Cock BTW: Are you kidding? Why would that bring me down?
Cock BTW: I find it, dare I say, a beacon of hope?
Balk BTW: Really? You're not at all disgusted by the idea of wrinkly old bodies, with their flabby skin and rank odors, mixing together in hip-shattering moments of passion that mingle the smell of sex with the stench of death?
Cock BTW: You're an idiot.
Cock BTW: Listen, jackass, I know you're trying to kill yourself with booze and cigarettes, but guess what? I've done the research: All Balk men live into their nineties. So you know what? We're stuck with each other for another sixty years, at least. And here's the deal: I am still going to be wanting some.
Cock BTW: I don't want to get too flowery or poetic or whatever, but here's the thing: When you stick me into someone, it's not just about something as base as sex. Which is not to say that sex is a bad thing. But anyway: It is an affirmation of life. Being stuck into someone, thrusting back and forth in a dance that both brings you as close to another person and makes you, for however long you keep together, feel the very essence of what it is to be human, is the ultimate defense AGAINST death. Don't you think that, as we grow older, we're going to want that more? Hasn't it occurred to you that the closer we come to the grave the more important it's going to be to us to stare death in the face and say, Come when you must, but until that day I am celebrating my life in the best way I know how: By being stuck into someone. I live. I breathe. I am human.
Balk BTW: Wow.
Balk BTW: I never thought of it that way.
Balk BTW: That's amazing.
Cock BTW: Good. Anyway, when we get up there make sure we're still doing it with the younger set. Because I can't get it up for those Golden Girls bitches.

Elderly assert sex still a fact of life [The Age]

"So much subliminal information is conveyed in those first seconds of contact," says Carol Kauffman, Ph.D., a relationship therapist and psychology instructor at Harvard medical school. Okay, so you're on the clock. Make every second count.

Did He Dress Well for the Date?
"This is an excellent point. You always want to look presentable for the first big reveal. I generally have a trim and a polish. If I'm feeling particularly sporty I'll put on a blazer and khakis, but just a normal button-down shirt - provided you leave yourself some room to breathe near the head - is enough to show that special lady that you're the kind of cock who is well-groomed and stylish. Take my advice, fellas, save the "Suck me raw" tee for the third date."

Is He Depressed?
"No woman likes to see a sad, droopy cock. Nor does she want to hear about how your Balls never loved you when you were growing up. Save the whining for the masturbation session that will occur after the date when you're still wanting more."

Is He Like My Ex?
"A difficult one. As Cocks, we're all unique, but we all share some of the same similarities, wants, and needs. Women are very attuned to this, so it's important to pretend that you're not into anal like that last guy until it's too late."

Is He Bitter About Past Relationships?
"No matter how many STDs you have, don't mention them. She'll find out soon enough."

Can He Talk About Himself and Listen to Me?
"The hardest thing for a Cock to do is stand at attention while she's gabbing on nervously about what happened that day at work. Prepare yourself in advance by picking up a copy of Maxim or some other softcore porn publication and memorizing the good parts, if you know what I mean. That way you can look interested the whole time. As for your end of the conversation? Just the occasional, 'Hey, Cock here," should do it."

Is He Generous?
"Baby, I will be generous all night. You know, assuming those blue pills come through."

Does He Make Me Feel Understood and Appreciated?
"Baby, I will make you feel understood and appreciated all night. Unless, you know, you don't get off by the time I'm ready to go. Because that I will not understand. Or appreciate it. It's your orgasm too, right? Work with me."

Is He Open to a Relationship but Not Needy?
"I am open to anything. And maybe I can be a little needy. NEEDY FOR BLOWJOBS. Other than that, I'm a prince."

Does He Keep Promises?
"Well, the promises we make as Cocks are pretty easy to keep. Barring massive drunkeness."

Does He Have the Potential to be a Good Father?
"Lady, you just totally lost me. I am out of here. Blowjob for the road? No? Damn."

