Category Archives: sex

baseball, the outfield, and utilitarian sex talk


Whilst attending the Braves game last Saturday (vs. the Brewers, or as FOE Billy dubbed it, “Old Milwaukee vs. Milwaukee’s Best”), something strange, pathetic, and awful happened:

Bottomadaninth, two outs, second baseman Kelly Johnson strides to the plate . . . and over the loudspeakers, what song doth blare? “Your Love” by the Outfield. You know: “I don’t wanna lose your love . . . to-niiiiii-iiiight/I just wanna use your love . . . to-niiiii-iiiight.”


Some players choose menacing metal intro songs: “Enter Sandman” for Trevor Hoffman, “Crazy Train” for Chipper Jones. Others choose something rhythmic and pounding from the current hip-hop canon.

But “Your Love” by the Outfield? Has anyone heard a worse walk-up song? Ever?

We were stunned—prevented from laughing only by the disbelieving pity constricting our throats. We rationalized what was happening: maybe it wasn’t Kelly Johnson’s chosen song. Maybe “Your Love” was only playing because it was the bottom of the ninth, and the Braves didn’t want to lose . . . to-niiiii-iiiight.

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Over the past several weeks, I have refitted the Workstation of Evil (WOE) with myriad devices aimed at thrusting Evil into your brain through your eye sockets ever more powerfully and sexily.  That’s right: in the midst of these our recessionary times, the National Evil is not scaling back—no. Far from it. There is a new printer. A new 24-inch LCD monitor. New speakers. A new wireless keyboard. All of it hooked into one lil’ MacBook. All for YOU.

Hooowever . . .

As excited as I know I should be, I can’t help but look at my MacBook without a shudder of puritanical disgust. For Evil’s sake, it looks like a seventeen-year-old girl, fresh off the bus in Hollywood, flush with dreams of making it as an actress—only to find herself scooped up by a seedy porn producer and dumped into a six-person orgy. Every orifice has been filled. White, black, gray—all manner of plugs have been inserted into my poor MacBook, which lies supine, lid closed in apparent exhaustion. (Plus, with the wireless devices, it’s like she’s also having virtual sex while watching another porno on a widescreen TV.)

And I did this. I am that seedy porn producer.

I should be reveling in the joy of a gigantic monitor, rocking speakers, etc. . . . but I’m not. Quite frankly, I feel like washing my hands every time I touch any of these wonderful gadgets.

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science thongs! another nail in the coffin of religious dogmatism

science thong
Behold the knickers of knowledge!

So here we have an article from the Telegraph detailing how a scientific expedition team is using the above black thong for navigational purposes in the Arctic. Quoth the Telegraph:

[D]ue to the proximity to magnetic north the compasses are “going haywire”. The freezing conditions also mean the latest global positioning satellite or GPS equipment will not work. […] Therefore the team have to rely on navigating using the position of the sun. When it is cloudy they rely on following the direction of the wind helpfully indicated by a pair of lacy knickers shredded and stuck to the end of a ski pole.

Said knickers were “kindly donated by a supporter of the expedition” whom the Evil would very much like to meet. Another sexy supporter of science? Hubba hubba.

What strikes the Evil most about this situation is its beautiful marriage of science and sex, the two topics most viciously assaulted throughout history by the kind of nutjobs who want creationism taught in biology class. Consider this picture from a fo-real Arkansas church:



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franz kafka: misunderstood comic genius?


They don’t make porn like this no more.

Franz Kafka once wrote:

As someone said to me⎯I can’t remember now who it was⎯it is really remarkable that when you wake up in the morning you nearly always find everything in exactly the same place as the evening before. For when asleep and dreaming you are, apparently at least, in an essentially different state from that of wakefulness; and therefore, as that man truly said, it requires enormous presence of mind or rather quickness of wit, when opening your eyes to seize hold as it were of everything in the room at exactly the same place where you had let it go on the previous evening. That was why, he said, the moment of waking up was the riskiest moment of the day. Once that was well over without deflecting you from your orbit, you could take heart of grace for the rest of the day.

