Friday, July 30, 2010

Moving On...

The blog is coming to an end.

But not really.

The bad news is that after two and a half years, this blog specifically will be closing shop.

But don't worry, because the good news is that I'm moving over to a new blog attached to my all new personal porn site, JeremyFeistXXX. So really, I'm not ending it so much as I'm hauling ass to a bigger, fancier, sexier blog with a URL that isn't a pain-and-a-half in the ass to type out. Sweet.

Anyway, both the site and the blog will be up August 1st, assuming that there aren't any forseeable disasters, such as tech problems and/or sharks suddenly gaining the power of flight and devouring all of humanity. Either of those would be terrible.

And speaking of moving, this is also my last day in Montreal, as tomorrow I'm moving my sweet ass to Toronto. While I'll miss my family, friends, and poutines, there are certain ... things I won't miss and which can take a long walk off a short pier, if you catch my drift.

You do? We're good then.

So yeah, update your RSS feed, break out the lube and make sure that there aren't any minors or co-workers in the room; I'm going pro, baby.


Jeremy Feist

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Apparently I'm Racist Now

On a lesser blog, this would be a kiss-ass apology post where I apologize to those who didn't understand the message I was trying to get across yesterday. However, I have this thing about not apologizing for other people's stupidity. Hey, if you're too dumb to understand a basic message, that's your damn problem, not mine.

Here's the thing: The point of last night's post was that finding someone physically unattractive doesn't mean you hate them as a person. Of course, this means I'm racist. Oh, wait, no, I think the term was "racially insensitive White male". How delightfully PC. I'll post the comment in full, and then I'll go through it in and explain why you're wrong.

Spoken like a typical racially insensitive White male. No wonder "The Sword" posted a link to your blindness.

You're right Cybersocket isn't forcing you to abide by their list, BUT PAY ATTENTION!!!!

If you are going to promote yourself as "The leader in Gay & Lesbian online information!", like Cybersocket does, then IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO BE ALL INCLUSIVE. Or else every media outlet that isn't makes the Rainbow of the gay flag a FRAUD.

This is NOT just about this list, this is about Cybersocket's and OTHER GAY AMERICAN MEDIA OUTLETS' overall behavior of shunning men of color, Black men especially. As I have said on other sites, the only reason Diesel Washington and Eddie Diaz got any recognition was because those were names that they knew their racist cohorts would know.

And don't give me the "preference" vs "racism" speech. I already wrote a post proving how that is a bunch of bullshit.

Let's review.

First off, let's see if we can't figure out you're definition of racism here. From what I can tell, if you don't find black men hot, you are racist. Now, let's try and plot this out in a graph to better understand this, shall we?
Ummmm ... Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out how that line of thinking works. Just to nail my point across, let's try this but switch it out for ... I don't know, anyone.

Here's where things start to get tricky: differentiating skin colour as a basis for a person's self versus skin colour as a purely cosmetic feature. I'm of Irish descent, and I'm proud of being of being of that. However, I do wish my skin was a tad darker, and that I could sit out in the sun for more than ten minutes without bursting into flame. Which is to say: I'm not too hot on how pale I am. Racist? No. It's just a matter of personal tastes.

Furthermore, if we're judging based on your line of thinking, if you don't want to have sex with a 60-year-old man, are you ageist? If you're not into twinks, then obviously you hate skinny people. Once again, you have to be able to differentiate heritage from looks.

Now, back to the list; Cybersocket shit the bed. I think we can all agree on that one at this point. The list is, sadly, a pretty colossal fuck-up. But saying it's racist then calling it a day is counter-productive. Yes, there is a lack of mainstream performers of colour. I'm not about to pretend I know why this is, but I'm also not about to simply chalk it up to racism. This is a complex problem, and trying to impose a simple solution onto it isn't helping.

And finally: "typical racially insensitive White male"? Really? Oh jump up your own ass. Once again, it's not my fault if you were so attached to your own opinions that you can't be bothered to consider someone else's. Hell, according to your definition of racism, I'm not racist because I like black guys. Hell, half of my boyfriends were black. Although technically, one of them was never official (in the sense it was stated specifically), so if we rule that one out, that would mean I've only ever dated black men. 100%. But then again, I don't believe that other people believing differently makes them racist, soooooo... Oh goddammit, I'm confused. Would someone please decide for me whether or not I hate other people?