10 Ways Women Judge You [Men's Health]

Earlier: Mara Altman Is Writing A Book About How She Has Never Orgasmed
Related: Were You Freakishly Old When You Figured Out How To Come? Make The Memoirist Feel Better...

LAST night found Alex Balk, "blogger," drinking with his cock, My Cock, at Old Town, a classic tavern in the Union Square neighborhood here. Half the bar was shrouded in shadow, but Mr. Balk was illuminated by the red glow from the neon sign overhead. This seemed fitting, given that Mr. Balk had just turned red after reading a New York Times "A Night Out With" about writer Stacey Grenrock Woods, erroneously described, as the photos here show, by the paper's website as being written (in the third person) by Stacey Grenrock Woods.

The article's tone was both knowing and earnest, using standard self-deprecation in an attempt to deflect the charges of self-aggrandizement that the bizarre arrangement was sure to elicit.

"What the fuck," said Mr. Balk, an appallingly grizzled 34-year-old, as he knocked back shot after shot of Wild Turkey. "Are they fucking kidding with the shit? Is it supposed to be post-modern? Does she know someone there?"

Bitter disappointment on the agenda this evening: Mr. Balk hadn't eaten all day, and was making progressively less sense.

"I see you've got a little vomit on your shirt," said Mr. Cock, a shaggy phallus, noting his host's disheveled appearance.

"No chunks, at least," Mr. Balk said with a hiccup. He had emerged from the restroom with a familiar token of minor weekend inebriation: a large trail of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He delicately—inasmuch as anyone with hands trembling the way his were—pulled it off and offered it to Mr. Cock.

"Here, Cock," Mr. Balk said. "Wipe yourself with it the next time you get excited." Mr. Cock recoiled as if the paper contained naked photos of Ann Coulter.

Over drinks, Mr. Cock reminded Mr. Balk of another literary annoying aspect of Grenrock Woods' self-penned PR piece: Her not-so-subtle suggestion that people might want to read the July issue of Playboy, which has some nude shots of her in it.

"Raza deal wizzat," Mr. Balk retorted. "Y'neverd see naked piczures a me." ("Who would want to?" asked Mr. Cock. The question hung in the air, until Mr. Balk's stomach materialized atop the bar.)

Afterward, the group was escorted to a street corner, where Mr. Balk found a few comrades sitting around a half pint of Georgi vodka. In an slow, deliberate attempt at sounding sober, Mr. Balk said: "Sip, please?"

A few rounds later Mr. Balk was beckoned home by another impending day at the blog office, and the emptiness of the bottle. His streetmates asked what kinds of hopeless posts he'd phone in the coming month. "Cause your whole fucking July was all Murdoch, Murdoch, Murdoch," one noted.

Mr. Balk slouched. "No fucking clue," he said. "Probably will make some crappy parody of the Stacey Grenrock Woods thing in the Times. And who knows? Maybe new job come soon." Puking copiously, he admitted, "More posts by My Cock."

"Blearrragh," he added.

Mr. Cock stood silently at attention, a single tear dripping down his cheek.

A Star Finally Gets to Shine [NYT]

[Update: No really! It's just that the website said she wrote it! The paper has the real author's byline and all, no need to crucify her. Jeez, MONDAYS.]

Why? People. Let me tell you about other people. They are morons, and self-important morons at that. I'm generally ill at ease in any environment where a large number of people are asked if they have any questions, because the questions are always retarded and repetitive. Either people don't read their forms before they come to court or they don't understand them (or, most likely, they don't think they apply to them), but there's an incredible feeling of bile that rises in my throat when I suddenly realize that my next hour is going to spent listening to some schmuck try and tell a government employee who couldn't care less why his business trip is of such vital import to the nation's economy that he cannot be expected to perform his civic duty. And then another hour of a different schmuck explaining exactly the same thing, even though it didn't work for the last guy. I immediately felt sorry for whatever defendant drew these dunderheads as jurors: I'm pretty sure that 90% of all guilty pleas are decided on a "I'm going away for the weekend; let's just lock him up and get the hell out of here" mentality.

