In an attempt to suppress guys’ sexuality, corral our resources into more expensive alternatives for getting laid that include underwriting the cost of raising their children, and force us to fuck fat and old women, feminist organizations and the MSM that caters to womens’ insatiable consumption routinely exaggerate the amount of sex trafficking.  Some have taken to describing prostitution as “rape-for-hire.”

Consistent with that scheme, feminist groups and the media have claimed that 40,000 sex slaves were brought to service guys at The World Cup.  According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, and everyone they interviewed, the 40,000 figure is a complete fabrication.  One researcher has even stated that they have not seen a single case of sex trafficking connected to The World Cup.  Another researcher, Marlise Richter of the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, is confident the 40,000 figure is “completely ridiculous.”

Of course, sex slavery does exist, but if any of you guys believe that it is a significant phenomena in the United States, you are ill-informed.  Apparently, its not that widespread in Africa, either.

Check that.  If, as a husband, you do not service your wife frequently enough or to her satisfaction, she might divorce you and take most of what you earned throughout your lifetime for hard work.  Breadwinner husbands, are, effectively, sex slaves.

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As he disclosed in a column released Friday, Nicholas Kristof’s father has abruptly passed away, and the surviving Kristof is riddled with guilt.  Earlier in the week, the day after his father died but apparently without knowledge of his death, Kristof had suggested that people honor the fathers in their life by sponsoring rats in Africa for Father’s Day.  To rub it in, I urge all of you to send comments to Kristof’s later article suggesting he sponsor a rat in memory of his father.

Kristof has reason to be guilty:  it appears that  he may be guilty of patricide and manslaughter, or, as I like to call it, “guyslaughter.”

The elder Kristof actually seemed to be an admirable guy, imprisoned by the Nazis for spying on them on behalf of Austro-Hungary.  At age 80, he still chopped wood as quickly as Nick, though one would naturally expect an 80 year-old guy to chop wood as much as a mangina a generation his junior.

Kristof’s “donate-a-rat-for-Father’s Day” column came out Wednesday – his father had died Tuesday on the West Coast, but Kristof made no mention of his death in the column, so presumably he hadn’t yet received word.  I like to think  – whether or not its true – that Kristof’s column was inspired by his own decision to donate a rat as a “gift” to his own father (whether or not he actually got him such a gift).  I like to think that the elder Kristof died of disappointment upon receiving email notification of the “gift” that his famous only child – who he probably took lived and breathed for, albeit having to overlook his mangina qualities, probably at least taking solace in the fact that he managed to be straight -  ”got” him from 3000 miles away.  I like to think the elder Kristof took the donation as an insult and sign of disrespect. 

Lets see whether his douche bag son still thinks sponsoring a rat is a good way to honor a guy.  Kristof is riddled with guilt over his father’s death, but has made no mention of any connection to his rat idea.   Hopefully, Kristof will awaken to that likelihood, and realize his father’s cause of death: 

“Death by Rat, at the hands of his son, Nicholas D. Kristof.”

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As I commented to The Spearhead, in his continuing assault on guys, New York Times mangina in chief Nicholas Kristof recommended that people donate a rat for Father’s Day in lieu of a direct gift to their fathers, husbands, etc.: http://tinyurl.com/2wpu53j

He said guys didn’t need more neckties. Of course, maybe if wives and daughters bothered to put a second’s thought into what their husbands and fathers did for them and the gifts they bought for Father’s Day which are supposed to reflect that, guys wouldn’t be getting so many neckties.

I got my dad a pair of tickets for tomorrow’s Mayor’s Trophy Series game between the Yankees and Mets.  After virtually growing up in the original real Yankee Stadium, where he saw DiMaggio, Berra, and Ford play and attended Babe Ruth’s farewell, it will be his first visit to the new fake “Yankee Stadium.”  The gift is, in part, appreciation for his taking me to my first game in the original stadium  (in 1966, with Mickey Mantle in the lineup), as well as Yankee games at Shea Stadium (including Ron Guidry’s first start) and the first night game in the renovated stadium, when Thurman Munson was behind the plate.

This year, we’ve seen the feminization of Memorial Day – a day intended to memorialize soldiers that died during service, nearly all of which have been guys. And, as even Kristof noted, Father’s Day has long been the poor step-spouse of Mother’s Day.

For my dad, Father’s Day will not end with a tie.  Its a good thing he didn’t have just daughters, but its a far bigger shame that Nicholas D. Kristof’s father had one of his sons.

