamming the US and S Korea and enticing people to defect into N Korea. When S Korea erected a new flagpole which was some 300’ in height a few years ago N Korea responded by erecting what might be the largest flagpole ever built by man. It waves a massive 660 lb N Korean flag that measures some 60’ in length and requires 16 people to raise and lower it. I took some good shots of the village and the flag so you can see them below.
We then passed through more ‘gaza-like’ checkpoints with anti-tank traps and gun turret posts to ‘Dora Observatory.’ Photography from the wall of the observatory is prohibited, but of course I don’t believe in rules, so I smuggled out some photos for you! Sensitive and classified! Don’t turn me over to the UN please!
After the observatory we headed to the ‘3rd Infiltration Tunnel’ site which was discovered in 1978. The N Koreans have attempted several times to dig a series of tunnels from which to invade S Korea from. Sneaky bastards! Cameras were not allowed in this area.
The last stop was the Dora-san Station. This is the new train station that has a line that goes from Dorasan (S Korea) to Pyongyang, the N Korean Capital City. After years of negotiations Kim Jong Il (N Korean Dictator) allowed the train from S to N to be built - then of course at the last minute he refused to allow any trains to enter N Korea. So the station sets, ready and manned to send travelers off into the North. Schedule boards and waiting chairs all anticipating a train that will never come - at least not for now. I took a photo of the sign that says “Dora -> Pyongyang” and got my passport stamped there.
Well, Hope you enjoy these photos and the candid peek into the bizarre and secretive North. It was a great tour and I recommend it. Special thanks to the USO who booked and organized it for me - what a great organization they are.
by Tironius, created Friday, August 10, 2007, with permalink
I find the source for Derren Brown’s tools of magic here in San Francisco
1. Since our chat was brief, I couldn’t get specifics like his name or whether he owned the shop. I assume he does.
I‘ve made a huge discovery today: Mental magician Derren Brown’s magical supplier seems[1] to operate a shop of magic here in San Francisco. I learned this as I briefly chatted it up with the worker inside this shop called Misdirections Magic Shop:
“Derren Brown gets all his stuff from me,” the Chinese worker—who's demeanor and knowledge make his story plausible—said as I asked about Derren Brown products, “We’re friends.” Holy shit!
From what I gather, this shop must be a somewhat hardcore supplier of top magicians if Derren gets his goods from here. I could only talk briefly as there was, in fact, either an amateur or a professional magician who started talking serious shop with the man after our first interlude.
2. I can’t remember exactly. These names are made up, but sound like what I saw. They were definitely jargon that a magician in-the-know would recognize.
The shop is very small, just a narrow walk-in area with a large display case on the right side. In it, various magical and novelty products are on display, from beginner to advanced. I say advanced, because there were various decks of cards with hardcore jargon attached to each. “Snake eyes technique,” or “Deuce technique.”[2] There were also plenty of gag gifts and novelty items, like electrocuting cameras and computer mice. Behind the case on shelves against the wall were many books and DVDs containing the secrets to magic. I noticed one was by that one magician I see on cable.
3. NYTimes writer Neil Strauss went from loser to master pick-up artist in his book The GameAmazon, wherein he talked about the concept demonstrating value to the psychology of the opposite sex. Magic is one way to do this. His mastery arose from the tutelage of master pick-up artist Mystery, who himself has a new show about the life on VH1 iTunes.
4. Derren sells how-tos to magicians on his website, but not to outsiders. Luckily, there is no ‘outside’ on the Internet
“He has two DVDs out, but he’s very advanced,” the man responds when I asked if he had Derren Brown how-tos. The short conversation turned to his TV shows when he informed me I would have to order from the U.K. I informed him of Derren’s new place in iTunes, about which I have written here.
When I looked up at his ceiling, I was flabbergasted. On it were the autographed pictures of famous magicians, but for which only one I cared. When I first asked to take a picture of the autographed head shot of Mr. Brown, the guy politely told me he doesn’t allow photography.
“OK,” I said, “I’m just such a big fan.” “All right, you can,” he said. Yay.
After the visit, I now have a renewed interest in watching the how-to videos Derren produced [4] and learning a few tricks, because, according to Neil Strauss in his book The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists[3], magic is a great way to capture women’s interest and pick up phone numbers, and nothing is more magical than pounding sweet Asian pussy.
by Tironius, created Wednesday, August 01, 2007, with permalink
Master mental magician Derren Brown hits iTunes
Derren Brown, the king of mind tricks, who has in the past shocked and awed U.K. audiences, comes to America with a television series called Mind Control, featured in the iTunes television store.
1. Stooge, n: a person who is employed to assume a particular role while keeping their true identity hidden
2. Stage magic
3. Showmanship is in essence, lying, but not lying. It’s giving the impression you are doing something one way for the effect, but the audience is smart enough to know something might be deceptive, which is fine. It’s a relationship between performer and audience, where the audience suspends disbelief. I’m paraphrasing from his book, Tricks of the MindAmazon, which I own.
Brown rocked the U.K. with such sensational stunts including playing Russian Roulette on live TV, conducted a live seance, hypnotically converting atheists into “believers,” and his normal bag of tricks.
I like Brown because he makes absolutely no claims that he uses real magic, but he does claim—and I believe him—to not use actors or stooges [1]. He professes nothing more than someone using a combination of magic [2], psychology, misdirection, and showmanship [3]. He employs principles of NLP [4] to embed commands into his unwitting victims, and, other times he has you believe he’s using such hypnotic techniques. The fun is not knowing which is taking place.
Cheesy and cheeky, Mr. Brown specializes not in illusion as much as the art of disillusionment. He may seem like a tonic to Americans disenchanted with the elaborate artifices of the so-called reality genre.
Mr. Brown is a charlatan, but at least he admits it.
by Tironius, created Sunday, July 22, 2007, with permalink
Peer-to-peer users share candid shots
Enjoy candid photography and documents from the hard drives of others through Gnutella
It’s interesting what people put on the peer-to-peer networks and not realize. See, when installing certain Gnutella-network peer-to-peer applications such as Limewire or Bearshare, the user is given options to make certain folders shared. 1. But I have no way of knowing; I can only assume that they fully know and comprehend their actions in publishing their pictures and documents to the network. I imagine that certain common folders such as “My Documents” are shared by hapless idiots, not knowing that they are publishing their lives to the world [1]. Thusly, files like Word documents, pictures, useless .dll files, and countless more are available for others to download.
My Gnutella client of choice is Acquisition for the Mac. Unlike Limewire, it’s Mac-like interface is not based on Java, so it’s quicker and less quirky, and makes for finding hentai manga fun and easy.
Their unwitting exhibitionism provides for wonderfully creepy adventures. For the more voyeuristic of our readers, much fun can be had by peaking into the lives of others by seeing their private photographs and documents. All it takes for such ethically-dubious behavior is to know what to type into your search field.
For instance, type in the word resume (i.e. résumé), and find what people don’t know they have included in their shared folders: their entire life’s history. I was able to get some résumé-writing tips simply by reading a real-world example. It’s amazing how many people use Word templates.
But résumés are somewhat boring; what else can one find?
The real fun: Pictures
Type in the letters “DSC,” a common naming-scheme for several cameras, and eureka!, a wonderful cornucopia of breached privacy.
Random pictures include:
An elderly couple at Kansas City Chiefs football game
A Hindu family at get-together (possibly wedding)
Bridal shower
Cyclists in Germany readying for start of race
A black flashing is idiocy through hand gestures
Hideous English woman on all fours wearing a Playboy bunny suit
This guy:
The real fun can come after, because applications like Acquisition and Limewire allow a person to browse through all files made available on that person’s hard drive. So if the first picture of ugly dog isn’t enough, you can see the other pictures on the roll.
by Tironius, created Wednesday, July 18, 2007, with permalink
iWeb bests Photoshop in making simple graphics for the web
For those who find Photoshop intimidating or bloated, let Tironius be your guide to creating lickable buttons with li’l ol’ iWeb for web or print
Bloggers and amateur web site creators who don’t find Apple’s aqua look passé will cheer in ecstasy when realized how easy it is to create those style of buttons using Apple’s oft-overlooked little trooper, iWeb. Now, I’ve already shown you how you can create print-quality flyers and posters in my iWeb for print hack.
(There’s not much this little program can’t do.) In that, I explain how iWeb creates stunning flyers just like InDesign or Apple’s iWork.