In any event, the first day was mostly eventless. The courthouse has Internet access now, so I was briefly able to catch up on Gawker and curse the fact that FUCKING DOREE GOT TO DO ALL THE RUPERT MURDOCH STUFF. But I tried to stay offline, and spent most of my morning reading the newspapers slowly and with rapt attention—much like the way one has sex when one isn't actually getting paid for it. The cliché about jury duty downtown is that the best part is having lunch in Chinatown, but it's true. When you get two hours in which to eat and you have an incredible array of places in which to do it, you sort of understand why the Europeans are way ahead of us in leisure activities. (FYI: The tong po pork at New Green Bo, 66 Bayard, is astounding: Fatty pieces of braised belly shellacked in Shanghai gravy, then stuffed into steamed buns with baby bok choy? It haunts my dreams.)

Returning from lunch, I was sort of excited to learn that I was getting called for a case. Maybe I'd miss the next three weeks of work! They herded us into a courtroom downstairs and gave us the details: small-time crack sale arrest. The judge said it could take up until August 13th. YES! I mean, sure, Conrad Black would probably mow down seven people before taking his own life and FUCKING DOREE WOULD GET TO COVER IT, but getting up at ten o'clock each morning and dispensing some justice, Balk-style? I could handle it.

Then the reality: There were other jurors. Some of them seemed smart and attentive, some of them were a decent subsection of Mahattanage (am I the only one who plays Hot juror/Not juror? You know, where you look at the folks in the box and think "I'd stare your decisis!" Really? Just me?). But the majority of them were clearly interested in getting the hell out of there, and, suddenly, so was I.

Everyone has their own prejudices and views of the world, and I accept that, but I was astounded to realize how many people refused to accept that a defendant's choice not to take the stand did not in any way imply guilt. Never mind that it's a bedrock principle of our Constitution, never mind that given the astounding power of the state to deprive someone of their liberty that person has no obligation to personally argue against charges proffered against them, never mind innocent until proven guilty: To some members of the pool, the fact that you were unwilling to testify in your defense clearly meant that you had something to hide. (And, sure, sometimes it does! That's not the point!) I suppose it shouldn't be shocking that juries really do operate on a general assumption of guilt, but it's not a bad thing to be reminded of every now and again, and for that (and that tong po pork, which is fucking amazing) I actually am sort of grateful for the experience.

But enough bleeding-heart yapping: The judge eventually came around to me and asked the standard question about how I made a living. This was something I had wondered about in the days before the call: What would I say? "Blogger?" Yeah, right. Can you imagine anything more embarrassing? Writer? As if. Let's be honest, I'm a blogger. You're not reading 280 pages of My Cock & Me, by Alex Balk anytime soon. (Although if you're interested and have the juice, drop me a line.) So I simply said "editor," which is, after all, my job title.

When it came time for the baby-faced A.D.A. to ask us questions, he turned to me.

"Mr. Balk, you said you're an editor? What do you edit?"

"Well, it's a website?"

"What kind of website?"

"Um, it's Manhattan-centric? Media and celebrity stuff, mostly."

"What's it called?"

Fuck. I had to admit it.

"Gawker.com," I sighed.

The A.D.A. and the defense attorney immediately exchanged glances. I can't be 100% sure, of course, but I'm pretty damned positive that working for this site kept me off that jury. There's a cruel and twisted irony in there, but at that point I was happy to take it and get the hell out.

While we were waiting in the hall for them to call us back in and let us know who was chosen and who got to leave, a couple of guys came up to me and said stuff like "Gawker? That's awesome!" [Note: Do not do this. I am extremely shy and extremely ashamed of what I do for a living. Don't rub it in.] A girl approached me and said, "Oh my God, you're Balk's Cock?" Which is how, for the first (and probably last) time in my life, I got to say, "No, I'm Balk. My Cock's down here."

