Watching Your Baseball Team Get Blown Out Is Like Anal Sex
As I watched the Cleveland Indians’ wholesale slaughter of the Houston Astros last week (the final score was 19-6), an odd feeling crept over me. It was horrible to watch a baseball team get absolutely creamed like that, but it was also oddly familiar, and not just because the Astros are terrible. The mixture of pleasure and pain that unfolded over nine innings—it started out scary, but ended up being kind of fun—was pretty much like anal sex. Actually, baseball blowouts—be they the 1897 Chicago Colts’ 36-7 record-setting victory over Louisville, the 30-3 destruction of the Baltimore Orioles by the 2007 Texas Rangers, this season’s 15-0 shellacking of the Nationals by the Reds—are exactly like anal sex. Here’s an inning-by-inning recap:
THE FIRST INNING: BACKDOOR PRESSURE The initial runs that appear on the scoreboard serve as a quiet harbinger of what’s to come, much like the none-too-subtle pressure of a wiener knocking on your tightly clenched rosebud. This game won’t really be so bad, you tell yourself. Then another walk, wild pitch, ground-rule double, and you surreptitiously clasp your cheeks in expectation. But I never do anal!
THE SECOND INNING: PENETRATION Much like the moment when your lover spits on your asshole, the appearance of an additional three or four runs in the second officially heralds that anal is occurring, and then—yup, that’s a dick in your asshole. Any hope of a comeback is shattered, and no amount of praying for run support will make that sweet pucker of yours any less penetrated. The flesh of your loins quivers, bases loaded, no outs.
Meet the Girls Who Are Terrorizing Juggalos with Their Perfect Asses
Passed Out Juggalos is a crew of girls in their underpants who terrorize the sleepy Faygo people at the Gathering of the Juggalos. When I first came across them I became aroused, then intrigued. I used to subscribe to the popular opinion that all Juggalos are extras from Deliverance, but these half-naked girls made me want to know more. I wanted to hear all about the POJ straight from their smirky, potty-mouthed faces, so I stalked these mad bitches all over the country. I discovered that most of them live in Sacramento. One is in Louisville. I’m now officially a weird and obsessive person with a collection of human heads, probably. There are five POJ regulars, making them kind of like the Spice Girls, if the Spice Girls were into paralytic clowns. The three I spoke to are: Killette (OCD germaphobe), Neveah (has a taint piercing), and Ryan (got a guy’s name).
VICE: I get the impression that you girls might be strippers. Killette: I’m the only one who isn’t. The other girls are though, yeah. Nevaeh: I’m a stripper. It makes sense, I guess!
Do any Juggalos ever come into your club, Nevaeh? Nevaeh: It has happened, but not very often. I’ve never been recognized on the street from POJ. I think it’s because my… face doesn’t really show a lot in the pictures. I do have some fans because of my pictures. Yeah. That’s what I’ve heard. “This guy’s just in love with you, that guy thinks you’re awesome…” I’m apparently a Twitter star because of my X-rated pictures. That’s enough for me. I really don’t care if people like point me out and say, “Oh shit, there’s the girl who shows her snatch all over POJ!” It’s whatever.
You have “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole and you’re not into the Beatles??? I’m not against the Beatles, I know a bunch of their songs, but I’m not a huge fan.
Then why did you get “Let It Be” tattooed on your butthole? Are you not into anal sex? No, I’m into anal sex, definitely. I got it because we got drunk and it was just a really funny idea and my friend said he’d do it for free. I sat on it for a couple days and was finally like, “Man, I’m gonna get a butthole tattoo that says “Let It Be” with a bumblebee flying out!”
You didn’t spell it like a bumblebee. Why? I don’t know. It’s funny. It’s cool. I like it. It’s unique.
But, but, but— You sound like you’re disappointed that I’m not a Beatles fan and there’s no huge meaning behind it.
I thought you were the world’s biggest Beatles fan! I’m totally not!
If karma truly exists, then I must have murdered a baby to deserve hemorrhoids this bad. It feels like my ass is being torn apart with a razor blade every time I go to take a shit. For the past month I’ve just been trying to ignore it. But I guess when you don’t take care of certain problems, they only get worse. It started off feeling kind of like a paper cut—but now it’s bleeding, it’s irritated, and it’s burning, sort of like living with a mini-holocaust in my pants.