Tuesday, July 27, 2010


Remember that old predicament about people shouting "FIRE!" in a theater?

Well here's another one: If someone goes onto an internet thread and shouts "RACIST!", is it racist?

Alright, so the deal is that Cybersocket released a list of the 40 Biggest porn stars of 2010 (well, so far anyway) and the list doesn't include a single black man. Obviously, judging from some of the more (*ahem*) questionable entries on the list (You know who I'm talking about, bitch.) and some obvious oversights, the list is kinda ... well, it's not great. Bad even. But is it racist?

Now admittedly, as a white Canadian, I'm not exactly in a position to go into detail about the struggles of being a black man (or really, any other visible minority) in America. But here are a few things I do know:

If you don't find black guys sexually appealing, that doesn't mean you're necessarily racist. The same basic idea applies to every colour of man you can think of, it really doesn't matter. Fact of the matter is, one person's level subjective sexual attraction to another doesn't have anything to do with civil rights. What, do you think Martin Luther King Jr.'s message would have gotten across better if he looked like Taye Diggs? I'm gay and I don't want to have sex with women (yeah, what a shame); that doesn't mean I believe in ending women's suffrage or that I'm not pro-choice. Likewise, just because someone doesn't find black men attractive doesn't mean they believe in white supremacy.

It just means you have terrible taste in men. Hang your head in shame.

That being said, there's a limit to this. It's one thing to have your own personal standards for sex appeal, but when you start making shout outs about not being into guys of colour, then we're starting to toe the line between "personal tastes" and "being an asshole". It's okay to let a guy down nicely by explaining that he's not your type. But when one of the first lines out of your mouth (or on your Manhunt profile) is along the lines of "I'm not into black guys", then that's a douchey thing to do. Not necessarily racist, but still a dick-move.

Now, back to the list: is it racist? No. Is it an imperfect list? Yes. But fact of the matter is, the list is based on the personal opinions of someone else, so yes: chances are your tastes probably won't be completely in sync. But you know what? That's okay. You're as entitled to your own opinions as the writers of Cybersocket are to theirs. You may not agree, but it's not like they're making you.

If you don't like it, write your own list. That wasn't meant to be sarcastic or snarky; write your own list. Voice an opinion. Create a social message instead of just social commentary. It's a matter of freedom of speech, so you might as well use it.

(Oh, and P.S.: I will never get tired of that gif. Thank you Wonder Showzen, you were awesomely fucking insane in the membrane.)

Monday, July 26, 2010

Cannonball Read Entry #33: Stuff White People Like - Christian Lander

You hear that sound? The dull thumping noise? That's the sound of Christian Lander beating a dead horse. And now with the publication of Stuff White People Like, based on the blog of the same name, you can hold it high on your bookshelf where people will see it, chuckle a little bit, then move on.

For those of you still stuck under a rock, Stuff White People Like is one of those One-Trick Pony sites that popped up where, the authour pretty much tells the same joke every day and everyone eats it up. Sure, the joke is funny when you first hear it, but after a while the punch-line just gets drowned out by the sound of the "thump-thump-thumping" that can only come from the union of bat with deceased horse.

We get it; hipsters are insufferable. Everyone knows that. It is literally impossible to be in the same room as a hipster-douchebag with wanting to kick them square in the fleshy patch of skin where their genitals should be. Because really, that's what this book is about: Hipsters. Unfortunately, no one would buy a book about things hipsters liked, because no one cares about what hipsters think anyway.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: read one entry of "Stuff White People Like". Laugh about it. Then close the browser and never read the site again. Believe me, you'll thank me later.

Cannonball Read Entry #32: South Park and Philosophy - Richard Hanley

You know, I learned something today; There are two types of South Park fans in the world. The first are people who watch the show and actually understand the message of the week's episode. The other group consists of those who watch the show and merely impose their own tightly-held belief onto it.

Guess which group Richard Hanley, the mind behind South Park and Philosophy: Bigger, Longer and More Penetrating, belongs too?

That's not entirely fair; as a professor of philosophy, Hanley has interesting ideas, and while they're not always entirely right, they're never entirely wrong. It's just that, well, the dude is just so fucking smug about them. So smug that he ends up suffering the same fate as San Francisco does in "Smug Alert", disappearing up his own ass.