Fortunately, they called us in about a minute later and cut me loose.

What have I learned? People are idiots. The system is pretty much stacked against defendants. Working on idiot websites is a good way to get out of jury duty. And tong po pork is astounding. Seriously, go check it out. You won't be disappointed.

Zionist propaganda sheet The Forward has gone so far as to call me an "offender" who refuses to be "cowed" in my pursuit of the facts about the Heeboisie and their insidious grip on the culture industry of this country. Worse than that, they imply that I'm unfunny! Well, I'll tell you, there is nothing funny about racism and censorship, and that's exactly what we have here: These Jews don't like me. They don't like my Jew-baiting ways. They want to take away my right to mock them on a media/gossip blog. Well, I'm not going to stand for it. I'm not even going to daven for it. I will continue to speak my mind on this vitally important issue until the truth is exposed. Or I meet my day's post count. Whichever comes first.

Cheeky Blog's Jewish Obsession Strikes a Funny Bone of Contention [The Forward]

The line about my posts being "studiously irreverent, rich with Jewish-themed cracks and sheathed in a layer of irony so thick that any and all criticism comes off sounding daft, regardless of how maladroit the offending quip" is fantastically well done, putdown-wise. Subtle yet cutting. (Also, points for "sheathed," nice way to get a reference to My Cock in there.) Say what you will about these people, they're nothing if not clever.

Later that same night, Furuichi allegedly pressured Bonomo into visiting a bathhouse for what he said would be "a non-sexual massage" with the clients. En route, Bonomo's boss regaled him with an analysis of his admiration for the purported genital size of Italian-Americans, he said. Despite Bonomo's discomfort, Furuichi continued on in that vein, allegedly saying, "Italian men have penises 'down to here,' gesturing to his knees." The suit noted that Bonomo is both Italian-American and gay. At the bathhouse, a colleague from Mitsubishi's Beijing office, Yue Zhibo, took a picture of Bonomo's penis on his cellphone and then "refused to delete the picture" when Bonomo demanded he do so, the suit states. After the incident, Bonomo's boss, Furuichi, compared Bonomo's penis to an "Italian sausage," the plaintiff said.

BALK BTW: So, Cock, whaddya think? You're Italian, right?
COCK BTW: Half, Balk. The good half. The half those monsters didn't ROB ME OF.
BALK BTW: So THAT's why you still hate the Jews? The circumcision?
COCK BTW: It was terrible! It was like that scene in Pope of Greenwich Village where Eric Roberts gets his thumb cut off, but a thousand times worse! I was just eight days old for God's sake! Animals!
BALK BTW: Anyway, the Bonomo case.
COCK BTW: Oh, yeah, right. Dude's got nothing. I march in the fucking Columbus Day parade every year carrying a big banner that reads "Italian Sausage." It's TATTOOED on me in green, red, and white! This is a problem how exactly?
BALK BTW: I think he's implying that he was being mocked because he was gay, not because he had a gigantic cock.
COCK BTW: Whatever. Ask any of us, be we Italian, Irish, Polish, or Jew: Someone calls you a sausage, you take it. You wanna call me a "dry sausage"? Works for me! "Hot sausage"? I'm down. "Big kosher sausage"? Bring it on! "Spicy sopressata"? Good enough! Just don't call me cacciatorini! Also, "non-sexual massage"? What head was this guy's brain in, you know what I mean?
BALK BTW: Okay, we get it. You were probably the wrong guy to ask about this.
COCK BTW: Either way. Do I get to do my rap?
BALK BTW: What, the "Staight Outta Cockton" thing? I don't see it happening.
COCK BTW: C'MON! "When I'm called off/I get My Balls off/Squeeze the trigger/And spermies get hauled off" is COMEDY GOLD. Also, scansion rivaling Keats.
BALK BTW: Uh, maybe check back Thursday. You've been no help. Dick.
COCK BTW: The pleasure was mine. As ususal.