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Add observant Shiite Muslims to the list of people who want to see me dead.

Come to think of it, most observant Shiite Muslims probably already want to see me dead.  Now they also want to see my carcass mutilated.

So why do they want to see my carcass mutilated?  Because I am hereby posting a link to an excerpt from a book by an Iranian Islamic chick in which she talks about fucking lots of guys – she’s a groupie in multiple senses of the word.  She doesn’t just fuck rock stars – she fucks them in groups.  Her name is Roxana Shirazi, and the name of her book is “The Last Living Slut.”

The release of this book could be momentus.  If you think the South Park guys got a scare, Shirazi is probably in for it.  Remember, she’s from a country where women can be put to death for having premarital sex. In fact, the release of this book could be turn out to be to World War III what the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand was to World War I.  I could be part of history!

In the interest of full disclosure, before I give you my review, let me state the following:

1.  Neil Strauss, author of  “The Game”, co-author (with Jenna Jameson) of “How to Make Love Like a Porn Star,” and pickup artist extraordinaire has offered me a free eight-hour seminar, which normally costs thousands of dollars, if the book hits any of the top twenty slots on The New York Times bestseller list this year.  That having been said, I get to attend the seminar regardless of whether I write a good review of the book, or pan it.  It should also be kept in mind that while Neil’s seminars focus on time-consuming process of picking up amateurs, as most of you know, while I do dabble in sexing amateur girls, my skills lie in seducing hookers by answering their internet advertisements and paying them the money they ask for, so I’m not sure Neil really has much to tell me of interest unless he can pull me out of the rash of no-shows I’ve been experiencing lately.  And, on top of that, the seminar location hasn’t yet been announced – if he holds it in Shirazi’s birthplace of Tehran, I won’t be attending for obvious reasons.

2.  I only read the chapter excerpt. Of course, as my loyal readers know, I can write a kick-ass movie review without even seeing the movie, so the idea of reading a whole book is nearly out of the question (I have read the entirety of Dimitra Ekmetsis’ “Secret Confessions of a High-Priced Call Girl,” but unfortunately still haven’t gotten around to writing the review, or, for that matter, banging her again).

So, here we go:

First of all, I don’t like the title.  Shirazi is not the last living slut in the world – there are still plenty of sluts out there, and more girls becoming sluts every hour. That having been said, more and more sluts  – especially the smarter ones – are turning into out-and-out whores.  I know at least one girl who was giving it away on Adult Friend Finder until the light bulb went off and she started charging, and another who became an escort within days of returning from a trip with me to an out-of-town swinger’s club which served as the inspiration for her new career.

Still, there are plenty of living sluts.  In fact, these days, other than whores, just about all Western women under about 45 are polygamous, hypergamous sluts.  At best, Shirazi is the last living slut born in Tehran – if, that is, she is still living by the time this post is up.

In case you’re too busy, lazy, or disinterested to read the chapter at the link – and this is not a criticism considering its coming from a guy who is reviewing the book having only read one chapter and who reviews movies without seeing them – here is my take:

The chapter at the link is entitled, “Sometime Between Anal Sex and the Early Hours I Passed Out.”  Its a direct quote from an excerpt in the chapter.  Its obviously meant to be provocative, but in 2010, except possibly in Iran, its not a big deal that a chick took it in the ass.   Then again, I guess Iranians are who the chapter is meant to provoke, especially considering the Persian-looking background pattern underneath the chapter title.

Anyway, the chapter describes a sex scene and its lead-up with some guys from a group called the Towers of London, who, from what I can tell from some brief online research, had 15 minutes that ended about 10 minutes ago.  Here’s the poorly-maintained MySpace page for their ex-drummer.

Anyway, she describes a typical groupie scene, with chicks crowding around the guys in the band wherever they go.  Before the sex scene starts, Shirazi is already “exhausted from days of drinking, drugging, and fucking.”  She gets felt up by everyone on the band’s bus, but, in a drunken and exhausted state, still wants to fuck Dirk Tourette again even though her friends thought he was effeminate and looked like a goat.  Blame it on the triple vodkas.  She then started making out with a stripper, and then another dude in the band, and brought them together for a three-way kiss.  She then spotted another guy from the corner of her eye and started blowing him, before the lead singer, Dirk’s brother Donny, grabbed her, “digging his nails into my alcohol-soaked flesh,” and told her to come with him.

