Frodo’s Other Ring (Sam’s Anus)

I was once chastised for homophobia after referring to the Lord of the Rings as pretty damn gay. My accuser understandably misunderstood my meaning. Contrary to the usual intention behind the term’s use, whenever I refer to something as gay, I mean it literally and never as a bad thing. Lord of the Rings is pretty damn gay, and I’m all for it. When I say, “professional wrestling is pretty damn gay,” I don’t mean that it is bad (although it is). I mean: it is gay. Homoeroticism for homophobes.

However, the Lord of the Rings isn’t like the cheap, sweaty, manly thrill of musclemen grinding on each other in tights. It’s a story of depth, concerning love preserving and salvaging us in the most difficult and dangerous times. If Tolkien published these days, I’m sure all the Hobbit spooning would be even hotter. Sauron’s wasn’t the only ring Frodo was getting mileage out of on that journey, if you know what I’m saying. (He was having lots of butt sex with Sam.) The sausage-fest, gay bed frolic at the end of the movies shows that Peter Jackson had his finger on the pulse of the source material. Much like Frodo had his finger… (Okay, okay, I’ll stop now.)

Women’s Better Living Through Chemistry

Hey ladies! Did you know that so many of your marital woes can be solved by a daily application of any over the counter douche? It’s true!

But it’s not like you think.

You see, back in day some intrepid female chemists working for a major chemical company came up with an ingenious solution for the problem plaguing so many women: their husbands. Knowing that the kind of men who are most problematic are also those least likely to investigate anything even remotely vaginal, those nameless feminist heroes hatched their clever plan.

They developed a simple chemical additive that is used in all “feminine hygiene” products to this day. It works just fine for it’s stated purpose in the product, but it also has a second function.

If you have a problem husband, simply feel him one tablespoon of douche every day. It doesn’t matter if it is cooked or not, the chemical will do its work either way. Timelines will vary, but if you keep this up, your husband will develop terminal bowel cancer within three to five years. This is not a joke. It works.

Women have quietly been spreading the word about douche’s true purpose for years. Thanks to this wonderful “life hygiene” product, so many women have been enjoying the freedom that being a widow with a full inheritance can bring.

As an interesting aside, this practice is also the true etymology for the word, “douchebag.” He is indeed. And his days are numbered.

Be My Valentine

(The following is a rant I wrote years ago that I happened to stumble on today. It being Valentine’s Day, I thought I may as well polish it up and then post it. Now, please keep in mind that I haven’t lived in North America for many years, so my thoughts on this holiday may well be completely off base with today’s sensibilities. If that is so, then please regard this as a time capsule from a less enlightened time.)

Ah, Valentine’s Day. A lovey-dovey holiday upon which women shoot feminism in the knees for the benefit of sugar and flower companies.

How does Valentine’s Day have anything to do with feminism, you might ask? I’m glad you did!

The entire engine that drives the holiday is “romance.” Not true romance, but the consumer driven retail version. Capitalism doing what it does: amplifying a basic human or societal impulse with advertising and then exploiting it.

The “romance” here is all about the male partner jumping through hoops set out by his female. He buys her shit solely for the purpose of keeping her happy, and to avoid being tarred and feathered as a “bad” boyfriend or husband by her friends and family.

This is a reinforcement of what ought to be an archaic practice in courtship: the male essentially buying his access to females. In the patriarchal model, the male provides everything: he pays. The the early stages of courtship, the female need only provide her presence and, at a certain stage sexual access.

Valentines Day, as it is pitched, sold, and policed through our societal norms and expectations does nothing but reinforce that pattern. Men buy the shit and women consume it. There is no reciprocity beyond the assumption of a guaranteed lay.

So, if a woman says they are truly a feminist, and at the same time care deeply about what their man buys for them on this bullshit, made-up holiday, they are full of shit.

Further, any men who claim they actually enjoy this fucked up holiday are lying. They have been trained and, like a good puppy, are performing just as expected for the meager treats their master sees fit to grant them.

Customer Dissatisfaction

I know it’s fun to complain and avoid taking responsibility for your decisions, but maybe some people could think about changing up their romantic selection process. You don’t always have to shop in the “Whores” and “Assholes” section.

(“Yeah, but, Whores and Assholes is the only place that has the styles I need.”)

It’s like a person who only ever eats at Baskin Robbins complaining about food. “Motherfucker! Food is bullshit, man! It’s all fuckin ice cream! How am I supposed to survive on just ice cream?” #notallflavors

Explaining Cheese to Leafy Greenbuds

Imagine trying to explain cheese to your new pall, Leafy Greenbuds, a space alien who has no concept of food because her folk derive their nutrition through photosynthesis. You show Leafy a cow, and then explain the milk thing (a la Arthur Dent with the Nutri-Matic on the Heart of Gold [if you don’t get this reference: Shame on you!]), then bacterial cultures, aging, and whatever else.

Leafy’s utter mortification is palpable. She can’t understand that cheese is the pinnacle of human civilization.

Yeah, Leafy, if you think about it too carefully it is really gross. But what do you want from us? We can’t just suck on dirt and photosynthesise our nutrition. And do remember that we’re a species that also licks each other’s genitals for fun. It’s not like your little inter-species orgies with the insect folk aren’t pretty weird by our standards.

As an aside, while you’re here, be careful that someone here on earth doesn’t try to smoke you. We do that too.