FIRED EXEC'S 'BEEF' [NYP]

BALK BTW: Hey, Cock. You have anything for Gawker?
COCK BTW: I dunno, man, Atoosa hasn't updated in a while.
BALK BTW: Whatever, we'll take anything. You don't know what it's like out there.
COCK BTW: I'm not talking about Murdoch or Black, that's for goddamn sure. How 'bout that period thing in the Times?
BALK BTW: I told the Jezebel gals it was all theirs.
COCK BTW: Whores.
BALK BTW: Hey.
COCK BTW: Sorry, it just gets me sore. So what CAN I talk about?
BALK BTW: Hmmmm... I don't know, politics? Who do you like for president.
COCK BTW: Oh, I'm Obama all the way.
BALK BTW: Really? You don't worry about his lack of experience?
COCK BTW: He has as much experience as the current guy.
BALK BTW: Um, that's a terrible example. Also, Bush was governor of Texas for five years.
COCK BTW: GOVERNOR OF TEXAS? BFD. The job was DESIGNED so that an idiot could do it. All the power resides with the lieutenant governor. The governor is basically the schmuck in the hat who shows up to cut the ribbon at a hospital opening in Amarillo. My Taint could be governor of Texas.
BALK BTW: How do you know about Texas politics?
COCK BTW: Most of the southern states have weak governor systems. It's a legacy of reconstruction. Don't you fucking read?
BALK BTW: Mainly "Vanity Fair."
COCK BTW: Well, sometimes that's important. The Hollywood issue in particular. Good bonding time for us.
BALK BTW: Uh... yeah. Anyway, Obama. You really don't worry about how little executive experience he's had?
COCK BTW: No. Look, my feeling is that anyone's gonna be better than the dude we've got now. Plus, Obama is a transformative politician. I have never, in our lifetimes, seen someone who inspires so many different people from such a broad spectrum of the electorate. And beyond that: What's it going to say to the rest of the world when we're willing to elect a guy named Barack Obama who's half black, is familiar with both the Christian and Muslim faiths, and has the hottest First Lady since Rosalynn Carter?
BALK BTW: Again with Rosalynn Carter.
COCK BTW: Oh, please, like you haven't stroked me to a little "Rosalynn in tight sweater" fantasy.
BALK BTW: MOVING ON. What about Hillary? Are you unwilling to vote for Hillary because she's a woman? And you're a cock?
COCK BTW: Nah, it's got nothing to do with that. Any other year, sure. I mean, she's a tough, controlling bitch who's unable to admit any mistakes she's made and she's got a penchant for secrecy and paranoia that makes Nixon look stable, but whatever. There are plenty of women I'd vote for: Kathleen Sebelius, Napolitano, heck, even Jodi Rell if I had to vote Republican. Also, that hottie from Michigan.
BALK BTW: Granholm.
COCK BTW: Yeah. Too bad she was born in Canada, I'd pull the lever for her in a second. You know, like YOU HAVE.
BALK BTW: I, uh, think we're done here.
COCK BTW: Good. Meet me in the bathroom in five. And bring the new Maxim that just came into the office.

Tomorrow: My Cock's Top Ten Albums Of The Year So Far

I'm such a feminist. I love women and believe in them.... We have a section that says 'simply grilled,' because women don't like to eat sauces the way men do. They're watching their weight more often. Also, see, it says 'sharing encouraged,' no extra charge. Well, women have smaller stomachs. And maybe two young single girls have a smaller pocketbook, and the idea of encouraging two girls to come in—nobody's going to put a spotlight on you, make you feel uncomfortable because you're sharing a dish, or that you want something just simply grilled. Women like sexy. Talk about empowerment and feminism!

In the Zone [NYer]

Dear Prudie,

My daughter is 5 years old and has, like most girls her age, a hamper's worth of stuffed animals. While she has her favorites, she constantly wants more and usually connives to get someone (read: her grandparents) into procuring a new one every couple of weeks. The new one immediately becomes her favorite and she must sleep with it every night and haul it around half the day. My question is: Does this behavior indicate she'll be overly promiscuous as an adult, or at least unable to commit to a single partner?