If we're using the "Dicks, Pussies and Assholes" dichotomy from Team America: World Police, Hanley is an asshole that likes to think he's a dick. While he likes to think that he's fucking the system good and hard, all he's really doing is shitting on everything. He shits on religion, he shits on banning steroids, he shits on anyone who doesn't agree with him ... After a while, you just want to grab his smarmy little mouth and seal it shut.

Not to say the book is completely full of it; the essays NOT by Hanley are well worth the price of admission. Not only because they aren't completely up their own ass, but also because they actually examine the characters, ideas and philosophy behind the show, unlike Hanley who just says "This is what I believe" and then picks a bunch of clips from the show to prove his point. Honestly, I'd much rather read about how each of the boys represents a function of the human psyche then suffer through some tripe about how Richard Dawkins will save us all from the religious zealots.

In the end, about 1/3 of the book isn't written by Hanley, and this is the part of the book that I most enjoyed reading. It's one thing to have ideas, but if you're only going to use them as an excuse to shit on other people's ideas, then you're really just an asshole ... Or at best, a limp dick.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

The Editing Room

This is what I've been staring at for the past 3 days. One week people ... One week ...

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Waiter Games: How to Fuck With Your Customers Without Their Knowing

Since I'm leaving Montreal in almost a week, I've already taken the time to formally quit my job, which is kinda disappointing since I always wanted to storm off dramatically to the sound of applause. Anyhoo, since my big "Fuck you, MAAAAAAN" moment will probably never happen, I've taken it upon myself to start getting back at my more careless and rude customers via passive-aggressive mindgames and general fuckery most foul. The neat thing about quitting your job is that in the space of those two weeks, you essentially live a life devoid of consequence. And without repercussions, you can pretty much do whatever you want to a reasonable degree, and still know that there's a job lined up for you on the other side. It's a pretty sweet niche. Anyway, here are some of the games I've come up with.


This helps if you work in a restaurant with a wide variety of food. If an asshole asks you for a recommendation, or if you're in a position to give one, suggest something you really like. Play it up as much as you can; make them really want it. Then pretend to go get it and come back five minutes later saying that you're all out. Repeat as many times as you can. Award yourself points based on the quality of the food you're withholding.


This one's a bit easy. If you notice your customer is leaving you a shitty tip, start humming the tune to "Hey Big Spender". You know the song, right? Right. Anyway, award yourself points based on how loud you perform, and double your score if you actually sing the song. You win the game if you can full on belt it in front of everyone there; trust me, your complete lack of shame will earn you extra guilt-tips in the long run.


It's a waiter's duty to make their customers feel welcome. This game is meant to do the exact opposite. When a table comes in, come up with the most awful, foreshadowing and unpleasant way to greet them. My personal favourite: "Welcome to [insert name of restaurant here]! Our food probably doesn't have salmonella, but there's only one way to find out!


If a customer demands to know why he/she/it's been waiting so long for it's food, despite waiting for all of two minutes in total, tell them that the meal is being prepared right now, but "The pig/cow/chicken more of a fight than we expected". Award yourself points based on the look on their face, and award bonus points for any of the following:
  • You whip out a blood-stained knife at any point
  • Someone faints
  • You unleash a battle cry going back to the kitchen
  • Children cry
  • They ordered veal

People assume that they're being judged when they eat in a restaurant. This is true. If a morbidly obese person ever orders more food than anyone should ever eat, tell them in the most backhanded way that they might want to lay off for a bit. For example: "You sure you should be eating all that?", "You want your belt to buckle, not your chair", and "OH CHRIST IT'S COMING RIGHT TOWARD US oh wait never mind it's just a customer".


Let's say your customer orders a large amount of little free bits of food so that basically, you're running around like a madmen for a tip that in all likelihood won't be that great. What do you do? Simple; if they order a huge tray of little free extras, feel free to rearrange them to spell cute little words like "Cunt" or "Dick". The longer, the better.

Anyway, that's all I could think of for now. If you had a any pranks you played on customers, feel free to share with the class.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Boy Next Door

There's a very good reason why I always check things a thousand times before I leave home: Because if I don't, I'll forget something. The funny thing is, whenever I check to make sure I've forgotten something, I'm always fine. On the other hand, whenever I refuse to check said 1,000 useless things, there's always something that manages to totally screw me.