Today, however, I will concentrate how easy you can create simple buttons simply by creating them in iWeb using shapes, and either using them for your iWeb site, or copying them to any other program. So let’s get started.
How to create an aqua-style button
First, let’s see an example of what we’re up against:
Not too shabby. Photoshop would give me a little more finesse, but creating this for your own website will make yours better than ninety per cent of the rest.
Open iWeb and create a new page
Open the page you want to place your new delicious button; or, open a new page if you plan to export this button for some other use (say) in another web page. Select New Page in the File menu. Up pops the template dialogue sheet, and to the left side select White for your template family, and Blank for the actual template. This will give us a clean workspace.
Select a shape
To create our pill-shaped button, we will select one of the shapes in the Shapes button located in the lower left of the main workspace. It is the rounded corner rectangle, fifth from the top of the pop-up menu.
You should see a shape similar to this one (though, size and color might be different if you’re on a different template):
This is our building block.
Adjust the size, color and shape
It’s a nice looking box, but it doesn’t much look like our end product. Let’s fix that by altering its shape. If it isn’t already, select the rectangular box you just created. When an object is selected, that object’s bounding box will appear. A total of eight little squares appear in the corners and on the sides. Dragging these will reshape the object. Drag the top center one downward so that your rectangle becomes a pill shape.
If the shape is still too rectangular (that is to say, if the corners are too sharp), then iWeb allows you to adjust the radius of those corners. That is the little circle in the top left of our shape (under the cursor in the above picture). Use this to adjust the shape into more of a pill:
Part of what gives the button its glassy look is the gradient you see underneath the glare. In this instance, the pill gradates from a dark blue to a brilliant blue. Let’s do this now.
It’s time to use the inspector. In the lower right corner of the program, there is a blue letter “i.” Click it and up pops the inspector, a pane that allows you to control all aspects of the site, including colors, size, and links. In this lesson, we’ll mostly use the color options located in object inspector. Click the tab shown in the above picture, fifth tab from the left.
The object pane should look like this:
Let’s fill our shape a different color. But, instead of just filling it with one color, we will fill it with two, whereby one subtly changes to the other. That’s a gradient fill.
Click the pop-up menu in the inspector where it says Color Fill, and select Gradient Fill.
Now, instead of one color swatch, you see two. Click the top swatch, and up pops the color inspector. Mac OS X’s color inspector is the best. I find it to be superior to Adobe’s in ease of use. It’s time select our base color; for this, I chose a classic aqua blue. Any color works, but blue is classy.
For now, we want both colors to be the same. You’re able to drag swatches around, so to make the other color the same, simply drag the first color on top of the second:
Now, select the top one again, and using the slider in the color inspector, make the blue just a hair darker. Don’t go crazy; subtlety is the way to go:
Note, if you accidentally make the bottom color the darker color, no worries: just click that little double arrow right by the swatches. That switches them. Also, if you choose to have a stroke (an outer line) like mine, make the color the same as your darker blue. You can select the stroke using the pop-up menu. Select Line, and just drag the darker blue swatch right onto the swatch of the stroke below. Final note: already this is a great button and looks more like “Web 2.0” style now than the final.
Create the button’s text
So what is the purpose of this button? Are you sending your reader to a picture page? Or your blog? It’s time to tell them where to go with text. In the lower left corner of the work space, click the Text button. This will plop a brand spankin’ new text box right in the center of your work space. Type your words. To make sure the words align exactly to the button, we want to center the text both horizontally and vertically.
We’ll now switch over to the text inspector. It’s the big “T” tab right in the middle as shown. In the Color & Alignment section, select the center alignment button, and center vertically button. If it isn’t already, select white as the text’s color. To give the text a teensy bit of contrast from the background, we will apply a very subtle drop shadow. Go back to the object inspector (fifth tab from the left), and tick the Shadow checkbox.
The following separates the pros from the amateurs. A real design snob will scoff at the use of a drop shadow. They seem to be accepted and prevalent in package design, however. I can always spot the Photoshop lover by his use of the default drop shadow settings (which by the way is 75% opacity). These are much too dark and gaudy! In our design we will tone it down to an acceptable level. Use my settings as shown in the picture. No need to type “pt” in the settings fields.
You may need to adjust the size and font face of your text. This is done in a separate inspector called the font inspector. (This is one part of OS X that needs an overhaul.) Myriad Pro is the font of choice for Apple.Click the “A” button, the Fonts button, in the lower right corner. Up pops the font inspector. With your text box selected, find the Myriad Pro font family in the inspector. You can search for Myriad Pro using the Search field at the bottom of the inspector, or simply browse for it. Select Semibold if you have it. Another good choice is Helvetica (but rather boring). Keep it classy: simple is better.
My size for text is 32, but your button size might be different. It’s an arbitrary decision; whatever size text fits well in the button is what you should use.
Create the highlight
This is the component that makes the glass button glassy. And, iWeb makes it so easy to create. In Photoshop, one must muck with layer masks or the gradient tool, but in iWeb, its all about the color inspector, baby! Easy as pie.
First, we must copy our pill shape, because it will become the highlight. I simply held down the Option key before dragging the shape upward, thus creating a second pill.
We must then change its color and size. For now, we can change its color to white (for both swatches, since it is a gradient). By clicking and dragging the second shape’s bounding box (on the top center or bottom), I can squish the shape a bit. Do the same for the sides: grab either the left or the right handle, and move it in. Hold the Option key while you do this will do both sides at the same time.
Align the new shape above the other; iWeb will help you keep it center. Use the picture as a guide to how things should look:
Now, the fun part. What makes the second shape look like glare on a glassy surface is its transparency. iWeb does this beautifully. With the white pill shape selected, in the object inspector, select the top swatch for its gradient. Now, in the color inspector, there is a horizontal slider near the bottom pane that controls the opacity of a color. We’re doing the top color, so set the opacity at 80% (by sliding or typing in the value).
Select the shapes second gradient swatch, and set it to just 10%. We’re on the last leg of the race! See how good your button looks now?
All that’s left is to set a drop shadow and export!
Complete and export
You know how to do the next part. Click your original blue button, and apply and adjust its drop shadow using similar settings as your text. You can maybe go a little darker, but don’t over-do it.
Exporting is easy. Simply select all and copy. To copy, hold the Command key and hit C. Or, in the Edit menu, select Copy. I can paste directly into iWork, Skitch, ImageWell, Photoshop, or Preview (by selecting New From Clipboard in the File menu). Pasting into Skitch, ImageWell and Photoshop retains transparency of the drop shadow. Preview annoyingly applied a white background. Apple’s Pages has a wonderful relationship with iWeb; pasting into Pages retains every single object as a separate entity. Text fields remain text fields, etc.
That’s a wrap
Hope you had fun. Who needs Photoshop when you can make such beautiful graphics for simple needs with little old iWeb, Apple’s best kept secret.
by Tironius, created Saturday, May 26, 2007, with permalink
Derren Brown taps the king of ambigrams for the secret to his show ‘Trick or Treat’
Up is down, black is white with the master of psychological illusion
Watching my boy Derren Brown got ambigrams in my noggin. The topic arose in conversation with internationally renowned calligrapher Claude Dieterich A. and I, and Claude turned my attention to the top man in the field, John Langdon. I visit the man’s website and, lo and behold, there’s D.B. all up in my grill (er, on the front page) with his Trick or Treat cards, designed by John Langdon.
Derren's book, Tricks of the Mind, is a fantastic look at skepticism, agnosticism, and memory recall. It teaches all the ways people scam other people.
An ambigram is a word or letterform that, when flipped or reversed, reads the same (or a new) word.
Derren offers contestants on his magical/mentalism U.K. telly programme the choice of two cards that say either “Trick” or “Treat” as the basis for their either good or bad fate. Unbeknownst to the contestant is that the decision is arbitrary as the card will say whatever Derren want’s it to say.
by Tironius, created Tuesday, May 22, 2007, with permalink
UK's master of illusion Derren Brown is back
It’s something nice or something nasty in Derren Brown’s newest show of mental trickery, giving viewers a real treat
My boy Derren Brown, master of psychology, illusion, and showmanship, is back in full force with his new show, Trick or Treat. Contestants each week choose a card: “trick” or “treat.” After his or her choice in the coming weeks will either receive something pleasent, a treat, or something rather horrible, the trick. They won’t know which they chose, what the stunt will be or when their experience will take place. And, in each instance, Derren has full control.
