Dear Stephanie Courtney (the exotic girl from the Progressive insurance commercials)

(I tried making this post “Private” because I felt like it. It didn’t work, people could still read it, [turdpress FTW!] so here it is, no different. Please worship Satan).

Dear Stephanie, (MAY I call you Stephanie)?

As your character “FLO” from the Progressive commercials gains notoriety, I’d like to say that I think you’re the spun sugar in cotton candy and remind you that all of your other male admirers are gay.

Only I see/saw through the FLO character’s heavy makeup, lipstick and stylish sex-hair to the ebullient soul that is You hiding within the role, swaying like a flower floating in ginger ale.

I just want you to know that if we ever meet really soon, and things went so great that we’re in my room playing strip chess, I’d never demand you dress as the FLO character as part of our bedroom role-playing, because that’s a little too forward right after getting your autograph. These things take time, like waiting for Mother to go out of town so we can have the house to ourselves, you and me, forever!

That said, I eagerly await the next Progressive commercial starring you as FLO, joyously hawking insurance, which everybody needs just like they need…love.

Love,

Meat

P.S. You’re so cute you shit kittens. Please find them a good home!

More product placement (reviews of food-like items)

Rich in flavor, these “Onion Blossom” Pringles did indeed taste like the deep-fried onion appetizers found at most brass-n-fern restaurants. WINNAH!

When I first saw this box of strawberry Whoppers I imagined exactly how they would taste (delicious). They proved dangerously addictive. Any candy that comes in a pourable carton (not shown) can’t be good for you. WINNAH!

I didn’t originally intend to put Wendy Whoppers in here, but what the hell, I’m not being paid either way for these reviews so I might as well create more hits with her tits. As a bonus, I’ll spare you any jokes about wanting to spray her whoppers with malted milk from my balls. DOUBLE WIN!

These Chocolate Skittles really do taste like what they’re supposed to taste, yet I discommend them for myriad reasons:

* The soft-crunchy/firm-chewy texture doesn’t work for chocolate.

* A handful of different-flavored regular Skittles eaten at once blend together, creating a synergistic singular fruit flavor never intended by Ma Nature. But sorting vanilla/brownie batter/chocolate caramel/chocolate pudding/s’mores is too much to ask of any taste bud.

* The Skittles brand and rainbow don’t go with chocolate, just like there should never be fruit-flavored m&m’s. The makers were too lazy to make up a new product name? How ’bout…

(No, I didn’t make this awesome p-shop. I think you can even buy “Shittles” as a t-shirt).

I bought Chocolate Skittles 2-for-1 at a dollar store, so I guess they’re already on their way out. FAIL.

I like Peanut m&m’s enough to ignore their numbfuck characters and dumber commercials but this cheating box is a sodomite’s dream.

Normally m&m’s come packed to the hilt so they RATTLE in the box. Not these bastards in their silent F-U-in-the-A mini-bag. 3.4 ounces is so little candy an anorexic could eat them all and not bother puking. That yellow son-of-a-bitch on the box giving the thumbs up should be wearing a strap-on.

We get enough shit from all sides these days we shouldn’t have to watch our backs when we buy candy. FAIL.

Hope you enjoyed these reviews. These words I write are a bookmark of sorts, marking the place where I’m supposed to have a success-filled life.

Click for more reviewed products.

Kaylan Nicole

I see from the “meatstats” men continue searching for Kaylan Nicole. Unfortunately for them (and me) I found this on her official website:

Kaylan has actually split the business, gotten married and moved back to the Midwest. Hope she comes back soon.

I don’t give a shit if she ever comes back. Any pornette that leaves the business even for a year will return to find 3500 skanx burning holes in the carpet with their knees, eyes closed and tongues out under that damned Peter North’s turkey baster. There’s so much damned norpography now there will actually be a day–if only a day–in the near future when the whole world has had enough image-sex and turns it off. Even Homer Simpson has been known to stop eating donuts.

I’m sure KN’s husband was either in the biz along with her, wealthy and/or a swinger. I just can’t imagine any pornette giving up the cock buffet and settling for just one, their brains are wired differently from other women’s. I wonder if the husband is excited by her body…of work, or never bothers. I could never love any woman who’s lain under a Marc Wallace arc of man-yogurt or TT Boy meat-seizure.

Mentally I understand how a man could marry a porn star, despite her past or because of it. My dead heart, however, completely rejects the idea as absurd. That’s why God is God and I don’t want God’s fucking job. I have no forgiveness.

Portrait of a Penis as a Deadly Cobra

I hadn’t jacked-off in 12 days, some kind of World Record. Mostly it didn’t bother me, but other times–especially when good ass was in sight–my scrotum burned like glass in a blue flame. It could’ve been my imagination, but it also began to feel leaden, less willing to yo-yo in response to stimuli.

Finally the time came to come again. I summoned Kaylan Nicole like a genie from her hard drive bottle, cuing the scene. CC Fafafini, yet another hairless porn-dolphin, was ramming that vagina like his penis was a plunger working to unclog a toilet in a BAD Mexican restaurant. Such a beautiful vagina she had, the close-ups excellent.

With my penis heavy like a shotgun I figured it’d be over fast. Not so!

I got through Kaylan’s plowing twice before sighing with boredom. I debated switching to something else; my left hand clumsily clicked the mouse. Now it was Mack Wallass, he of the hooked nose and horn, working away on one Renee Emerald, one of those women who do only one or two films, then nothing. Sean Elephantay, the Black Stud, was also involved.

The scene, low-key as it was, did the trick, but there was no blast. In the 12 days of inactivity, my poor cobra had forgotten how to spit, leaving only a few weak coins and gurgles of man-yogurt.

I tried again, but the show was over. The Cosmoslick lubricant had actually turned to foam, making it look as if I’d tried to screw a Starbucks latte.

The next night I had no idea of the outcome, but my cock had the block on lock. This time the scene was Wallass with Maya Puissant, which never fails. In short order I was feeling much better despite earlier losing my wallet. A brilliant, steaming Rorshach of white wet music glorified a soon-to-be-trashed sock, testament to the power of happy testicles, counterbalancing an unhappy mind.

Such is the power.

Poetry Corner: “I will fuck your wife”

Her knees depress a pillow on the floor as I slide it hot past her glistening lips
and slowly pull out,
her saliva surf washing over the thin skin,
soaks her own sealed mouth and slithers down her chin, a swaying line of spit that strikes between her huge breasts.
I massage her shoulders, happy for her finally getting some
attention
even if it’s just
thick ropes of man-yogurt
hot down her throat.