Case in point: On my way to my shoot with Next Door Studios today, I forgot to charge my iPod. Normally, travelling without music leaves me super fucking cranky. It was only when I got to the point I was supposed to be picked up at that I realized I had forgotten something else: the phone number for my pick-up.

Fuck me running.

In what I can only describe as the most fucked up twist ever, my aunt was there in her car waiting for my cousin. Cue the choir of the angels. I dropped every last bit of shame I had on me and asked if I could borrow her cell so that I could find the number, since mine decided to give me the white screen of death a couple days before. Worst timing ever, cell phone.

After calling around and convincing a friend to log into my email and find the number, I called and found out that the driver was actually about twenty feet away from me. Nifty. As it turns out, I looked so drastically different from when I had just gotten out of the hospital (go figure) that she didn't recognize me from the picture they had given her. In turn, she was actually a 20-something tattooed punk rocker chick, which I have to admit, kinda threw me for a loop.

Having never actually been to a major ass production like this one, I was a little amazed at the sheer amount of camera men running around and naked people milling about with their cocks leading the way like big, fleshy divining rods. Needless to say, I was starting to wonder if there was any way of wiggling out of my place in Toronto and setting up shop where the wild things (and their wild dicks) were.

The shoot itself was a ton of fun and I finally found a way to perform a solo with all the bells and whistles attached, something I had never been able to do previously. After taking a metric fuckton of sexy pics on a rock outside the cottage (and somehow finding a way to self-suck on said bumpy, uneven rock) we traveled over to the jungle gym behind the house where I jacked off and self-sucked on a slide and masturbated next to a swing set.

I would be lying if I said I didn't love every single minute of it, and that the scene will be the hottest thing of all time.

After that I played Air Hockey with one of the other models while I waited for my ride home because oh yeah, THEY HAD AN AIR HOCKEY TABLE TOO. Needless to say, Next Door Studios really takes care of their models; specifically, the ones with a hankering for air hockey.

This was honestly one of the only times I've ever been sad to leave a shoot. Seriously, I think this was one of those super amazing experiences everyone keeps talking about, so thank God I landed it.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Aural Sex (18/07/10)

You probably assumed from "Breathe Me" that all Sia knows how to do is brood and croon. Not so much. Here she is singing a song less likely to make you curl up into a little ball on the floor and cry: Sia's "Clap Your Hands".

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Making Porn, Episode 2: Hot As Hell

Future and current pornographers, take note: Never schedule a shoot during a heatwave. I should probably explain here: You see, in Montreal the heat tends to fluctuate between between "Holy Shit, it's so cold I can't feel my extremities" and "Oh my God, am I on fire?" depending on the season. God help the person who has to suffer the latter in an enclosed space with stage lighting and absolutely no way of staying cool whatsoever.

As you probably guessed, this is exactly the sort of shit I went through yesterday. It never occurred to me that, when I scheduled the scene, I might want to think about how not to die of heat stroke. The problem was first brought to my attention when about half way through my first scene of the day with Jake Manhole (subtle name, huh?) when we had to keep taking breaks every five minutes so that he could stand in front of my fan and I could stick my head under the kitchen sink and run cold water on it.

If you've never had to fuck underneath stage lighting, consider yourself lucky; it's like trying to bone in a goddamn toaster. This was in no way helped by the fact that (A) it was my first time topping and (B) as it turns out, topping is a TON of work. Bottoming is more of a mental game while topping is more physical, and as it turns out, thrusting plus massive amounts of heat = me losing about twenty pounds in water weight.

Thankfully, other than the fact that we damn near caught on fucking fire, my first scene as a top (yeah, that sounds weird to me to) went pretty damn well. I maintained wood without the help of viagra (oh, the perks of being nineteen...) and even managed to shove what was nearly my entire fist up his ass, which very nearly qualifies me as a fisting top. What is that, like, a bronze in the fisting Olympics or something? None too shabs.