—Perhaps Overly Worried Father

Dear Perhaps,

Yes. I've met many a woman who swears that she'll pat my pretty pony for the rest of my life, only to be completely abandoned as soon as a new Care Bear comes down the pike. This slut is going to be tickling Elmos all over town, particularly if they offer to buy her fries first.

Sincerely,
My Cock

Dear Prudence [Slate]

"Cup his hand against your mouth, and flick your tongue quickly in and out of the center of his palm."
My Cock says: "Uh, excuse me, what the hell is this doing for me? Screw My Hand, it gets a pretty extensive workout already. Come on down to where the action is."

"Seductively lick a dab of food off your lips or finger. He'll imagine what that tongue would feel like on him."
My Cock says: "I'm a cock. I already know what your tongue is gonna feel like on me. Don't waste my time. Also, I don't need to hear you bitching about all the calories you consumed later."

"Make a silly bet to be paid off in sexual favors, or play a board game naked in bed and agree that the loser has to grant the winner one lusty request."
My Cock says: "Or how about this? You blow me, and we leave Monopoly way back in the hall closet where it belongs."

"Chill a bunch of marbles in the fridge. Toss them on the bed and make him lie on them while you straddle him."
My Cock says: "Yeah, nothing gets me hotter while you're doing me than the possibility that an errant cats-eye might wedge its way up My Ass. Next."

"Pre-oral action, pop a mint. You'll both get chills, because menthol triggers the body's cold receptors."
My Cock says: "Sure! Or maybe you could get some Vicks Vap-O-Rub and go to town on my tool. You ever hear a guy yell, 'Oh, yeah, baby, make it sting!'? No? There's a good reason for that."

"Slip a glazed doughnut around his manhood and nibble it off."
My Cock says: "See above as regards calorie complaints. Also, I have a paranoid fear that a bunch of fire ants are going to sense the residual sugar and climb the tower. How am I going to explain those bumps?"

"Take an old strand of fake pearls and other beads and, holding each end, pull it back and forth around the shaft of his manhood."
My Cock says: "Ooh, it's Mardi Gras time in Shaftsburg! Pearls? Really? You want me to look like Laura Bush at a state dinner? You might as well just shove them up my ass. It might help get that marble from our last escapade unstuck."

"Take a sip of hot water - as hot as you can stand - before [performing oral sex] on him. Then, keeping your mouth closed, swish it all around."
My Cock says: "Get the fuck out of here! This is the scariest thing I've ever heard of. What am I, a goddamn lobster? The only vaguely warm thing I ever want to feel on my body is your tongue, and then possibly my splooge. Hey, Balk, there's no way the bossman's gonna let me say splooge, is there? [Depends on how much attention he's paying today. - Ed.] [Actual Ed. Note: You've worn me down, Balk's Cock. Congratulations. Oh, how racy! You said "splooge"! Enjoy. What are we, 12? Is Sarah Silverman here or something? Ya trying to get a job with the slags at Jezebel?] Either way, do not try this at home. Or anywhere."

"Make ice from seltzer, then rub him down with the cubes. The carbonation leaves slushy pockets in the ice, so one minute he'll feel a solid touch from the cube; then next, a snowy clump melting on his skin."
My Cock says: "What the hell is wrong with these people? First you want to scald me to death and then you're going to turn me into some kind of frozen egg cream? Just blow me already! I don't need this Perrier crap."

"When fondling his manhood, slip a hair scrunchy around the base of it. The tight scrunchy combined with your touch creates an amazing sensation."
My Cock says: "Yeah, ease up there, Vidal Sassoon. A woman I knew once tried this with a rubber band. Guess what? The results were unpleasant. Plus I felt like a character in a David Lynch movie. Look, ladies, it's easy: Mouth me. I'm a simple cock with simple needs. I know you want to be all arty and shit, but let's be honest, cocks like blowjobs because we don't have to do any work. Dodging freezing ice cubes and necklaces defeats the whole purpose. Thanks for your time."