The tricks and treats are the most fun parts of the show because these hidden-camera stunts are so much more elaborate and cunning to be pulled on hapless fool. Think of these stunts as being from The Jamie Kennedy Experiment, if Jamie Kennedy were Jason Vorhees on acid. If none of this makes sense, here is a quick rundown of the first episode (of six) in the season: Derren at midnight breaks in a flat to tell the subject he has been chosen for the show, and that he must choose from the two trick or treat cards. He does, and Derren reveals to the audience that he has chosen “trick.” (More on the secret to this later.)
What was the trick played on the man? Derren, using his powers over the human mind, forces his subject to fall asleep in a rigged photo booth the man was using to take passport photos. While asleep, Derren flies the man from London to Morocco, where he then is awakened in the same booth. From the subject’s perspectives the time is instantaneous. He nods off, and wakes in a different country. The confusion on his face was priceless and completely real.
Out of body finale
His finale was even more impressive. Jules, a young psychologist, agreed to do the show. What she didn’t know—after she had picked her “trick” card—was that Derren had placed a hidden camera in her car. After observing her “hands-free approach to driving,” it was clear his plan: He would create for her, using his masterful powers of hypnosis, a scenario where she is witness to her own car crash in an out-of-body experience. She would literally see herself lying limp in the driver’s seat of her crashed car as paramedics carry her corpse away, as if she was a ghost witnessing the aftermath.
To do this, the production employed a bit of Hollywood magic. To be believable that this woman is seeing herself, not only would the show need a convincing body double, but also create some kind of mask so that the actress looked exactly like Jules, the subject. Movies do this all the time: a special-effects make-up artist creates a “life cast” of an actor using alginate and plaster—creating a negative impression—and creates a positive mask from that. The catch here, however, is that the show needs an original life cast without the subject’s awareness. So, a few weeks after the initial meeting with Derren, the subject receives a free spa treatment, unaware that it has anything to do with Derren Brown. Under the guise of a facial mask, a successful mold is created and a mask is made.
Months later (the production observed the subject to make sure she was psychologically robust enough to endure such a stunt), everything was ready to begin her trick. Derren phone calls Jules telling her she is needed for a photo shoot for the upcoming show and to wear an exact set of clothes. As she drives out to the country, she receives a call from Derren. Derren performs my favorite and most intriguing tricks of all by using his words and sounds to completely incapacitate a person on the other end of the line, making them fall completely unconscious. It is a sight to behold and I will strive to learn its secret. To put it another way: She picks up the phone while driving, he asks her to pull over, and a few seconds later, she is completely asleep. Now Derren and his elaborate team can put the pieces together for an astounding stunt.
The subject is under trance. The setting is a remote country road with no one else around. Television cameras are hidden among the trees of the surrounding forrest area. Another car is brought in and beaten to look like a car accident. The two cars are placed together on the intersection, as well as a fake broken stop light (with accompanying signs that warn of its malfunction). While still unconscious, Derren places the girl on her feet to one corner of the intersection. He employs yet another astounding verbal hypnotic trick where he makes her feet stick to the ground, unable to move. Soon, she must only stand and watch.
She wakes. She sees her car smashed into the side of another. “Oh god,” she says to herself. She tries to move but is confused by her legs refusal to work. She’s stuck. She sees a man exit the vehicle, distraught at what has apparently happened. She sees and hears him call the police with a quivery voice. He says he’s fine, but the other person isn’t moving. By now, she sees something horrible. In her car sits the driver—it’s her. Same clothes, same hair, same face. The ambulance arrives. Police arrives. No one acknowledges the woman standing at the scene. She shouts “Hello?” in vein. They pull the body out of her car. She touches herself to reassure she isn’t a ghost. She’s freaking out. Gurney’d into the ambulance, the corpse is whisked away. The police take the man away, talking about how these things happen.
They all drive off with her still there, still unable to move. And there she stands, looking at two wrecked cars in the middle of nowhere. Alone.
After a few minutes, her cell phone rings as it still rests in her car seat. She walks to pick it up. The sound must be the hypnotic release of her immobility. She picks up the line. “It’s Derren” can be heard. She sits down and again she falls asleep.
She awakens in her car, pulled to the side of the road, completely fine. No one else around. She starts her car and leaves.
Secret of ‘Tricks’ and ‘Treats’
In episode five Derren actually gives away the secret of the show (though I had solved the mystery before that—so there).
What the contestants believe is that their choice of card will ultimately how the course of events will go. In reality, however, Derren has already chosen their fate before they even choose; their choice in cards is arbitrary. The secret to this are the cards: each card reads both the word “TRICK” and the word “TREAT.” All is needed is which way to flip:
(The second image is the same image flipped.)
I’ve had to make one of these in a graphic design class, and I forget what the concept is names. How wonderfully clever.
by Tironius, created Monday, March 12, 2007, with permalink
Master of psychology and subliminal persuasion is back
England’s incomparable master of magic, suggestion, psychology, misdirection and showmanship (using a varied mixture of those techniques) will have a new series on Channel 4 in the U.K., according to the website of Objective Productions, the company that produces Derren’s shows. It says:
“The controversial award-winning psychological illusionist Derren Brown stars in his brand new series, Trick or Treat. In each episode a member of the public must choose between a Trick or a Treat and, as ever with Derren, anything could happen.” From [Objective Productions Company Website][2]
Excellent. I have become recently a huge fan of Mr. Brown and his tricks of the mind. To the pounders unfamiliar, Derren Brown has had several shows on U.K.’s Channel 4. It started with his series of specials, “Mind Control,” and later included his series “Trick of the Mind” running for three seasons. (I know because I downloaded them.) His most complained about show in the U.K. was called “Seance,” where he indeed conducted one. (Most of the complaints happened before the show aired by religious nuts.) His most controversial special was named “Derren Brown: Russian Roulette,” even making [CNN news][3]. In that, he whittled thousands of volunteers down to just one, selected to place a single bullet in the chamber of a revolver gun, afterward Derren plays Russian Roulette. Derren’s job: to stay alive.
But, to me his most amazingly spectacular special was one called “Derren Brown: The Heist.” Good god, the man used cult-like techniques of hypnotic persuasion to convince members a Derren Brown seminar (so they thought) to rob an armed guard at a bank. These are not actors, but rather normal people like you and me, normal people who ventured into felonious robbery without Brown ever telling them what they should do or how to do it.
Luckily, he uses his powers for good (TV) and not evil.
He has also written a book. I bought Derren Brown’s book Tricks of the Mind, and it is a great read on the basics of some what he does. Some of it I had already read from sources like Digg, for instance the eye ‘tells,’ or the way a person’s eye moves when they, say, lie. But his chapter on memory retention is genius, and I plan to fully employ the techniques therein.
In it, in the first part of that chapter on memory, he gave a list of twenty random nouns and told me, the reader, to memorize them. I of course could only get three. Then, using a visualization technique where you link the list of items together into pairs, I was able to memorize all of them:
Telephone
Sausage
Monkey
Button
Book
Cabbage
Glass
Mouse
Stomach
Cardboard
Ferry
Christmas
Athlete
Key
Wigwam
Baby
Kiwi
Bed
Paintbrush
Walnut
I assure you all of these are correct, and that I just now typed them without looking in the book. And, I read that chapter two weeks ago. Amazing. Other chapters delve into why people are duped by psychics, religion, and other ferry tales, and I love to see more and more atheists coming forward as public figures. (He talks about his own de-conversion from Christianity quite candidly in the book.)
I plan to use his techniques to start stacking life in my favor. Mr. 19 is also experimenting with them, and we’ll both keep our Pounder brethren in the light as to our success. Nineteen had an interesting bit of magic in a bar, so I hope he tells the story here.
by Chris Maupin, created Sunday, February 25, 2007, with permalink
I reveal a play from my play book.
Learn one of the secrets to getting laid
This one is not my original invention though (none of them are) it has history going back to the dawn of language and perhaps even further. It is devilishly simple and yields wonderful results. It has failed to work only once, and only then because circumstances surrounding this woman (see my later post “played by a master”) were just too daunting.
Suddenly, and without warning, you disappear for a day or two. …Make plans and break them. Frustrate her and confuse her.