Between shoots one and two, Bruce (one of the guys from Videoboys who also doubled as my camera guy) grabbed some pizza and tried desperately to figure out how the hell to import video onto Premiere. This was no easy feat, since I'm generally somewhat e-tarded and Premiere is about as user friendly as a bear-trap. Granted, we finally figured it out, but not before the idea of picking up my laptop and punting it off the balcony crossed my mind.

And just in case you were worried that my one shot as a top somehow made me quit dick-taking forever, well rest your pretty little head because my second season quickly reestablished that my ass is really only good for one thing: Accommodating penises. As it turns out, I'm even getting better at it; I've gone from barely being able to take a nine incher to pretty much having fit in there like a fucking glove.

And of course, the room still felt like we were fucking in a goddamn sweatbox. As it turned out, being on the receiving end of a slam-fuck didn't bode much better for me because we were both still sweating absolute fucking buckets. The man who manages to create a non-heating stage light will die a rich man.

Anyway, the good news is I now have all the scenes I need filmed for the start-up of the site, which means I now have a metric fuckton of editing to do, which is where the actual work kicks in. Editing, besides being an incredibly ugly word to say out loud, also happens to be confusing as hell, but hey, if someone who cried at the end of Twilight (seriously; Twilight? Pussy) can edit a video, absolutely anyone in the entire world can.

Aural Sex (17/07/10)

Okay, so no one can top the original by The Pixies, but still, it's a pretty cute song and she does a good job. Here's Meaghan Smith's version of "Here Comes Your Man" of the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Aural Sex (15/07/10)

Hey, if I'm gonna start it off with anything, I might as well start things off with my favourite band ever. So here's Metric with Dead Disco.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Babies Are Awful (Or: Why I'm Pro-Choice)

I'm severely misanthropic by nature. I think we can all agree on that. Hell, it's part of my charm. But if there's one group of people I tend to come down hardest on, it's terrible parents. You the kind: People who think that because they can put Penis A into Vagina B, they're suitable parents. Based on that line of thinking, the minimum requirement to be raise a child is having enough cognitive function to put together a coffee table from Ikea.

While the overall thought pattern and questionable morals of these parents are annoying on an unapparent level, the resulting behaviour of their demonic little hellspawn is obviously irritating you can see it from space.

Through a two-foot thick wall of concrete.

While blindfolded.

Take for example a group who came in to eat the other day. Not only were the couple incredibly unfriendly and unresponsive to my cheerful greetings, choosing to stare blankly at me as though I had grown a second head when I said "Hello", but they brought with them, of course, a baby. Now, there are some babies I find cute. Quite ones. But for the most part, babies are little more than id machines; screaming, crying, pooping, biting, shitting, eating, barfing id machines. Yet people always look down on me for not cooing the moment one of these is thrust upon me.

This one, however, had apparently progressed to the point where it could feel schadenfreude, and did nothing but scream for the entirety of the meal. Now, I don't mean just little, high-pitched squawks thrown in intermittently either. I'm talking "Banshee at the gates of hell" levels of screaming here.

At no point did it occur to the parents to either settle him down or take him outside.

Now, usually I can deal with difficult tables. Do I like having them? Christ no. But I tolerate them because I know they'll be gone soon and I'll get a tip. But it's another thing when you're table is so patently obnoxious that you actually lose customers because they don't want to be seated in the same section as the screaming baby. And God help me, when I lose two tables because you don't have the decency to take your baby outside for five goddamn minutes, you better believe I'm rubbing your bread on my taint.

Ordering the food itself, since the penis-bearing half of this horribly misguided union was so fat the words could barely escape from the blubbering hole in his face. Seriously, it was like trying to talk to the Swedish Chef. And when the food arrived, the only thanks I got was the baby looking me dead in the face for five seconds, then grabbing the plate and hurling it to the ground. The baby then turned back to me, looked me straight in the eyes again for what felt like an eternity in hell, then laughed. And I don't mean just a little baby giggle, but the full-on laugh of the damned.

The parents did (wait for it...) nothing.

At this point, I had reached the limit of my kindness. I had already lost out on two tables, and the parents seemed all too willing to let me clean up the mess their parental failure had caused. Literally. I spent the length of their stay hidden from sight so they couldn't ask me for anything, while praying to whatever God/gods would listen to shut the little Gremlin up.

