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Posts Tagged ‘sex’

I Like Reuben Sandwiches Now

“Let’s change the way we eat.”

—Tupac Shakur, Changes

I recently ate a Rueben sandwich for the first time. It was pretty good. I like Reuben sandwiches now.

I Could Have Been Named What?!

baldyDid you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?

But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.

I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.

Girth McThickness

Cratch Sacknard

Barb Marbly

Veiny Von Opulent

Hoagie Flundlecrode

Baldy Waxmas

Hairy Crinkleheimer

Crusty Gustaffson

Squirt Terdhurdle

Caspian Vanderhoot

Blimpy Slipplenip

Whiffle Gristlesniff

Squizz Stinkelsteen

Firt Girdle

Berf Girkin

Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)

 

Next Generation Virtual Reality

December 29, 2015 1 comment

Samsung has blown us all away with the release of its Virtual Reality Headset. For only one hundred dollars, you can strap your smart phone an inch away from your eyes, and be launched into alternate dimensions.

samsunggearvr-624x351

You could easily steal this woman’s wallet.

I went ahead and invented the next generation of this technology. For two hundred bucks, I’ll lead you into a forest, where you can pick out any old stump you want. For an extra fifty, I’ll provide an axe and let you chop down a tree of your choosing.

 

13863974-stump-isolated-on-a-white-background-stock-photo-tree-stump-trunk

And for the low low price of three hundred dollars, I will bring you to a store, point you in the direction of the furniture department, and allow you to browse through stools and chairs, any of which you can easily purchase.

Then we’ll go to your house, and I will help you place your new Virtual Reality Ass Holder a foot in front of your television. After that, you can sit on it, and lean forward until your nose is nearly touching the screen. Depending on what kind of TV you have, the world in front of you could be over six feet long! Just compare that to the tiny screen of your smart phone. Congratulations, you are now experiencing a digital life separate from your own depressing, tortured existence, and you don’t need to have a thing strapped to your head.

Interview With The Guy That Collected My Urine

December 16, 2015 4 comments

Sometimes you find yourself in an establishment, wondering about the strange trail people took to end up working there. That’s why I asked the guy that recently collected a sample of my urine how he wound up analyzing pee for a living.

Me: You sit in this room all day and wait for people to urinate.

Urine Collector: Yes, I do.

Me: So how does a guy get started in the urinalysis biz? Were you interested in urine as a child?

UC: Obsessed. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t  thinking about urine—drawing pictures of it, bringing it to show-and-tell, collecting samples from my siblings and our pets. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

Me: Describe your ‘Eureka!’ moment, the time when you said to yourself, ‘This is what I want to do with my life. I want to collect piss in small plastic containers.’

UC: I was in fifth grade. By that time, I was always lurking in the restroom, because I enjoyed urinary environs—human friends didn’t interest me—and I would take in the smells, the sounds. I have a poem I wrote that day. Allow me to read it. (the room goes black, except for a single spotlight that shines down on The Urine Collector, who is resting on a stool, smoking a cigarette, and snapping a slow beat)

Behold now, these ancient echoes that reverberate as splashes of flaxen liquid strike the alabaster surface of a urinal!

Envelop me, O ethereal, pissy mist that floats over toilet bowls both old and new!

Bladders From Above, bless us with thy holy golden rain, and smite those that conspire to stop thine rivulets!

Me: That didn’t rhyme.

UC: Expressions of passion rarely do.

Me: So are you passionate about poetry too? Did you ever think about writing as a career?

UC: No. Writers don’t get to analyze urine.

Me: Of course they don’t. Be honest with this next question. Can you tell from a person’s looks if they are going to test positive for drugs? Like if some guy with dreadlocks wearing a Phish T-shirt walks in, do you just say to him ‘Nope. No way. Don’t waste my time. Get the hell out of here,’ or is that frowned upon?

UC: The brotherhood of People Interested in Scrutinizing Sewage (P.I.S.S.) requires us to take an oath of equality. Every person that comes through our door receives a cup, regardless of weight, ugliness, hairiness, whatever. Having said that, words like ‘stoked’ are a tip off, and spotting even the smallest traces of tie-dye on a garment raise red flags as well. Whiffs of patchouli will also garner special attention. In those cases, I personally get in real close and watch the urine come out of the urethra.

Me: That seems like a good place to end this. Thank you.

UC: No, thank you (he wraps both his hands around the container, like he’s holding a cup of hot cocoa, closes his eyes and sniffs deeply, taking in the aromatics and other unseen nuances that only a seasoned expert can detect).

Is There A Name For Black Briefs?

Internet—I need your assistance. The other day there was this guy wearing whitey-tighties, except that they were black, so they weren’t whitey-tighties at all.

Is there an established name similar to whitey-tighties for black briefs? Like ‘lack-of-slack-black undergarment?’

Please help.