But what can my asshole teach us about personal success? Lots!
Most people have had to deal with metaphorical hemorrhoids at some point in their lives. They start off as part of you—veins, pumping blood around your body, filled with the elixir of life. Maybe this is a significant other, or a feeling of fulfillment at your job, or maybe its how oxycodone felt to you the first time. But then slowly after a while, the veins start becoming crazy and compromise your happiness. What will you do? Will you confront them right away and let them slide back into your anus where you’ll live happily in perfect harmony? Or will you let them swell, and swell, to the point where they become so big and externally aggravating that you actually require surgery to get them removed? Naturally, you’d chose to seek immediate medical attention and avoid any larger issues, like a normal, sane human being. But as we all know, it’s not always easy to make good choices and be sane, especially when we’re not even aware that choices are available to us sometimes.
Hey, you rapidly decaying protoplasmic sacks of calcium and shit, my name is Dr Mona Moore. Obviously, that is not my real name, but I am a real doctor. Don’t feel bad for me, though, because it means I will always have a job, an apartment ten times bigger than yours, and the right to tell you what to do simply because I will always know better. Enjoy my column!
BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - HOW TO DRINK YOURSELF TO A BLEEDING ARSE
I had my worst experience in the ER ever this week. I had to extract wads of bloody tissue from a homeless man’s anus after he plugged it to stop himself shitting on the streets. Every few minutes I made an excuse such as—I need more gloves—and ran to wretch with a gasp of fresh air.
I can smell true alcoholics before I see them. I’m not talking about your amateur weekend binge-drinkers; tequila-in-the eye, snorting-vodka, the ‘striving for oblivion’ contingent, or the middle-aged women who down three bottles of red wine a night after they put their kids to bed because they have no joy in their lives. This is the “I want to pickle my brain, bleed from my ass and lose any sense of coherent reality forever” group. They’re the really stinky fuckers. Like ass-wad man.
He drank so much he had scoured the inside of his stomach raw with ulcers, which were bleeding out so quickly it ran straight through the 6.5m of his gut, mixed with shit and leaked all over the street. His brain was so marinated in sweet dark rum that he was blissfully unaware of his own wretchedness. To be fair to him, he was a little embarrassed, which is why he had shoved toilet paper up his arse—a gesture of politeness not to leak in public.
Guys, I’m here to talk to you about this amazing new product. No, it’s not going to help keep your floors spotless or remove the gunk from your dishwasher, this product is about aroma.
Smelling like vanilla is for cheap, teenage whores. Chanel attracts flies and starving artist types. You need something fresh. Something exciting. Something edgy that pushes the fragrance envelope and makes a passer by get a whiff of you do a double sniff. You need: “The Smell of a Boy’s Anus” the latest scent in the forbidden collection from Japanese brand Tamatoys (you might remember them as the folks that brought you “schoolgirl urine” and “schoolgirl armpit” scents back in 2002).
“The Smell of A Boy’s Anus” scented oil is a part of a series called “The forbidden scents – experience that smell one more time.” [Hi. This is my real voice now. The implications in that tag line are just… out of this world.] Just one spritz from this “real anal smell bottle” will keep you surrounded by “the pheromones emitted from the anus of a cute boy” all day. No, this is not feces in a can, guys. This scent is devoted to making you smell purely of anus. Tamatoys confirms, “It has a strong musky perfume smell, tinged with a pungent odor.” Sweet, musky fresh cute boy smell all day long, So, whether you want to wear it yourself or just sit in a dark, dank computer lab huffing the bottle all day, “The Smell of a Boy’s Anus” never let’s you leave that crack between the cheeks. Christmas is right around the corner you know.
Are there scouts in the porn business like in baseball who travel the minor-league circuit looking for the next big star? If so, I think that’s what I’d like to do when I grow up. I feel that I have an eye for who is and isn’t slutty, and this goes far beyond my default fantasy of “Well, she’s got a mouth, she’s got to be slutty.” Like a batter, there are a lot of telltale signs. Instead of hip movement or bat swing, first check the eyes. Are they slowly scanning the room, seeking something? If so, most likely you have a good case of daddy issues on your hands and she’s probably a nice prospect.