Consider the following example. In 2002, back home, a new radio station appeared on the air. It was all music- all the good music you never heard on the radio — and get this — NO COMMERCIALS! I mean, it was like God himself had opened an FM station. No top-40, just a constant flow of unique songs with no commercials. It wasn’t long before I (and everyone else) were switching to this station and enjoying the lavish seemingly free music. That went on for weeks, then one day, the game had changed. Some of the music was still there, but now there were commercials everywhere! And the top-40 were on the endless cycle. We had been hoodwinked- yet still we held out hope. We kept tuning in, thinking our original impression would somehow return (it never did.) We kept it on our radios even though we knew it would never be the same. The bait and swith had been pulled. We now associated KSHIT with good music even though that was not the case anymore. We were hooked.
This works with women too (and for girls, it works REALLY well on guys!) Here is how to execute it, step my step.
1. Pick your mark.
Find the woman you want to dedicate the time and energy to conquer. She needs to not be the alpha-female. Find someone who isn’t used to being showered with attention- maybe even a girl who needs that.
2. The Sudden Infatuation.
Suddenly, you are struck with a heart-felt, deep infatuation for this woman. You daydream about her like some sap from the movies. You always say her name. Here is the key: ONLY talk about it to her friends. Be totally funny and light-hearted about it. Be candid and say things like this: “Man, she is just so cute- I have to marry her!” or “When is my sweetheart coming back?” and laugh with them. It is crucial that you saturate her friends, and that you charm them with the ambiguity of it being a joke / playful.
3. The “Confession.”
After you have charmed her friends with your ‘love’ for her and your ‘hopeless crush,’ you move on to her. Remember this is all a “joke.” When she comes by and you are with her friends, you play the part (dramatically and humorously) of the fool in love. The goofier the better. The key is to make this a habit and a routine and to do it many times. Make sure she thinks it is cute and funny.
4. A Joke…Or Is It?
You keep teasing her about liking her and being helplessly in love. Sooner or later, she will begin to wonder if you aren’t serious. Now the hook is in. When she or her friends question your sincerity always be ambiguous. Say “yeah, I really do like her so much,” and then make a joke- so you keep it 50/50
5. The Switch.
Credit here goes to the Great Madame Renee Lenclose of 18th Century France. Suddenly, and without warning, you disappear for a day or two. Don’t be in places you would normally be. Don’t run into her. Fail to appear with her friends. Make plans and break them. Frustrate her and confuse her.
6. The Heartfelt Talk.
Now you reappear. Have your heartfelt talk with her and disclose to her that you really do like her so much and that you were worried that she didn’t feel the same way- so you kind of ducked out for a while. Make sure you wait long enough to frustrate and confuse her. Make her MISS your attention, praise and affection. Then you offer her a chance to lock in that affection with a relationship.
by Tironius, created Saturday, February 24, 2007, with permalink
Mr. 19 and I have a new interest in the power of hypnotism, or neuro-linguistic programming, having seen Derren Brown achieve free money using hidden commands. He is an expert at psychology, misdirection, hypnotism and showmanship.
This is not Mr. Brown, but watch this Japanese girl writhe in ecstasy from the hand of another woman while in hypnosis. It starts with just a hand shake, creating intense pleasure in the subject's pussy. She then has multiple orgasms by simply watching another girl eat a donut. I can only imagine the hypnotist convinced her that the donut was her sweet labia.
Watch her hips twitch and flutter when the other girl eats the donut. It's really hot.
Instantly get whatever you want, any time you want. Really.
by Tironius, created Monday, February 19, 2007, with permalink
YouTube keyword: Derren Brown
So, psyche pounders, I have discovered an amazing man famous in England. Magician, showman, mentalist, his work is absolutely amazing. Also, intriguing, because he, in no way, claims the things he does as real. He is telling you these are simply tricks of the eye and mind. The mind tricks, using NLP and suggestion, are absolutely the most interesting aspects of his performances. And in many of the videos, he tells you exactly how he does it.
In this, he converts the entire belief system of a group of people, from atheism to "spirituality." (He converts them back, later).
In lighter scenarios, he hypnotizes a group of mall patrons to, at the same time, lift their arms. In yet another, he simply asks a stranger for his house keys and wallet on the street and gets them, having been handed to him willingly. Search Derren Brown in YouTube, gents, and watch them all. I'm thinking of buying his book where he tells some of his tricks.
At the dog track, he instantly controlled the mind of the cashier, giving him money on a losing ticket:
My favorite is this one involving subliminal messages. Astounding:
Pounders, I declare all his videos on YouTube as required text for your future lives of getting whatever the fuck you want, including instantly obtaining Asian pussy, readily available like coke out of a vending machine.
by Tironius, created Sunday, February 11, 2007, with permalink
Still in China and still blocked from blogging, I present the Q-Pounder’s top ten reasons to learn the letters S-A-F (Single Asian Female) when responding to Craigslist personals.
From Q–Pounder:
By landing an Asian girl you can enjoy these privilages the average sap who didn’t bother checking overseas first would never enjoy. By the way, Asian-American or Asian-European girls are still western, and don’t count:
10) Asian girls understand math and science (it’s true)
9) Asian girls can cook
8) Asian girls are not only qualified to work,
but want to
7) Asian girls know how to conserve money
6) Asian girls are flexible (in both ways)
5) Asian girls don’t realize you’re a nerd
4) Asian girls don’t get fat after they marry
3) Asian girls bitch slower and less, since they have to do it in English
2) Asian girls have tight pussies and tighter asses
…And the #1 reason to date Asian instead…
1) Asian girls are all subbies in the sack once you break them
iWeb tutorial: Creating print collateral with iWeb
by Tironius, created Saturday, January 20, 2007, with permalink
Top secret: create stunning hi-rez posters using Pages' little cousin, iWeb
Create posters and flyers that print beautifully using Apple's unintended document creation program, iWeb
It is extremely easy to create posters in Pages, Apple's best-of-breed document creation program for things like resumes, posters and flyers. At only $79, and combined with the Steve Jobsian visual aid Keynote, Apple's productivity package iWork is everything the commoner needs for self gratification.
That's all well and good, but what if you don't have it? Answer: iWeb. It has nearly the full range of features for design as Pages: you can import photos from iPhoto (or anywhere), rotate those images, and apply strokes, drop shadows, and reflections. Add lines, stars, arrows and any object that you find in Pages.
You are thinking: “Tironius, are you back on the crack? How can I print from iWeb, it's not meant for print!” Answers: “Yes,” and “It doesn't matter that it wasn't meant for printing, it does so beautifully. It is just as good as Pages! Now give me more crack.” We can thank Apple on this one; their attention to detail combined with the built-in functionality of OS X means that even little iWeb rocks the print. PDFing, too.
IWeb and Page's best feature is their text leading and kerning, which is more powerful—I'll contend—than pro apps like InDesign and Illustrator because of those sweet, sweet sliders. A designer can arbitrarily loosen and tighten line height and letter spacing. So, as I move the slider either left or right, I can watch the text-spacing loosen and tighten until I can instantly determine what is perfect. In Adobe products, for instance, I have to plug in a number. Then redo. Then redo again, until it is right. I think like iWeb thinks—visually.
Where Pages bests iWeb, however, is its ability to link text frames together so that words and paragraphs automatically flow from one to another, say, if you wanted two columns of text. In iWeb to achieve this same effect, the user would have to do it manually. It is this reason why iWeb should be limited to single-paged designs. But despite this, I dare my dear readers to compare the design prowess of each. Here is a similar poster design in Pages, where it was originally created, and iWeb.
And it all prints great
From a web-creation application, one would expect jagged low-rez lettering and pixellated photographs at only 72 dpi. From what I can tell, however, text is vector and imported photos seem to be of the original resolution. The tricky part is setting the page size in iWeb's Page inspector. From what I can tell, pixel resolution vs. page size is not an issue as it would be in, say, Photoshop. IWeb uses the original picture files as a resource for printing, similar to embedding a picture in InDesign. But what is important, instead of dpi, is the document page's proportion. For instance, to create a fake “Party On Campus” poster, I used the width of 850 pixels and a height of 1100 pixels. (Get it? 8.5 by 11 inches for a sheet of paper. Remember, think proportions.) Note: It seemed to help to keep a footer height of 50 pixels.
Even if you have Pages
For those smart enough to have picked iWork over Microsoft Office when buying their new “BlackBook” at their local Apple store, the two programs work beautifully together. Pages and iWeb speak each other's language. Copying and pasting from Pages, say, to iWeb is a dream: boxes, text frames, objects, even pictures just work. Need a resume to hand out at the interview and for web? Create it in Pages and copy it to iWeb. Copying in this manner, or just using iWeb outright, ensures a consistency between materials made for print and online.