Guest Post: The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room Discusses the Hashtag Nude Lives Matter Movement

September 9, 2015 2 comments

Well, I’ve been in somewhat of a blogging drought lately, so I’m going to give sole control of today’s post to some hairy naked guy I met in the gym locker room. I made a deal with him: if he put on his damn underwear, he could write a guest post for my blog. Everyone wins: content is generated for you, the reader, and the pasty undulations in my immediate quadrant are veiled, if only for one night. So here is the first ever guest post on this blog, from The Hirsute Naked Man In The Gym Locker Room.

Hello, blog! NUDITY!!! OLD, NAKED MEN!!!!! HAIRY BACKS!!!!!! SCROTUMS SWAYING GENTLY IN THE GALE PRODUCED BY THE GLORIOUS POWER OF AN XLERATOR-BRAND HAND DRYER!!!!

I apologize. I was using the attention-grabbing tactic of beginning a manifesto with a series of edgy words. So don’t worry, it was all for show.

And now that I’ve got your attention, let’s talk about public male nudity in men over the age of 70. This is a demographic that has been pushed to the fringes of society, marginalized, insulted, and universally regarded as an outdated herd of soured, pickled meatbeasts with nothing important to say.

Well I importantly say this: public nudity serves many purposes in this crazy rat race we call life, which is sort of ironic, because if life really were a rat race, we would all be naked, like rats are all the time. You know what I’m talkin’ about, how they just crazily scramble around and pile up on top of one another, having hours and hours of naked rat fun.

When was the last time you saw a good old-fashioned fleshy pile of humanity, writhing around and whoopin’ it up, just like rats do every day? Time was, we called it Saturday Night. Now? Sheesh, I call it a win if I catch the vague outline of a man’s penis through his fancy dress pants.

Which brings us to the tale of how I landed this gig as a guest blogger. ‘Twas a Monday night. Or was it a Wednesday? Time and space bend in odd ways when you bask in the illumination of nudity, you must understand. Anyways, due to a remodeling job, the local gym has been rather empty lately. So, after patrolling the locker room for a few hours—nude, obviously—I realized I hadn’t seen anyone for a very long time, so I was about to call it a night and take my third steamy shower in the provided facilities when in walks some clothed gentleman.

Excellent, I think to myself, this room could use a fresh pair of bare buttocks. I lurked around the corner, waiting for him to derobe. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when all the guy does is change from his regular short pants into his gym shorts. And to make matters more ridiculous, he was wearing some sort of garment under his shorts that covered his genitals while he made the switch!

My world was shook—left became right, up became down, all-out bare-assed glory became heavy winter-layering.

So I strut over there, throw my foot up on the bench, and lean my elbow on my knee, a position that is the absolute last word in nude comfort, plus it gives your hammy a bonus mini-stretch, and makes the upper parts of your lower body more readily available to receive any breeze that my happen to be blowing through. And I say to the guy, I say, “What better place than here, what better time than now, is there to be nude?”

He says something not pertaining to nudity, so I press on: “Nice locker room, right. Got showers and everything. Real nice showers,” the implication here being that showers require one to be naked.

Again, his retort has absolutely nothing to do with the action of being completely devoid of clothing, and then he mentions something about a computer blog. Who is this guy? For realsies?!

So, having accurately pegged this guy as a ‘clother,’ I try to coax him out of his shell by explaining to him my method of getting dressed, even though this event is very stressful to me.

I won’t bore you with the details, but when I finally do get dressed, pants are the absolute last thing to go on. Even after the shoes. You’re probably asking yourself, ‘Doesn’t this cause him to wobble, teeter, and stumble around as he struggles to pull his pants over his shoes, grabbing on to whoever is near for support while his anus is exposed and his genitals swing free?’

The answer to that question varies. Sure, there have been times when I lost my balance and tumbled into an unsuspecting locker room patron. Whether or not any of my private parts brushed against that person is up for debate.

On the other end, there have been plenty of occurrences when I successfully pulled my pants on over my shoes, free of any incidental contact with standers-by. In the end, it all cancels out.

Anyways, all this talk of dress has gotten me off track. I, along with my fellow free-hanging septuagenarian brethren, have been hearing a lot about all sorts of lives mattering, with no mention whatsoever about nude lives. Where do we fit in to the mix, huh? Where’s all the coverage of police ruthlessly gunning down an innocent nude man? I haven’t seen any. Did you know that many businesses will flat out refuse to hire a naked applicant that fits all qualifications for an open position? How about the act of segregating us beautiful, naked, hairy nudes into a small locker room?

Hashtag nude lives matter, man.

So, where do nude, old, hairy men stand in today’s society? In America’s gym locker rooms, is where we stand, and soon we shall burst forth from these prisons, walking very slowly, carrying towels but not using them to cover anything up, and coughing every fifteen seconds.

The world will know us.