The good news is they tipped 15%. The bad news is they should have tipped a hell of a lot more. I may be gay and all, but God help me you better fucking believe that the moment they left I was on the phone scheduling my vasectomy, just to err on the safe side. I bid them goodbye, adding to the mother, "I think your kid might have a future as a FOX News correspondent."

And that is why I'm pro-choice.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Aural Sex

You may have noticed something different when you got here: Namely, no music. Don't worry, I still have a playlist, but I've gotten rid of the auto-play function. For the most part, you guys seem to like the music, but hate having it jump on you like an auditory ninja. So I fixed that.

In its place, not only have I created a newer, sleaker player, but I'm also starting a new addition to the blog: Aural Sex. It's like one of those song of the day things where you can listen to the song now, and then if you want you can pop out the music player to your right and listen to it, along with the songs of the day for the past 15 days. See? I DO listen! I just happen to be really stubborn is all.

Anyway, here's your first dose of Aural Sex: "Crash Years" by The New Pornographers.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

The Girl Who Cried "MISOGYNIST!"

So last Friday I posted a link on Pajiba Love about how Glamor Magazine, which I can only guess is one of those generic Cosmo knock-offs you find on the check-out line rack at Borders, tried to come up with words for ladies to use in the sack. While most of them were sad to the point of being funny (I defy you to call your queef a "hippo giggle" with a straight face), everyone seemed to be able to call a spade a spade; The article was clearly misogynist.

The sad part is, the woman who wrote it (and I'm only assuming it was a woman since this was an article about female sexuality in a woman's magazine) probably thought she was being either really funny or honestly helping women everywhere out. No more would a woman have to tell her man she wants him to eat her pussy! Because as we all know, woman are dainty and elegant and would never partake in anything as vulgar as cunnilingus.

But the fact of the matter was, the entire thing was degrading to woman. Why? Because it underestimated women, and only served to further push the notion that woman obtain zero to no pleasure from sex. I mean Christ, I'm gay and even I know that women are vastly more sexual beings then men. So why beat around the bush and pretend that real woman don't enjoy open and honest communication about sex? Hell, Pajiba's own sex column is written by a woman, and so far she's kicking a pretty Costco amounts of ass.

The sucky thing is, between Hippo Giggles and Mel Gibson's insanely sexist and racist rant, where are all the fingers being pointed? At Jon Stewart and The Daily Show. Seriously. Apparently, Jezebel wasn't too thrilled about the fact that they hired Olivia Munn, so obviously the hiring of an attractive woman was some sort of slight against those with two X Chromosones. How dare they hire someone attractive!

Look, I can understand why someone might not like Olivia Munn as a correspondent; her timing is off, she lacks the ability to turn awkward moments against themselves, and her delivery still lacks the smarmy faux self-importance. That's not to say she can't improve, it's just that right now, she's not great. It's not because she has a vagina or because the writers are threatened by anything lacking a penis; she's just not up to it yet.

The sad thing is, Jezebel could have been supportive of Olivia. She's not the best, but she at least has a rather solid resume and potential. Instead, by trying to portray The Daily Show as a boy's club, they only further perpetuated the anti-feminist sentiment they say they're trying to destroy. Obviously, no one would give a woman a job in comedy; obviously she was only hired for her tits and ass. Project much?

The problem I have with the political correctness Jezebel strives for is that, essentially, it's the same game actual misogynists play: they're trying to impose a boy v. girl, us v. them mentality on a situation that it obviously doesn't belong on.

So what can they do? Well, they can go back to focusing on actual women's issues, avoiding sensationalist stories that only further degrade women, and maybe reconsider their standards on comment moderation. Or they can continue to fling the M-word around like poo-flinging monkeys, because obviously this is working so well for them. Their choice really.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Cannonball Read Entry #31: I Know I Am, But What Are You? - Samantha Bee

Samantha Bee has long been my favourite Daily Show Correspondent, and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that she has boobies, Jezebel. So please, by all means, please take your cries of "Misogyny!" and shove them up your ass. Oh, wait, was that a sexist thing to say? My bad.

Anyway, baseless claims of women-hating aside, Samantha Bee has always been one of the Daily Show's strongest assets. Why? Simple: She never let herself get bigger than the joke she was delivering (with perfect comedic timing, I may add). Some may say this is the reason why she's never really had any major roles while Colbert, Carrell et al. have moved onto the screen, but quite frankly, I appreciate a comic who takes a backseat to their material.