The bottom line
I highly recommend the iWork package for users who want a document creation program combined with the most elegant presentation software around--especially for those who want a life outside of Office--but if a person is in a pinch, OR, they need materials to be completely identical for print and web, iWeb is the sleeper workhorse for posters, flyers, resumes, fax cover sheets, business letters...
by Mr. Patch, created Tuesday, January 16, 2007, with permalink
With original Warren G accompaniment
This is the story of the Ganger poking some horny J-School girl in the back of Little Mazon’s Jeep.
One thing you never do is leave the Ganger in the back of an empty Jeep with said girl. The following may occur:
It was a clear black night, a clear white moon
BG was on the streets, trying to consume
some skirts for the eve, so I could blow my load
just rollin in my ride, with my homies on the side.
Just hit the east side of the UCO,
on mission trying find little Mazon’s ho.
But little did he know when he left his car,
what Mr. G would do before the night was gone.
So I looks around, to see if it’s clear.
Then I says, “damn girl, it’s gettin hot in here.”
I pull down my draws, unfold my lollypop,
Lean in and whisper, “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Mr. G left alone in his homie’s ride.
About to nail this little horny bitch’s hide.
He bends the lovely ho back over the seat,
Given ample room to shift and penetrate.
It was feelin so good. I didn’t want to stop.
But my homie gave a ring, as I was bout to pop.
”What the fuck do you want? I’m nailin this ho!”
”I can see that,” he said, “I’m outside the car door.”
Mr. G was caught pumping sweet ass in the ride.
Doing bitches like a star, in the doggy-style.
Little Mazon heard a noise and went to investigate,
But when he arrived to his Jeep it was too damn late.
There you have it. The first little nugget of cum-blowin wisdom.
by Chris Maupin, created Sunday, December 31, 2006, with permalink
Your untapped 10,010% success life
Are you tired of living a 90% awesome life? Or are you one the lucky few whose life is just ‘mega-awesome.’ (yawn.) Well get ready to blow awesome and mega-awesome away with my newest book and CD series “Your Untapped 10,010% Success Life” & “Your Unlimited, Ultimate Mega-Power: The Beast Within.”
“Mr. 19’s course taught me how to turn my abusive relationship into a lucrative internet-based business. 10,010% Success!!”
Tony Robbins is ok, if you are content with being merely successful or simply wealthy. But if you are not content with just 400% success in your life, then it is time that you stepped up to the plate with Mr. 19’s Newest and Hardest-Hittingest Series to date, “Your Untapped 10,010% Success Life” & “Your Unlimited, Ultimate Mega-Power: The Beast Within.”
Who is Mr. 19? and Why Do I Need to Buy his Moderately Priced Book and CD Series? Just like you, Mr. 19 was a real nobody. Born and raised in a small midwestern town he was just living a 91% awesome life — a hand-me-down life that his parents gave him. Then, one day, while standing in a field for what appears to be no apparent reason at all, he leaned on his pitchfork and watched the son going down and heard the voice of God himself come through the heavens. Suddenly a billion, no two billion million electric guitars started whailing and the words came to him: “10,010%- ultra mega success!” and “Totally awesome mega-life!” From that point on, he was no longer content with awesome, bored by fantastic, and rolled his eyes at anything less than “Super-mega-power-awesome!”
That dream is now a reality. “Your Untapped 10,010% Success Life” & “Your Unlimited, Ultimate Mega-Power: The Beast Within” is here!!!
In this unique program you will learn:
How to harness your inner mega-success beast
15 Secrets to Mind-Blowing Power-Happiness (C)
200 Weakness Busters and Wimp Blasters
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by Tironius, created Thursday, November 09, 2006, with permalink
Trollie trouble in town of Franny
Back when my Asian pussy was still in Pussia—er, I mean Japan [aka Nippon] — there was one night not unlike any other before or after, when I was riding the streetcar back from the city to home. We around these parts call it the K-line.
I got on and sat my beautiful glutes in a row of two unused seats facing forward, taking the window seat. It’s a good thing, too, because a perfectly poundable Asian pussy rested its lips on the seat next to me.
We exit West Portal, where the subway tunnel comes out and onto the ground, and the car will begin its journey on the roads, sharing its space with normal automibiles. We begin our terranean trek down through West Portal Avenue, past the theater, past the pizza place, and past the bum. God bless Ol’ Shanky. The car takes us to a normal straight-away stretch of track that is located in between a divided road, so we are in fact separated at this moment from automobiles. The car speeds up like it always does and, then sudddenly:
WHIIIRRR, CRANKITY-THUNNNG! Lights go out.
The cars breaks are slammed — “Whiirrrr,” it jolts to a paralel track — “Crankity crank!” while still slowing down, and “Thung!” hits a parked streetcar on the paralel track. It would seem that someone had forgotten to _switch back _the track, so the car—instead of continuing on its normal straight course—was rerouted to the paralel track, as if a driver turned down the wrong way of a one way road. For some reason, on this night, thankfully, there was simply a powered-down, parked streetcar resting there, and not a moving streetcar for us to slam into.
“Shit!” I hear from inside the engineer’s cockpit. The driver was a fat, black woman, and I could see she was startled, and was regaining her composure. Keep in mind, the lights are out, it is night-time, so the only light is that of the yellow street lamps from outside.
“You OK?” I ask the hottie next to me. My lips translated what my brain was really saying: “Do you want me to rip your jeans off and finger you?”
“Yes,” she says. She isn’t a “whitewashed” Asian as these Californians like to say. She was an Asian through ‘n’ through. She calls on her cell phone, probably to her borefriend, er, boyfriend.
I bust out my cam. I snap a few pictures of the people in the train. Typical Californian slice of life. Shrill white bitch demanding to know what happened from the driver; too-cool-for-school kid who doesn’t need to follow orders from the driver about stepping away from the door (because she needs to get to it); some old white guy, bald.
The scene: to the right road and the track we are supposed to be on.
The she-doesn’t-know-where-my-tongue-is-on-her-body-right-now-in-my-mind girl.
Help arrives, and my little Chinese bird gets into a nice car and fly-flies away. I get on the bus the Muni people sent over to continue the trip. I jerk to her face later.
by Chris Maupin, created Thursday, November 02, 2006, with permalink
A bitter wind blew some beautiful garbage down the sidewalk to its natural resting place--anywhere but the trashcan. I wondered to myself "Why doesn't the city just make 'trash traps'?"
Hisssss! Skreeejerk! The shitty bus pulled up and opened its mechanical eppiglotus and devoured me. I took my place amongst the mobile human bacterial culture. Public Transportation Roll Call!
Mumbling bum? Here...mumbum..sattellites...
Regular Bum? Jesus Saves! here.
Always looks stressed out girl? Present.
Woman with eight Children? Here (here, here, here, ...)
Dying of Infectious Tuberculosis Man? He-cough, cough-re
Hipster-listens-to-only-obscure-local-bands-guy? Here.
Ok, looks like everyone is on-board. So I settle into a nice position and happen to tune into the conversation taking place between the bus driver, and her friend who seems to be an off duty bus driver sitting across the aisle from her.
Driver: Naw, baby, you don't want no 67 route- that shit is busy all night!
Friend: Shit, I don't know shit about shit thayan (then)
Driver: "Ashland, Ashland- next stop is Ashland.."
Friend: Whatever happened to that new guy...Charles?
Driver: Charles? You didn't hear about that shit? That nig*er got his ass fucked up.
Friend: No shit? (laughing the way you laugh when someone gets locked out of his car.)
Driver: Yeah, he got him a '54th street garage welcome,' shit..
Friend: Those boys (the city hired mechanics who make $40,000/yr) at 54th are baaadd.
Driver: Yeah, they done jumped him and put his ass in the hospital - ha ha,
Friend: "welcome to 54th street sweetheart!" (reminiscent of the way you would joke about
someone getting a disappointing tax refund.)
Driver: Ha ha, shiiiiiii-yit that's what I said. Well, you can't be stupid 'round there- you gotta
show some respect or that's what you get..
Friend: So how's yo baby?