Having “never felt so close to complete obliteration before.  I just wanted to lay down and die,”
and “too out of it to protest, even though he didn’t interest me in the slightest,” Shirazi allows herself to be what many feminists might – perhaps appropriately, I must grudgingly admit – characterize as being raped by Donny, who was “like a hyena, salivating all over me without a hint of a smile or a flicker of warmth.”

When they got back to the hotel, Donny dragged her into the lobby.  “By this time, my head was so fucked I was ready for a lobotomy,” she writes, and proceeded to lug her “sodden corpse” upstairs.  When she got upstairs but still in the hallway, she started gagging, and told Donny she couldn’t fuck because she felt sick, so he told her to get on top.  She wanted to hide from the bright lights of the public hallway, but climbed on top and fucked him anyway, even though she was worried that if she got caught, she would ruin her chances with his brother.

The moment Donny put his dick in her, she booted “badge-brown chunks all over his chest and down” her own leg.  It dripped all over her chin, but Donny kept fucking her, anyway.  Next thing she knew she was in a dark room.  Donny said he was going to fuck her in every hole, which technically includes both nostrils.  She stood “groggily, trying to leave,” but he was relentless, even fingering her as she walked away, and she started sucking his cock, hoping he’d blow a load and leave her alone, but Donny didn’t even seem to be enjoying it, and soon – as the chapter title indicates – he fucked her in the ass and she passed out.

Later, a drunk chick entered the room.  Fueled by some quality blow – and with a nose apparently too stuffed-up from it too smell anything – Donny fucked both of them, so that even after both chicks “became carcasses,” he was still “buzzing raw” when the drummer with the lame MySpace page entered the room, and Donny invited him over to join in the sex.

About an hour later, Donny wanted to film the action, so he woke the chicks up to do each other.  According to Shirazi, the room “was airless, and stank of unwashed genitalia,” which I assume was the chicks’ genitalia unless these guys, being rock “stars” under a wide definition of the term, don’t have to bother to shave their balls.  We can also assume that, gjven the chapter title and the way she felt, the room also stank from Shirazi’s ass and poop remnants, and nothing indicates that she ever cleaned off any of the vomit.  After the chicks did each other, they “were allowed to rest.”

Soon, Shirazi noticed it was 9:10 AM and she had to catch a train back to London to her new job and an animal rescue shelter – yes, she’s the girl next door.  Did you really ever doubt it, fool?

Anyway, still in the same slut outfit, she kissed Lori and the arguable-rapist Donny good-bye, and next thing she knew, she was in an ambulance (presumably financed through tax funds collected mainly from guys who don’t get laid much), having had a seizure, and was being administered oxygen.  She “loved the ambulance man for being so nice to me and taking care of me.”  Nothing about fucking him, at least not in this chapter excerpt, but you know how nice guys finish, though elsewhere in the book, Shirazi also relates that she fucked Tommy Lee, Sebastian Bach, and Dizzy Reed.  Big deal:  I sat next to Dizzy Reed when he was getting a full-nude, full-contact lap dance, and who hasn’t fucked Tommy Lee?

Speaking of finishing, conspicuously absent from the chapter is anything about what many of us regard as virtually the sole purpose of a porn scene:  the money shot.  Whether you’re a guy like me, for whom the sex scene practically only starts as the semen is propelled toward or into the chick, you’re like my hooker/ex-girlfriend, who particularly loved sharing my load in make-out sessions with me and/or other chicks, or if you’re like my 23 YO sugarbaby, whose main desire in watching porn is to view multiple loads of semen dripping out of chicks’ pussies and assholes, the cumloads are often the very point.  Yet we are left not knowing whether Donny or the ex-drummer unloaded at all, whether if they did, the loads ended up in the stinky genitalia (widely-defined – I count Shirazi’s ass as genitalia due to its use as such) direct-from-cock or via turkey-baster, whether the girls swallowed, swapped, or snowballed the cum, whether they licked it off each other, whether they rubbed it all over their breasts and chin – nothing!  Whether, for instance, Shirazi still had some cum on her face while talking to the ambulance driver, we will never know.  This is a fatal omission.

The book is not without value, however.  For instance, even if this book doesn’t lead to World War III, it should serve as a handy fund-raising tool for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s campaign for re-election.  Did Neda die to not have to wear a veil, or was that merely the first step in fulfilling her desire to taste vomit-covered, ass-drenched rock “star” cock?