Hashtag Blog.

-love, the hairy naked man from the gym locker room

A Simple Request

I think my relationship is on the rocks.

I recently told this chick I’m seeing that it’s unacceptable for her to have dated anyone before me.

On every trip to her house since then, I can’t help but notice the lack of effort she’s put into obeying my command—travel through time, and change the past. One day, when she was in the restroom for a really really long time, I poked around a bit. An investigation of her internet search history came up with exactly zero schematics for a flux capacitor. The ‘Recently Watched’ category on her Netflix showed she hasn’t viewed Quantum Leap, Timecop, or the episode of Family Matters where Urkel invents a time machine. On the bookshelf, there was nothing even close to the subject of physics, let alone the theory of relativity, knowledge of which is essential to transcend linear time.

How I interpret this: she has not even thought about travelling back in time to change her relationship history in order to make me happy.

Next time I’m visiting, when she’s passing the laxative-laced Taco John’s meal I will have brought for her, I think I’ll use the alone time to inspect the shed and see what’s going on in there. From the outside, it doesn’t appear big enough to house a DeLorean, or even a circular metal pod that is thick enough to withstand the sparks and zaps that occur when space-time is warped, but we’ll see.

If the shed doesn’t turn up anything, the excavation of her yard then begins, in search of a large elliptical disc that she maybe recovered from aliens and is using to reverse engineer their technology in hopes of making the buttons and gears more useful for human hands.

If that doesn’t work, I don’t know.

 

 

 

Throwback Thursday

Here’s a photograph from last summer, the day the gal I’m going steady with and I attended our first Minnesota Twins game together. They played the Phillies on what turned out to be a gorgeous June evening. It’s a good picture—you can see the Minneapolis skyline in the background, and hometown hero Joe Mauer at the plate. She kind of ruined it by talking, but it’s still a fun memory.

twins

 

What Halloween Means To Me

October 22, 2013 1 comment

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!! Halloween is like, totally my favorite holiday. Pumpkin-infused booze. Tons of candy. And, you can dress like a total slut and it’s acceptable because it’s like, Halloween.

I didn’t always slut it up on Halloween. Throughout my teenage years, I dressed like a slut every day but Halloween. Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, birthday parties—so much sluttiness! Halloween was my time to get away from that.

I eventually learned that you gain a certain power by withholding something great, in this case my slutty wardrobe. People began to realize how much they missed the slutty me.

Throughout my twenties I really let it rip every October 31. A partial list of my costumes from that decade—slutty pumpkin, slutty Santa, slutty teacher, slutty doctor, slutty angel, slutty devil, slutty Philip K. Dick, slutty male nurse, slutty ghost, slutty maid, slutty Jason. I was so slutty, I made myself sick!

It was very fun, but now that I’m officially a ‘thirty-something,’ the evolution must continue.

A certain maturity is expected of me now. A slutty, grown-up maturity.

Q: So, what is the sluttiest costume possible?

A: A slut, you’re probably thinking.

You’re wrong, though. A slutty slut is the correct answer.

I will be so slutty, right down to the slutty mannerisms, slutty dress, and slutty psyche of an actual slut, that I will believe I am no longer myself, but a slut with such low self esteem that slutting myself out is the only escape from my slutty life. I will even cry in the shower as I prepare to go out for the night, and wonder why people only call me when they’ve been drinking.

Ah! I can’t wait!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

I Wonder What Bizarre Sexual Proclivities My New Neighbors Will Have

When you dwell in an apartment complex, you get to know your neighbors over time. A large portion of these relationships develop based on how well the contractor decided to insulate the partitions above, below, and side to side in each unit. I’ve heard all the basic stuff—one guy liked to shag his girl, then scream and punch the wall. Another couple would have loud, frivolous arguments, pause to bump uglies for a few minutes, then continue on with the bickering. One coital instance had me believe, but never confirm, that the dog-lovers had thrown little Fido into the mix.

And I’m not over here straddling a stepping stool topped with phonebooks, pressing my ear to the ceiling. If I’m on the couch and I hear these freaks digging in, I’m not about to get up and inconvenience myself just ’cause somebody wanted private time. I sit where I sit, and I hear what I hear, which brings me to wonder what kind of feats the new downstairs neighbors are going to bring to the table.

The former people below me had a brief, unobtrusive sexual calendar that was very accommodating for me. Only woke me up a handful of times.

But it’s been quiet down there lately. Maybe they’re waitin’ on me to set the tone. Little do they know, I only get my lovin’ on in high-class steak joints, in order to avoid the shame that comes with communal love-making. I believe it was a little known bard from the 17th century that quoth, “Don’t crap where you eat, and don’t love where you live,” at least according to what is scratched in the stall where I get it on. In the men’s washroom, everyone assumes you just downed a choice cut, and are enjoying an opulent BM. Nothin’ weird about that.

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