Fucked. up. Was I the only person who was still alarmed by this? Someone was beaten by a group of city-paid workers- and that is simply "welcome to 54th street garage baby?" Different worlds. Totally different worlds. I used to think our society was fairly integrated- but let's get real. In my world if someone taps my bumper, I get out and exchange insurance information with him. In that world, getting beaten within an inch of your life is akin to getting a parking ticket. Another everyday thing. Two worlds exist in this city (and most cities in America): Disney world is my world, Alcatraz is the other. For me it was the ultimate sign of society gone wrong. What is wrong with us man?
by Q-pounder, created Thursday, October 19, 2006, with permalink
Strange things are afoot at the Circle K
By the time my Hong Kong cream puff gets back from her day trip, I've emptied four loads on tokyotopless.com. Tokyo Topless is an interesting website in that many of the girls are photographed from the chin down and all boast huge natural breasts. Me being a breast man, I love it. Especially the Japanese-style anonymity of everything.
They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.
My dick is over-jacked and swollen from unlubed palming. It pokes out like a beggar's index finger aiming a stranger down a village road. I've just showered and dressed. My Asian pussy needs to fill the gas tank for tomorrow's business trip. I need to buy some beer.
In the car she starts talking about blow jobs. This is one of my favorite topics. By the time the gas station attendant tops off the tank, I'm boasting a full-blown stiffy. We pull up to convenience store. I stand and smile at the group of twenty-something girls and guys sitting at a picnic table near the door. Suddenly all four of them burst into laughter.
\\
Now I'm a big white guy. I get a lot of looks in China. People smile. Maybe attempt some English. But I'm not used to this level of attention. I feel their eyes on me. Their laughter saws at my ears.
Just when I'm trying to figure out what's happening, my wife shouts, "What the fuck is wrong with you! Your cock's swinging everywhere!"
I scramble into the store. Now that she mentions it, I do feel a little unbound. My mammoth member sway with my steps. It points straight out, tenting my pants. After showering, I'd neglected to don underwear. I'd just thrown on zipped off Structure (yeah, back before they rebranded as "Express for Men" to show you how often I clothes-shop) cargo pants. The top button came off during a holiday pie spree. The zipper sags, providing the masses with an unwelcome shot of my creeping pubic hair. I wear shitty Wal-Mart slippers and neglected toe-nails.
Inside, I ditch the idea of beer and go straight for the slurpy machine. I pile the mango flavored ice high. I spoon it with the straw. My wife unzipped her purse to pay. Her office lady clothing gives her an austere elegance.
On my way out the door, my audience chides me further. "Whip that motherfucker out!" a guy hollers in wispy Mandarin. I bow my head and enjoy my slurpy, trying not to make eye contact with their giggly girl friends. Some things are best left alone. They'd either be jealous of my girth or disgusted at the saginess of my balls. Neither outcome would add much sunshine to the world.
by Q-pounder, created Saturday, October 14, 2006, with permalink
Blowjob in a can
Japanese inventions know no limit of creativity, especially when it comes to solo endeavors
Back during Q-Pounder's single-but-not-frequently-getting-laid era, a close friend returned from Japan with a souvenir that shed some pink on my hopelessly pale shaft. What has since come to be called the "blow job in a can" came to the rescue during one lonely weekend.
The can sat in my medicine cabinet for a few days, serving as a cheap evening laugh when I applied my rogaine before going to sleep (I've since given up on that shit. Nothing can stop these manic hormones coursing through me). The tube, roughly six inches in depth, was as wide as a lubed-up fist. Katakana words like "realistic" and "intense" striped the cardboard exterior. Just beneath its Pringles-style cap, a thin wall of pink foam glistened with lube. It was sliced like an asterisk symbol.
"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.
One night, after watching short free porn clips (this was before peer-to-peer and torrent took off), I decided to give it a toss. I whipped out my fat yellow bastard and poked him through the pink wall. His shiny tip slid past the flap of foam and into a long band of tight rubber. After some elbow grease, I was in. The rubber membrane stretch to accommodate my mighty girth. I flopped onto my floored mattress and stared up at the popcorn spray-on ceiling of my cookie-cutter dry wall apartment.
If only Andy Warhol had been near by with a camcorder. What he would have captured would not have deviated from the splendor of his finest short film, Blow job, a ten minute video of a guy's face while he's getting a blow job. It was that intense. That real. The katakana hadn't lied. I splooged in a minute flat.
It was, at the time, the best blow job I'd ever had, and I'd had many. (My wife, of course, can deep throat, suck really hard and massage my balls, so obviously this can wasn't on par with her. But this was before I'd met my Hong Kong cream puff). The rubber tube locked downlike a python. The lube, while slick, didn't soak into my tender skin. The foam padding near the end of the tube cushioned my thrusts like a swollen cervix. I blew my load, fully dressed, my feet spasming on the carpet and eyes rolled back in my head. I leaned forward, withdrew, then capped the can and put it back in the medicine cabinet. A strong wave of post-orgasm effect overtook me. I felt giddy. Lazy. I feared the need for pillow talk. I wanted to go do other manly things.
Twenty minutes later I spilled through my door, hard-on in hand, and scoured the medicine cabinet. I booted my computer (in vane. I was to blow my wad well before Microsoft's obnoxious "welcome" screen appeared). I jammed in my cock. The foam "cherry" was no longer intact. The rubber tubing and lube, however, worked like new. Add to this the creamy aesthetic of sloppy seconds. I popped in no time, capped it off, then tossed it in the medicine cabinet and forgot about it.
The next day, a routine visit from a close friend ended in near disaster. "So this is your new place!" my friend exclaimed, stepping through the front door and folding his sunglasses. He eyed the ugly fireplace and thrift-store furniture. He shrugged. "Not bad." Hot on his tail was his own piece of Asian pussy. She walked through and lit the room with her smile before she quickly lost interest in my bland quarters.
"So, uh," I said, knowing I should make this quick, "You wanna see my room?"
They piled in and explored the bookshelf. The young Asian asked, "Can I go to the bathroom?"
My friend and I sat on the mattress and looked at the unframed art prints I'd bought at Hobby Lobby. The toilet flushed. The girlfriend stepped out with an innocent expression. "Wow. Your bathroom's pretty clean for a bachelor."
"Of course," I said, stepping in and showing them the wing of tiled chamber that served as my closet. "Gotta keep the place together in case a young Asian kitten shows up on my doorstep lost and meowing for milk."
The girl nodded, perhaps not getting the then nonexistent reference to an exploit of a fellow Asian Pussy Pounder. She opened the cabinet. "So this is where you keep your toothpaste and stuff?" she asked.
I was frozen, watching her hoist herself onto her tip-toes and reach for the top shelf. The neurons in my brain shook off their residual THC long enough to piece together a horrific prophesy.
"What's this? Realistic? Intense?" She squinted at the katakana. She popped the top.
"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.
The top drifted toward the linoleum tile like a feather jilted from an owl's coat. The pink opening glowed with bubbly white jism. The Asian watched the can roll toward the toilet. Only when it stopped rolling could she make out the characters along the side that specified its purpose. She shrieked. She embraced my friend and together they howled like radiated puppies.
The apartment tour was over. I was alone again. I locked the door behind my fleeing friends and sulked on my mattress. I looked up. The can was still there, oozing yesterday's loads onto the tile. I snatched it up and cursed it. "I should have thrown you away long ago!" I barked. I froze over the trash can, staring down the knocked back teeth and cum-bubble uvula of passion.
There would be no make-up sex. Only break-up sex. I fucked that can like it was my last request before a firing squad. Then I chucked it in the complex dumpster. Maybe some bum found it. Gave it a little last minute loving on its way to the landfill.
After that, I tried to put the can out of mind. But it was always there, taunting me while I was suffering through teeth-scraping blow jobs or girls with head colds that had to stop every thirty seconds to breath. That perfect blow job. That mouth with no voice.
If anyone is planning a trip to Japan, please bring me back a six-pack. I'll reimburse you. That way next time my wife complains about a sore throat, I can just pop the top and tell her to shake it.
by Q-pounder, created Wednesday, October 11, 2006, with permalink
Crying blowjob
Long before Q-pounder settled into commitment with high grade Hong Kong cream puff, Japanese was vogue. Hiroko, a nineteen year old nurse, was preparing for a career of changing diapers and bathing horny old men. Based in Yokohama, she commuted daily to Tokyo for class.
I met her in a swank coffee shop near Harajuku. The same day Morning Mesume, a forgettable J-pop band staring a bunch of preschool girls, drew fans from around the city. I dragged Hiroko from the coffee shop out through the throngs of fanboys. Her tall frame, chunky chest and perpetually confused face agreed with me, and sailed behind as I hacked through sweaty summer bodies with my elbows the way Crocodile Dundee does it with a machete. I made my move at the train station. A playful peck on the cheek before darting onto the subway and taking leave of her. She was hooked.