Now: some would view this as another in the mountain of paragraphs (and a comparatively short one, at that) Franz devoted to his gloomy view on the fundamental unknowability of reality . . . or some equally pretentious assessment filling the pages of a master’s thesis as we speak.

But really–doesn’t that paragraph represent the basic premise behind every good comic sketch from Python on down? You wake up, blink a few times, and find yourself immersed in some new, completely ludicrous situation. Comedy, needless to say, ensues.

And a corollary: what if Kafka wasn’t the tormented master of social paranoia we’ve been trained to regard him as? Perhaps there is some literary conspiracy to mask the fact that he was, in fact, a decidedly off-kilter but thoroughly fun-loving rapscallion?

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hockey mask sex = the new hotness


The Face of Love, 2009.

First off, let’s agree that there are two things everyone is looking for:

1. Love.

2. The slightest provocation to go on an insane rampage sporting a weedeater, a meat cleaver, and some manner of blunt, pummeling object—be it tire iron, Louisville slugger, or artificial limb.

Now that we’ve established those universal constants (and no, they’re not some sort of hippy-dippy “yin and yang of human existence” duo; cut that out), it should be noted that this weekend presents a possibly once, twice, or at most thrice-in-a-lifetime opportunity to—that’s right—

Merge them!

How often does a Friday the 13th precede Valentine’s Day? Evil certainly isn’t going to lower himself to the point of researching the matter, but it can’t be often. Especially considering the fact that there are probably more Friday the 13th sequels than Valentine’s Days you will ever truly, fondly remember, you don’t get many shots at this, the horror-themed lovefest.

Hockey mask sex! Ch ch ch ha ha ha. “Hey, honey, let’s play ‘doomed camp counselors at Crystal Lake!’”

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sex with sheep: a report on the state of modern journalism

That sly come-hither stare . . .

Journalism is a tough racket these days. The pay is abominable, jobs are disappearing, and the average American blames the media for . . . everything. It has to be a Herculean chore just to get out of bed each morning and schlep on down to the daily rag. But there still must be those halcyon days—when the right story hits, you feel that rush tingling up from your vestigial tail, and the words fly off your fingertips. Check out the lead for this lucky bastard’s story:

A Calhoun County man who sodomized a sheep will not have to register as a sex offender because the sheep cannot be considered a victim of sexual assault under Michigan law, a court ruled this week.

Just writes itself, doesn’t it?

Evil senses your first reaction; you read this, did a double-take, and said to yourself: “Wait—Michigan? Not Alabama? Michigan?”

That’s right: the Wolverine State is branching out into whole new vistas of sexual endeavor. (And really, Alabamanians are much more into pig-fucking, on account of the pigs feel more like people.)

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spray-on condoms, bigfoot, and the mainstream media: a smorgasbord of deviance

You’d think the one on the right would be bigger . . .

In what is threatening to become a marathon of posts regarding things Germanic, the Evil today brings you this piece from equally Teuton-obsessed Time concerning spray-on condoms. Uh-huh. Spray-on condoms. These things have been around since 2006, at least in prototype form, but the Evil is always moved to respond when the dreaded, loathed, and much-derided MSM works up the nerve to comment on the cutting edge of sex, art, or monster-hunting. In other words, until the Gray Lady is publishing articles about the search for Bigfoot, Evil don’t care.

Anyway, back to the condoms:

The prototype, which began testing last year, consists of a hard plastic tube with nozzles that spray liquid latex from all directions, much like the water jets in the tunnel of a car wash.

Whoa. Hold up. While one’s member does emerge shiny and moist from the car wash bay of the female anatomy, Evil isn’t quite sure this is the way to open the discussion. But let’s give the inventor a chance to speak. He admits that

some men were “worried that the mechanism, which hisses as it sprays, might ruin the mood.”

That’s ridiculous! Why, the Evil hisses when he sprays, so he really doesn’t see why that would be a problem. You just have to find the right lady—beautiful, adventurous, and ever so patiently accepting of one’s quirks.

Continue reading spray-on condoms, bigfoot, and the mainstream media: a smorgasbord of deviance