Emergency Thursday Poat

Since the usual suspects were not available, I’ll go ahead and put up a poat that’s fresher than your mom after fleet week.  Content will be minimal, a sampler of themes from the rest of the week.

We’ve got well-formed glutes and poorly-tucked penii. *check*

How about some hard-bodied pretty-boys? *check*

Bore, God of Blunder? *Check* and *Check*

And titties and a vacant stare. *Check*  I’m not sure if she’s been featured before, and I’m too lazy to ask.

“Taco Tuesday 2: This Time She Doesn’t Have Applause Because the ProBiotics Seem to Have Worked” : Dating the POS Way (An Advice Column for a Friend with a Title Shamelessly Stolen {& slightly altered} From teh Same Friend)

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So the big day haz finally arrived.

Mood Music

In Which Sean Holds Himself Up to Ridicule

You know, I used to absolutely hate poetry.  Hated reading it, hated writing it, just generally hated everything about it.  I was a prose guy, and I thought there was something silly and frivolous about scribbling thoughts into stanzas and trying to get them to scan and rhyme and all that crap.

Then, something changed.  Maybe it was getting sober, though I have no idea why that would have any bearing on this.  But over the past few years, I’ve found that there are certain instances where I can best put my thoughts in order by taking up quill and scroll and just churning out some of the old doggerel.

Before we go any further, let’s just get this out of the way here and now:

 

Okay, now that we’ve dispensed with that (yeah), allow me if you will to emote all over you below:

Imagine yourself here: Lapeerpalooza TOWMJGM

Right here:

Or, if you’re not the social type, here, off by yourself:

 

Pay no attention to the fact that the deck currently has no rails. That has NOTHING to do with the plans for MJ’s “disappearance”. We’re ordering the wire this week, and hopefully that will be rectified.

Perhaps you’d want to zip around the lake on one of our jet skis!!!  For the low, low price of a glass of wine paid to me, this can happen.

 

My crack mechanic (#2 son Matt)  is at work getting them in top condition as I write:

 

 

We have TOP NOTCH accommodations here at Chez Car in and this can be had at a very reasonable rate **again a nice hearty glass of wine, and whoever needs it/asks first

 

I got a bunch of these cool light things for the deck, but I haven’t figured out how exactly I’m going to put them up:

 

I may try something new while I have guests, and as soon as I figure what this guy is saying I’ll try to whip some of this up. I don’t know how many more times I’m going to have to watch it …

There’s sure to be some awesome music on the deck too as I give everyone a very complete presentation of what’s currently rotating on my playlist.

And don’t forget the real reason for coming to Lapeerpalooza …

 

He’s dirty.

He’s smelly.

But he’s 155 pounds of pure love. Let’s all have a nice round of applause for MOOOOOOSE.

 

(not actual size – this is from last year)

 

Well, i don’t know what the heck else I can do to convince everyone?

Maybe this –  one last picture of moose:

 

 

 

BBF

Hello hummers and dogs who know the words, and welcome to Big Boob Friday.

 

 

Your model today was born on March 19, 1995 in Basingstoke, Hampshire, England.  She measures 30G-24-32 on the headturner scale, and stands 5’10” and the obligatory 125 lbs.  Please get off the barre and welcome, Miss Jamie Love aka Alice Brookes!

Weekend Poetry Poat

I think it was lauraw who recently remarked that poetry was “queer.” She might have said “gay” or “flaming.” The exact words don’t matter all that much–the fact of the matter is that poetry has long been seen–and rightly so–as the province of mincing, lisping sissyboys. I mean, just check out this photo of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound:

“A bang AND a whimper, am I right, Tommy?”
“Oh, shut up and Pound me, Ezra!”

Well, that got me to thinking about what could be done to make poetry a more manly art. And it wasn’t long until I was sidetracked by the thought of railing your mom. Because, truth be told, all this poetic thinking had me feeling a little funny. Then–EUREKA!–the thought struck me like a thunderbolt: Let’s put the peanut butter of your mom in the chocolate of poetry and see if those two great tastes go great together. Probably not, but this is what I came up with anyway…

Saturday Shakespearean Sonnet

Let’s just get this out of the way right upfront:

Okay, now that we’ve dispensed with that, on to the poetry:

O, fake internet friends, how they slack off
When the long week’s toil is done and ended.
Whether they do Crossfit or just jack off,
The blog on weekends moulders, unamended.
Exceptions come, sometimes, from our Jimbro
Or if the Puppeh isn’t chasing tail.
But too often we are stuck in limbo
And Friday’s buxom freshness starts to fail.
I know well that all of you have lives
While weekends find me cloistered here at work.
But thirty-some hours on a poat is jive—
Yeah, “jive” is weak; you write the next poem, jerk!
So ends my verse, now let comments commence,
And maybe push this down some hours hence.

Tushar is sick of your bullshit

And frankly, so am I. You’ve become a bunch of lazy, slothful pieces of shit. I mean, I can excuse people like Hotspur and MCPO who have worked hard all their lives and are enjoying their Golden Years, but what excuse do the rest of you have?

I mean, for God’s sake, we’re almost at the end of the weekend and everyone’s still commenting on a Saturday poat while waiting to get motivated by trannies tomorrow. It’s no wonder this country is going straight to hell.

Okay, now that I’m done calling you assholes, I’m going to hopefully provide you with some motivation before tomorrow with a photo of Cal alum and insanely-hot pole vaulter Allison Stokke:

I have likely touched several surfaces that her ass has also touched.

Fun Football Factoids!

As summer’s heat begins to wane (except for here, where it’s expected to be over 100 degrees this week) and a chill creeps into the air, it is time once again for America’s Game! No, not that one–The Footballs!

Now, you can just watch the game, or you can quit being such a fat, worthless, fat fucking pantload and learn some shit about it. Here are a few facts I’ve gleaned about this fascinating subject:

Like a Phoenix From the Wire

Let’s try this again.

Around these parts this artist is known as SCROJO.