SEX, LIES & FROZEN MARBLES [NYT]

Is it Ok to Demand Anal Sex? [Details]

[Image: A.P.]

"Forget the proverbial seven-year itch. Not to disillusion the half million or so June balls and ballgrooms who were just married, but new research suggests that the spark may fizzle within only three years." And: "It may be that happy handdom always came with a three-year expiration date." And: "'What's keeping hands and cocks together is their love and commitment for each other,' Professor Musick said, 'and that's fragile.'"

Remember last week when I was all "masturbation is a tool the body uses to make excuses for not being able to get laid, just like it's always been. Oh, and love is a lie"? If you read the article about hands and penises in this weekend's New York Wang Styles section, you probably figured, Okay, here comes a post along the lines of, "Well, DUH! Hahaha, eat it yanking suckers!"

But: actually, no. This week, I believe in self love, even though there's still no good reason to.

I just sort of decided to believe in it, even though it's still hard for me to imagine any ordinary flawed hand and cock sticking it out til death do them part without majorly deluding themselves. But maybe that's ok?
I would have posted about this yesterday, but yesterday I was really exhausted from spending the night before alternately coming uncontrollably and dancing around the room lip-synching to my cPod to "Big Balls" by AC/DC. Breakups are like that. Yeah, I broke up with my left hand. Um, duh.

Here's one of the few things that I'm reasonably sure of: that people like Righty Rightowitz, a 33-year-old paintbrush holder from Portland, Ore., who was with his former cock for three years, are going about it all wrong. "I felt like, by year three, we were both forcing it ... It's the whole cliché of pursuit. Your dates are planned out like some Drew Barrymore romantic comedy with Kleenex and Vaseline. By year two, we were cruising along, living together, relatively happy. But from a growth standpoint things had started to atrophy. He just couldn't get it up for me."

First thing: Drew Barrymore romantic comedy. Somewhere, if he has any sense in his head, Righty Rightowitz's ex-cock is like, "Dodged that bullet. Who wants to be tugged to Music and Lyrics?"

Second thing: it is dumb to expect another appendage to make you happy, no matter how dexterous his fingers. Everyone does it. It's still dumb and we should stop. Third thing: thinking and planning and imagining how the future is going to be is the enemy, not just of relationships, but of feeling happy ever. One of the things that hands like Righty get all bored about is that they're looking at things from a "growth standpoint," thinking about how things were in the past and comparing them to way they think things might be in the future. You can't always get a rise on command. You want growth? Show me some Asian hippo porn, something new and different.

Another thing. My dad's father's hand and cock are very old and they still totally love each other. My handfather sometimes calls his cock "my friend" as if it's, like, a secret that they are stroking up, even though obviously they have hooked up because hello, I've seen the copy of "Hearing Aid Hotties" he keeps on the nightstand. It's also obvious because sometimes my handfather likes to get a little drunk and talk about the "night in '54 when we did it four times to a picture of Ava Gardner!" Awww/ewww! Anyway. They seem to have figured out the secret to making "the spark" last more than three years. I wish they could tell the rest of us, but maybe it's one of those things that everyone has to figure out for themselves. But it's probably got something to do with lube.

Mr. Greenspan has, in the past, made his views clear about news articles that he disagrees with. In March, this reporter wrote an article about MySpace's increasingly restrictive policy on third-party software tools. The article did not mention yet another lawsuit that Mr. Greenspan has filed against the News Corporation, claiming the company was restricting free speech on the site by blocking such software. Mr. Greenspan wrote in an e-mail message, "How did you miss the boat so badly?"

Asked about the e-mail message now, Mr. Greenspan said he may have been "cranky" that day.

The Best Posts of 2007, Thus Far
Judged By My Cock