What I don’t understand about radical Islam is this:  if you are going to be totalitarian and tell chicks what to wear, why not just require them to be naked, or at least the hot ones?  And if they’re a but-her-face, naked from the head down?  What a fucked-up religion!  Take a lesson from Donny Tourette!  If you are really trying to spread your religion all over the world, make it fun.  Don’t stone women for committing adultery – stone women for refusing to commit adultery (disclosure:  I’m an Ashley Madison affiliate).

Call it IslamoGuyinism -  or would it better be described as GuyiFascism?

Meanwhile, I’ve had at least one hooker with smelly genitalia, and at least one hooker vomited while she was with me (though not on me), but I can’t recall ever having a hooker that both had smelly genitalia and vomited during the session – so, I still prefers whores to sluts.

Shirazi and Neil Strauss will be speaking – and perhaps getting beheaded – at the book-signing and release party at the Sunset Strip’s legendary Rainbow Bar & Grill in Los Angeles, at 9015 Sunset Blvd, tomorrow evening, June 3, from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m..  The book is available on Igniter.

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Many of America’s soldiers were spit upon when they returned from Vietnam. Those guys who were  American soldiers but did not live until the end of their service were spit upon coast-to-coast today.

Memorial Day commemorates U.S. soldiers who died in military service. It doesn’t honor all military veterans – we have another holiday for that, in November.

Nonetheless, MSN.com’s lead story was “Women in Uniform,” described by MSN as “In honor of Memorial Day, meet some of the many women who have dedicated themselves to America’s defense, from 1778 until today.”

The St. Petersburg Times chimed in with its main front-page story taking up most of the page, written by a woman, “Honors at last for WWII’s women with wings,” and while some women did die flying those planes, none did so in combat since they women didn’t fly in combat – though, of course, thousands of guys have

As if that were not enough, the Times ran another story entitled, “Remembering Tampa Bay area Servicemen and Women,” memorializing those who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan.  While plenty of women around Tampa Bay have pocketed some nice coin prancing around stages naked while those conflicts have been raging, not a single broad from Tampa Bay has died in either.

A West Coast feminist Facebook Friend of mine wrote that what she was thinking about today were the rapes of female soldiers in our military, and PTSD.  Of course, the rates of female soldiers suffering PTSD are staggeringly high relative to guys.  I wrote back to remind her that today was to memorialize those who died in service, and that the gender disparity was staggeringly disproportionate, and suggested that a ban on straight guys in the military would resolve both the gender death-disparity issue and the problems she was raising. She promptly unFriended me.

From Sea to Shining Sea, women are hijacking Memorial Day as yet another celebration of what in fact are the miniscule contributions of women to our country.  To those that many that are doing so, I spit on them.

By the way, the beach was great today.  Lots of hot asses and freakish tattoos!  Here’s a picture from today, of The Dominatrix in a thong!

That’s my foot in the foreground, blocking a side view of her voluptuous right breast.

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I’m headed to a gathering at an ex-baller’s legendary $20 million party crib later this afternoon, having been invited by one of his best friends, who wants me to work for him.  The manse will be flooded with hot chicks, who the guy who wants me to work for him has repeatedly – over the course of many months- referred to as freaks.

My somewhat-estranged sugarbaby – who claims to no longer be into partying but who didn’t return my text from Friday before 5 PM because she “passed out” -  refused to go, so I invited The Dominatrix so I wouldn’t be socializing alone and for social-proof of being with a hot, tattooed-chick, not to mention so I’d have someone to trade in the likely event the party turns frisky and moves from the pool to the baller’s much-written-about 100 square foot bed.

Otherwise preparing for the party, I also looked at some zits on my chest and decided that it would be behoove me to get a tan.  Since I just had laser hair removal on my upper arms the other day, natural sun and a UV rays were out of the question since they could leave permanent skin damage, so I went to a neighborhood salon for a tan of the spray-on variety, which tend to be more expensive (this one was $25, versus from $7-12 for a one-time UV tan around here), but which show more immediate results and with which there is no risk of burn.

The guyinist owner of the salon bonded with me from minute one of my first time there, and his hot stripper girlfriend seemed to be hitting on me to the level of making me uncomfortable the one day I went while she worked the front desk, but one thing I’ve hated about this tanning salon is the third person that works the reception desk – a less than 5′ tall, erstwhile thin chick, who’s a little bit of a butter-face, has a stud- piercing above her lip, and is consistently cunty.  Nearly every time I have visited the salon when she was working, the same thug has been around the reception area, and every single time I have been there when that receptionist was working, she has scowled at me like I was bothering her for patronizing the business she works for.  The fact that she would scowl at me even when the thug wasn’t there was somewhat unusual since petite chicks  – especially petite chicks that aren’t all that hot – tend to like me, though I chalked-up her disdain for me to the piercing, since chicks with piercings tend to add a couple of points to their own self-ratings – and, truth-be-told, I tend to add those points, as well.