She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.
The next day, well jacked-off and ready to claim my pussy prize, I waited in Shibuya, swapping instant messages asking where the fuck she was. We were supposed to meet at three. Like a whipped bastard, I stuck around until five, trying to ignore the scandalously-dressed teens lapping melty ice cream cones on a nearby bench. I eventually found out, thanks to her shitty English she'd insisted on using over my Japanese, that she'd never intended to meet up that day. She thought we were talking about two days from then. Furious, I stepped into the street, macked on random girls, then ran home to get drunk and eat grilled meat with old guys hanging around the train station.
Misunderstanding or not, she'd wasted the bulk of my afternoon and lots of train fare. She'd blown it off with a light apology. I wanted revenge. Two days later, when we met at an equidistant train station, I did what any angry man would do. I took her home. I fucked the shit out of her. I used the most vulgar, demeaning Japanese I knew, and it was pretty rough considering I learned it from former Kansai gangsters. Hiroko loved it. She was shocked at my every command. You wouldn't have guessed from her nervous reactions, her flinching eyes, but she was loving every word of my demeaning commands. Take off your top. Suck my balls. She did whatever I said. And she always came back.
Flash forward two weeks. I'm thin like a heroine addict from too little expensive Japanese food. Hiroko's been living with me in my cramped hotel room. I've been sleeping all day. She wakes me with a volunteered blowjob. I look down. She's never gone through with it before. She'll go through with it today.
Hiroko isn't happy. Five minutes have passed and I have yet to fill her mouth with cream of corn. She looks up at me with, "can't we just fuck" eyes. I palm the back of her head and drive deeper.
I look up at the clock. Ten minutes have passed. She's gagging and nodding off, tired from all her bobbing. She wants to stop. "Continue!" I bark in the rude command form.
After fifteen minutes, I'm still nowhere close. Her teeth keep grazing my shaft. Her rhythm is erratic. This is going nowhere.
Twenty minutes. I look into her eyes. She's crying with exertion. She's never given a blowjob like this before. Maybe never more than 30 seconds, just to wet the tip and get it sliding in without snags. She'll make it, I think to myself.
Twenty five minutes. I'm still not close. She sniffles and looks up at me with her defeated eyes. I jack myself off for a minute then jam it back into her mouth and blow my wad. She swallows.
She never gave me a "full" blowjob again after that. I never asked her. She was dumb, and she didn't know how to say no. She didn't have much self respect. So she liked me. And me, the kind of guy I was back then? Yeah, I liked her too.
by Chris Maupin, created Sunday, October 08, 2006, with permalink
Surf's Up?
Mr. Kurippi Nineteen tells of his surfer-girl sexploit
This one has a background to be told. You see, it all started (flashback effect, screen goes wobbly) in the fall of 2003. I was studying in Japan at the time and was in the clutches of a vicious long-distance relationship with a woman who must never ever be named again. Ever. I took a day-trip out to a beach in Wakayama. I had this idea in my head that I needed to try surfing. I got to Wakayama city and I noticed that there was a girl in the station who had dreadlocks and a giant surfboard under her arm. "Perfect!" I thought, "I'll just follow her, she is obviously wave bound." I rode the trains to the very remote town of Isonoura. Couldn't have had more than 3,000 people in it. When I exited the train I approached the surfer girl and struck up a conversation with her, and she taught me how to surf. Now she was very sexy. Very curvy and beautiful little body on her. Nice gams, nice legs, and a darling face like an eskimo. But, being the pussy-whipped dork I was, I stayed devoted to my evil bitch girlfriend back in America. So, the surfer-girl and I had a harmless day of fun at the beach.
Mistake number one: Not cheating on the American. Mistake number two: relating the harmless story to said evil American.
Mistake number one: Not cheating on the American. Mistake number two: relating the harmless story to said evil American.
That day in the sun would turn out to be the bain of my existence for the pain-stricken remaining six months of hell I spent with the American girl. Every damn day it was "well, why don't you just go back to your little surfer slut.." or "I bet it's not as good as your little surfer whore can do it..." or "Maybe you would like me better if I could surf like what's her name..." Thanks to a good friend, Tironius, and strangely said girl's best friend's advice I got out of that hell-hole, and my cock was free to run wild again.
She said "Oh no, I could never do that...I'm just not that kind of-" Then we were fucking.
Now, like all of my sex stories, this one is dripping with Irony. I was crucified everyday for a completely benign, one-day relationship with a friend at the beach. I did nothing, and to be honest hadn't really thought about doing anything. I spent day and night convincing the American that I was innocent! But then the universe has a way of bringing these things to be.
Skip ahead a year or two and we find me back in Japan. This time working. I got in touch with the surfer girl and we decided to hang out somewhere- get some drinks. We went to a local stir-fry joint in my neighborhood and got smashed after work. I told her she could stay at my place since her sister's place was so far away. She said "Oh no, I could never do that...I'm just not that kind of-" Then we were fucking. Oh man, it was like this woman's anatomy was custom built for mine! It was like a perfectly fitted glove. I rocked her several times, and it was really rather stellar. She was 27 and in her prime. Gorgeous body, the product of all that surfing and the softest tits you could ever imagine. I took her to pleasure town over and over again.
And while I was banging into oblivion, a wry smile came over my face. Ah, at last it had come full circle. The Irony complete. Here I was, banging the very girl that I had so vehemently argued that I wouldn't. If only she (the American) could have been there to see it. If only there were some way she could feel the burn of that one. I mused about writing an email off to that effect, but my mind wandered to other things.
There were later encounters with the Surf-Girl. There was the trip to Hakone. We went to a "Spa-World"--an indoor fun park of baths and hot-tubs of all different types. At the traditional Japanese hotel, we partook in some of the most passionate love-making of my career. Again, the fit was amazing.
by Chris Maupin, created Thursday, September 28, 2006, with permalink
DISCLAIMER: Mister Nineteen (and other entities related to Mister Nineteen) does not in any way condone the rampant bigotry, and racial epithets that are found in this particular Blog. Nineteen and his parent company, Decent Human Technologies LLC are equal opportunity sexual partners, and support an affirmative action approach to love-making.
A Word or Two from Mr. Nineteen.™
Well, I have been asked by Mr. Tironius to share some of my finer moments on this forum of insensitivity.
I have chosen to do so by means of a "Warm Memories" series in which I will share a random anecdote with readers from my past exploits.
#15 The Cat's Meow
It was a cold November night. I was at home knitting and watching porno in my small Japanese room. Then there was a suspicious knock at the door. "Good god Martha, it's 11:30pm on a worknight- who on earth could it be?" I had suspicions it was the water company- claiming that I needed to pay for the right to shower and defecate- NEVER! But the visitor I had at this hour was much more...feline in natue. I opened the door and cautiously peered out into the wintery darkness. No one. I started to head back inside when I heard a rather peculiar "Meow?" I fumbled to get my monacle in so I could see better. I saw what I made out to be a tail poking out from around the corner of the walkway (or was it a 'catwalk?') "Cats do not knock," I thought to myself "but SLUTS do!" I decided to play along- "Here kitty-kitty!" I said. And the night time visitor showed itself. We will call her "Chi-Chan" for now. She was 35. She strutted up to the door wearing black thigh-highs, high-heels, hotpants, a 'cat-tail', cat-ears, a boustier, whiskers, and long acrylic black fingernails. Now I have always been one to bring in strays, and I could see that this cat needed a bath and maybe a few injections. I brought her in out of the cold. I would later wonder if she had walked like that all the way from the train station, or maybe even ridden the train in that getup. We will never know.
The licking began, as cats do. There was the detaching of the garter belts from the stockings, the wagging of the tail in my face, there was also the removal of several other items of peculiarity- including some furry "cuffs." I thought to myself "only in my twisted life do these things happen."
I tamed that bad kitty four times that night and a little bit the next morning. She was a 'pegger.' (look up 'pegging' on wikipedia.) That can be particularly fun and confusing at the same time.
This game of Cat and Mouse went on for several weeks. However, #15's craziness and clinginess eventually destroyed her attractiveness. I let her go around late December.
