Tired of Earth Women? How’s About Some Alien Sex?

July 21, 2008

Stupid, funny spam of the week below… I like the grammar here, that the alien women have “BOTH mouth, vagina and anus.” Ha.

-EG (ready and willing with his massive Klingon member).

——-

Sak *****gmail.com | IP: 213.22.13.***

DO YOU WANT A REAL LIVE ALIEN FEMALE FOR HOT SEX?

MAIL ME NOW!!!

REAL FEMALE SLAVE ALIENS FROM ZETA RETICULI, WITH BOTH MOUTH, VAGINA AND ANUS, READY FOR YOUR WILDEST DREAMS.
ALL DOMESTICATED.
AND THEY ALSO CAN COOK, IRON AND CLEAN YOUR HOUSE.

ONE LIFE TIME OFFER!
MAIL ME NOW!
*****[at]gmail.com

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Did You Ever Look Like Marlene Dietrich?

July 8, 2008

If you’re a heterosexual male who’s dreaming that you’re looking into a mirror and this image at left is more or less what you see reflected back into your eyes—except it’s in color, highlighted by a hint of medium reddish lipstick—and you really like what you’re seeing, and feeling good about looking like this and feeling this way, then what in bloody bejesus does it all mean? Yes, I dreamt that I looked sort of like Marlene Dietrich and had on a top hat, and pasty white face with perhaps the nose a tad more splayed out and the face maybe a little rounder, and some of the aforementioned lipstick, which I particularly fixated on, since, for some reason, it seemed like the most natural part of the ensemble and everything else seemed new and strange and surprisingly agreeable. Am I getting in touch with my feminine side, my gay side, my side that is tired of being average, unglamorous and unnoticed? Or does it just have something to do with the fact that I recently watched that cherished scene of Dietrich in the 1930 film, Morocco, where she, in this very get-up, plants a hot lesbian kiss on a diminutive brunette cabaret patron, partly to tease legionnaire Gary Cooper but also because she just likes doing erotic things like that? Or does it feed into my frustrations at not being able to have women that I’d like to have, romantically, sexually? In my waking state, I have no drag-queen desires, no urge to don stockings and sing “Quand L’Amour Meurt” or “Ich Bin Die Fesche Lola.” It was an isolated thing, and it only lasted a few seconds, just a blip on a rich full night of dreaming. But it was way too much fun, and that’s why I ponder it. And lest any of you boys want me to “see what the boys in the back room will have,” forget about it. -EG