Today, she was there again, but something was different.  In fact, a lot was different:

1. there was no thug in the reception area.

2. her face had gotten so much fatter that I wouldn’t have even thought it was the same chick were it not for being the same salon and for her having the same piercing.

3. all of a sudden, she went from being a stick to having massive breasts protruding from a halter top.

4. as I suspected after some closer examination, she was very, very preggers

5. most of all, she was suddenly nice.  Really nice.  Incredibly nice and accommodating.   Nice as you would expect a girl to be who is 8-months pregnant, not wearing a ring with the thug nowhere in sight, and working a minimum-wage job at a struggling business in a recession.  Nice as in “I’m-desperate-for-a-sucker-to-come-along-and-pay-my-bills nice.”

A spray-on disposition, indeed.

Suck it up, cunt.  I already know who you really are.  Now fetch me a shower cap.  Hookers are way less expensive than you.

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Due to Sarah Palin’s recent incessant pro woman-power rantings, The Spearhead is running an entitled,   “Sarah Palin: Feminist or Not?” My slightly edited response:

“She’s too dumb for me to think of her a feminist, misandrist, Marxist, or something else ‘-ist’ -  or, for that matter, as something ‘-ive.’  I just think of her as a something ‘-tard.’”

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The New York Times ran an article today on the authors of a new book, “Three Wishes: A True Story of Good Friends, Crushing Heartbreak, and Astonishing Luck on Our Way to Love and Motherhood.”   The book consists of the joint memoirs of three women, at ages when they were on the brink of losing their fertility, who, intending to become artificially inseminated, passed a vile of sperm between them.  Before any of them used it, they each got knocked up and had babies with guys the “old-fashioned way.”

The Times quotes one of the women, Carey Goldberg, stating, “Every time we told someone our story, they said you have to write it down.”  I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by stating that its safe to assume that most if not all of the “” were their girl friends.

Of course, its perfectly natural that a woman who has gone to the lengths of buying sperm would consider the expense, hard work, and social impact that having a child on her own would entail, and decide to get less hypergamous on the eve of making that leap.  Women like Lori Gottlieb have been spreading the word – after the fact, of course – about their own tales of woe trying to be a responsible mother on their own.  In fact, Gottlieb has turned her belated revelation into a career.   The contempt these women – who had planned to use sperm from a guy 6’5″ tall -  have for the saps who became the fathers of their children  is palpable in the article.  All three “bristle at the suggestion that theirs is a Cinderella story times three, with men coming to their rescue.”  Goldberg added,  “my happy ending began when I became a mother.”

There’s nothing – let alone “astonishingly” lucky – that a lot of women would settle rather than purposely confront motherhood on their own.    It would seem like pure logic.

Then again, since when are more than the most minute slice of womanhood logical?!  The coincidence that two women  (the third woman ended up with the married guy who was cheating with her) who were connected by a mutual friend all came to the same logical conclusion about something is truly astonishing!

Wow! The astonishing nature of the coincidence which forms the core of this book cannot possibly be understated.

Then again, it could just be that the three women aren’t being candid about their opportunism.  Just sayin’.

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No Attorney General has hounded Craigslist more over its ads for directly- compensated sex than former Nixon Administration insider, Connecticut Attorney General Richard Blumenthal.

While most of the adult ads on Craigslist deliver the sex they implicitly promise for the price implicitly communicated as acceptable, Blumenthal’s own marketing- of himself – is largely a fraud, as detailed in this New York Times expose.

To see what Blumenthal really looks like, click here.

Another Tricky Dick – a mangina and a dick at the same time.

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For some insight into a warped mind typical of far left-wing Western women, check this out: April 2010 Stupid Girl of the Month

As I commented,

While most guys probably think the closest thing to sex tourism for women is fucking the French G.O.’s at Club Med, in fact,  as documented by the movie “Heading South,” Haiti has long been a hotbed of sex tourism for hypergamous middle-aged American women who don’t think there are any guys in the United States good enough to fuck.   It appears that one more woman got what she really came there for (no pun intended).

The “rapee” is one of two women who are candidates for Bardamu’s monthly Stupid Girl of the Month contest – she’s winning unanimously, but there’s still time to pile on.

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