The Cat Strikes Back
One day in July or so, I was at work getting ready to teach my next class. I realized that I needed a CD from my good friend R's room. Now you see, here is the strange part. R, was Ms. Kitty's teacher! Crazy girls are prone to chronic lateness. Ms. Kitty liked to come to his private lesson about 40 minutes late on average- now this is pretty amazing seeing as the class is only 50 long. Needing the CD, I entered his classroom at the very latest I possibly could to grab it. So, of course, she did what any sane adult would do in this situation. She cried hysterically and tried to get me fired. (and almost did.) Waiter, Check Please! In parting, let me share with you the chain of command that was followed in 'addressing this issue' with me. Her (slut) --> Asst. Manager --> Regional Manager --> District Regional Local Manager --> Janitor --> Manager --> Local Western Eastern Asst. Regional District Manager (ret.) --> Consulting Firm --> A man walking by --> me. Well, that is bureaucracy hard at work! And the results were stunningly efficient- nothing happened. Well, that is the story of #15, the naughty kitty. Hope you enjoyed. --Mr. Nineteen
by Tironius, created Thursday, September 28, 2006, with permalink
The only gift California knows how to give: servitude
About two weeks ago I received a gift in the mail: it was the gift of forced servitude by and for the great state of California. It was a summons for Jury duty. The instructions: I was to call a telephone number every day for a week to see if the automated voice on the other end will tell me if I a.) I am to fry somebody up in punishment for my being on jury duty, or b.) I was scott-free.
The system has its faults. For instance, on Thursday, I called in the wee hours of the morning to get my instructions like an assasinator would call headquarters to receive his mark's dossier. The robotic woman replied, "No information available." "Hmm, it is nearing the end of the week, I bet I don't have to go," I naively thought to myself internally (and possibly externally, as I was alone). My call the next day (Friday) would disprove this notion.
"Your jury service begins on September 22, beginning at 9:30 a.m.," said that robotic bitch. It was now 11 o'clock!
Half-panicing over the notion I might be fined and/or jailed and/or ass-raped, not to mention missing class, I stumble to get it together -- I couldn't find fucking money for the Muni. But, I did and I went, only to find that I needed to call again the next Monday, which I did to learn I serve the next day, Tuesday.
The Hall of Justice: Superman, Flash nowhere to be found
I go to the familiar room of 307 on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, where jurors wait in a large room with many chairs. To paint a picture: vending machines on the right, The Price is Right to my left, and a purple-haired dyke to my far right. Rows of seats everywhere. Tables with chairs containing all walks of life. A man plays the "an honor to serve, let's be impartial" jury video to get things started.
I didn't wait long for my name to be called, they went alphabetically by last name. To "department 19" is my final destination for the day, which I find out as being criminal court. I and about fourty others head to the courtroom, all sitting in the audience seating. A short asian woman calls for attendence, and I notice about three hotties of caucasia sitting around: two blonds, and a nice brunette. Sweet asian pussy ready to pounded right there in the courtroom sat directly next to me. I digress. (I learn she is a young lawyer gonna-be.)
Judge Haines enters, all rise, and the sound of Law & Order's curious sound --CHONG CHONG -- fills my head. I just wanted to stand up instantly and shout, "Objection, your honor, chambers!" like A.D.A. McCoy from the show. Judge Haines was seemingly nice and explained the process of jury selection, how our names were randomly selected by computer and will be called among the fourty to an elite 26. I notice a black defendant (no surprise), a respectable looking black attorney with dread-locks, and the opposing prosecution, a blonde woman in her late thirties, early fourties.
The judge proceeds to ask many questions of the 26 as a group, things like "have you been a victim of a crime," and "have you owned a gun." Judging from the many questions like this, and the information he gave about the case, we learn the Gunny McShootsalot had some kind of altercation with his landlord, shot and attempted to murder him. He was on trial for attempted murder and assault with wrongful imprisonment.
The entertainment begins as it is now time for the attorneys to excuse jurors based on who-knows-what criteria. Things are hopping now, and this guy and that lady are excused. "Thank you, your honor; the people would like to thank and excuse juror number two," states the prosecution. The guy leaves, the next in line of the 26 goes to take his place of the twelve actual jury members.
Things proceed, many people are excused. "We need two alternate jurors, now." They call Hotty McAsian as alternate juror number one. The next name I hear makes my heart sink: it is mine. I stand up and sit in the alternate juror number two chair, again sitting to the left of the good looking asian girl. (Asian, but not too asian; nice western features mixed in.)
Like the others, I give my name, my neighborhood of the city I live, marrital status, occupation, and past jury service info. I am asked if I have any strong opinion about guns. Unlike a couple of old 50-something pussy hippies who we heard earlier about the wrongness of handguns, I had no strong opinion one way or another, I say.
The prosecution: "The people would like to thank and excuse Mr. [Tironius] at this time." I get up and leave, never having to serve again (for a year). --Tironius
by Tironius, created Friday, June 09, 2006, with permalink
One of a million tales that illustrate the freakdom of this city I will tell (when I remember the rest)
It was like any other night. Two nights a week, during that semester, I had a class that held me until night-time. I waited for the bus and soon my ship came in. With my big flat knylon drawing carrier in hand, I boarded the vessel. It’s the Geary #38, and I was going home.
Yes, it was like any ordinary night, except that, in San Francisco, there is no ordinary.
On board, near the front of the well-lit bus, I sat. A chunky broad woman to my right, and a heavy-set black man to my 12:00, the bus’ left side. The “port” if this were a sailing ship.
My statistical, yet anecdotal, evidence here in San Francisco maintains that whenever there is a comotion, a brouhaha, or otherwise social disturbance on the bus, ninety percent off the time the cause seems to be related to the melanin in the offender’s skin. I believe the brown pigment must intefere with the brain’s “accountability center.”
This event proved no different. The guy was ranting about football and wrestling, making the woman next to me uncomfortable.
Kevin, this is the part of the story I’ll know you will appreciate, being someone who notes the subtle ironies in life: It was the man’s stop, he finally said to the woman with a smile, “I’m just messing with you,” and left. I pull out of my ears my iPod shuffle earbuds, the woman turns to me — cue the irony — and said through her red lipsticked orifice, in the deepest fucking voice I ever heard, “Sometimes you just have to nod your head and smile,” because the only vagina this person owns is quite possibly floating in a jar on his mantle!
by Tironius, created Wednesday, May 31, 2006, with permalink
So I heard an interesting story at work today. For my homies who don't know, I am the "Guest Service Ambassador" for an upscale mall in the southern part of San Francisco. That is gay marketing-speak for a customer service rep. position, wherein I tell people where the bathroom is. I stand or sit in my booth, mainly chit-chatting with the nearby purse kiosk salesman and the mall security.
This story is a second-hand account from a mall security officer. All true:
One of the stores in the mall, a place where people can buy frames and have their lenses crafted (hint), called security after witnessing a man stuffing his shirt with glasses frames.
Security arrives, the man is asked to leave. Security receives another call from another store that sells sporting goods. They quickly learn it is the same dude. This time, since the guards are able to bare witness to the offender committing the crime, which in this case is tresspassing (enacted once they asked the man to leave the grounds the first time), it's arrestin' time.
As this story was told to me, the guards frantically chase the man up and around the property, all the way to the nearby college, where they tackle Mr. Crackhead and promptly take him to the mall headquarters.
"I need to take a shit!" the man says while handcuffed in the security office.
"No, we will not let you go to the bathroom," was the general response.
"If you don't let me go to the bathroom, I'll just drop my pants right here and shit on the floor!"
"Go ahead," was the answer.
Now, there's where the guards made their mistake. You see, the foundations of society present in most human beings, those that would cause shame, embarrassment and guilt, were absent in the mind and spirit of this gentleman, replaced with the free-thinking spirit and go-get-'em attitude you would expect from someone to have recently smoked a rock.
Mr. Crack-addict called their bluff (and, I'm assuming he had the presence of mind to know it was a bluff and not, say, merely words from a giant spider with the face of Andrew Jackson).
"Plop!" goes the first tube of human feces to land on the office floor of a man who has pulled his drawers down and pubicly deficated on lenoleum in front of mall security guards.
More bluntly: The man was taking a shit on the floor, and unfortunately all this took place on my day off.
But here's where the story gets funny: Cracky McFeces pulls out the afore-mentioned glasses frames, shouts "Do you want these?!" and proceeds to completely shove not one, but two (2) glasses frames up his ass.
Ouch! The moral, my fellow Asian Pussy Pounders: Don't bluff a crackhead.
Thusly, files like Word documents, pictures, useless .dll files, and countless more are available for others to download.