As I’ve said in the past, tattoos are the quickest indication that a gal likes anal. Is she covered in ink? Chances are she loves it in the ass and prefers it there first. Freud tied the whole yearning-for-pain thing back to the loss of virginity in his book about porn; I forget what it was called.
The young lady above is named Christy Mack, and I wish I were the scout who found her in Indianapolis. Aside from the necessary three holes, she’s got all the attributes needed to play in the big leagues: attitude, a unique look, and big tits. I don’t know who the (not dead) George Steinbrenner of porn is, but I can imagine calling him from my cell phone in the parking lot of the Brass Flamingo or whatever club I found Ms. Mack patronizing, and saying, “I just found your next Derek Jeter (of butt sex).”
I always wanted to own my own Brass Flamingo. From the moment I walked into my first strip club—smelling the coconut lotion and pressing my head to a stripper’s vagina in the champagne room and hearing the ocean—I knew it was the tropical locale where I wanted to live out my days in retirement. At the time we were at war with someone in the Middle East, and I remember thinking that the Gaza Strip would be a great name for a strip club, but as I traveled more I realized it was important to come up with the basest name possible to attract the sort of clientele who frequent such places: Tit World, Ass Palace, and Place to Look at Pussy (PtLaP) were quickly added to the list of possible names.
Then I moved to Cincinnati for nine long months and ballooned from 135 to 215 pounds. While living there I went to Sudsy Malone’s, a local rock venue/laundromat, and that’s when it hit me: Open a titty bar in a college town where you can pay the girls to do your laundry and give you a lap dance. I’d call it the Muff ’n’ Fold. Every year I’d get a new crop of girls who honestly and truly were just trying to put themselves through college. If they were unsure of what occupation to pursue, and if they had the right stuff, perhaps I could suggest to them a fun and exciting life in the not-at-all seedy world of pornography. I envisioned it as a wholesale family business with my sons recruiting the prospects for training camp, me scouting for the bigs, and my wife making sure the girls knew how to do laundry because I have no idea how that works. I tried once and flooded the entire basement with suds. Then again, they love those foam parties in Ibiza. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
It all started when Labanna Babalon took acid every day for six days, and on the seventh stuffed seven hits in her vagina. From here life took a turn for the extra trippy, as the supernatural experiences she’d been having since childhood morphed into a reality filled with wild theories that race out of her mind faster than they can lace up their running shoes. A far-out den mother-slash-whore for all the aliens, robots, and unhinged seekers devoted to art, Labanna Babylon’s a freewheeler who kinda just hits record on video and channels different versions of herself, all in the name of spreading love. Pure glowing love, the kind that says, “I see you, and I accept you.” The kind of stuff made for little kids and deep weirdos on the internet.
In the last year she’s created a community around YouTube missives delivered by her personality avatars. These include but are not limited to trance Goddess, bathing goof-off, booty-popping ho (there is a large number of fans who love her solely for her ass—watch for her in an upcoming Riff Raff project), BFF to a seemingly limitless number of hot crazy girls who’ll eat your heart for dessert, and maker of sounds that accelerate that feral part of all development. Here we’re premiering her first rap video, a collaboration withCartier’GOD and Sasha Winn. And since her music release is only a small part of the equation of her larger art piece, we decided to talk to her about it all.
VICE: I’ve seen some pretty racy videos of you lately, Labanna. Labanna Babylon: Really, more? Where?
What’s it like that your ass is famous? Someone in Ocean Gang Aquarium—one of these Ocean Gang forums that thousands of kids are on—wrote, “I like you second best next to Rihanna.” I get all these messages about my “booty meat” recently. Like, “I love yo’ booty meat, lemme get some of that booty meat!” I’m definitely like the Fool or the Joker. One of those quotes of Oscar Wilde’s that has stuck is something like, “You better make them laugh when you’re telling the truth or they’re going to want to kill you.” I was discovering all these intense things about humans, with social experimentation. Like, no one wants to fucking hear that.
Hear what? Recognizing your demons, judgments, exclusivities. Anything you have to learn to graduate to 5D.
What does graduating into 5D mean? We’re in 4D, and we don’t have the vocabulary to talk about 5D yet, but I imagine it more like an internet thing, where you can access everything energetically and go into different dimensions. You can see a veil being lifted from all the worlds and dimensions.