Thankfully, I Know I Am is Bee's way of finally unleashing her personal life onto the general public in a series of short stories from her life, much in the vain of Chelsea Handler. Admittedly, it takes a little while for the book to really get going. Sadly, a lot of Samantha Bee's early life is nowhere near as funny as her adult years. For those of you who read the book and wonder why you aren't laughing right out of the gate...well, hold on. It gets better, I swear. Honestly, the bit about her performing in a Sailor Moon show while Jason Jones yells at little kids about Cancer and anuses had me doing that thing where you chuckle for about five straight minutes afterwards.

Anyway, choppy beginning aside, Samantha Bee herself is a good enough reason to buy the book.

Cannonball Read #30: Fool - Christopher Moore

Christopher Moore is his own worst enemy. And considering the man is my favourite authour and that his work easily take up a rather large portion of my Top 10 books, that's saying something. I'll go into this in a bit, but let's start with the obligatory plot synopsis and things I liked, shall we?

Fool is set entirely in the universe of Shakespeare's King Lear. Hey, it works for Tim Burton, doesn't it? Anyway, the story is told by the titular Fool, Pocket, a tiny little guy tasked with cheering up Lear's youngest daughter Cordelia. The plot is set into motion when Lear decides to divvy up the land based on how well his daughters can stroke his ego. Lear's first two daughters, Goneril and Regan, bullshit him to within an inch of his life and are rewarded with huge swaths of kingdom (don't spend it all in one place!) Cordelia, on the other hand, tells her father she loves him but refuses to stroke his ego, and is justly given das boot. Lear, now fully enraged, dumps his closes friend, gives away Pocket's best friend Drool and generally goes about creating a huge clusterfuck which Pocket now has to clean up.

From the perspective of actual writing, this is easily one of Moore's tightest narratives. Unlike a few of his other books, each scene has at least some impact on the plot altogether, rather than feeling like a clever little aside. He even manages to incorporate Shakespeare's lingo in a way that feels natural without turning the book into either outright mockery or a strict wall of impenetrable text.

The downside is that his characterization, if I may say, fucking awful. Christopher Moore has a bit of a habit of sticking himself into his stories the same way a toddler might force two puzzle pieces together with a hammer and sheer determination. Sometimes, this works (see: A Dirty Job), but usually the protagonist ends up being a lame dork who for some reason walks around knee-deep in A-class poon, thus making them aggravating AND wholly unbelievable.

And that's what Pocket is: An irritating little man who somehow manages to bang chicks and my God does he ever bang a lot of chicks. And just in case you're worried these women have anything resembling a personality, surprise! They don't! The women in the story essentially hang around as a place for the men in the story to put their penises. Hell, even Lear's daughters are essentially characterized by their sexual fetishes. There are about two women in the entire story who have anything close to resembling an actual personality, and even they barely do anything more than play around with his libido. Christ, you'd think with all the flack Jezebel is giving The Daily Show for hiring Olivia Munn, they might maybe lob a couple rocks over at Moore.

It hurts me to say this, but despite a tight narrative, Fool may be one of Moore's weaker books, based solely on just how dreadfully bad he writes his characters. Come on Chris; try writing about someone other then yourself for a change here.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Waiting For The Burnout

I'm pretty sure my job is slowly killing me.

No, not the porn thing. I'm still at the point where it's making me metric fucktons of cash and I still enjoy it. No, as it turns out the job that society deems 'proper' is actively driving me absolutely positively fucknuts.

Here's the deal: My job is to serve ribs and chicken to people. That's it. That's all we have at the restaurant I work at: Ribs and chicken. Not exactly a life or death decision here. The money is good, but that's really only to offset the fact that the decor makes T.G.I.Friday's look like The Cordon Fucking Bleu, and the music seems to be picked exclusively from that part of the 80's that time wishes it could forget but can't.

The clientele isn't any better. In the words of Rebecca from Ghost World, "Some people are okay, mostly I just feel like poisoning everybody." Okay, so granted I'm a natural misanthropist, so the fact that I hate people probably shouldn't come as much of a shock. But just to show you the kind of assholes I have to deal with, here's a quick rundown of some:

Groups who come in five minutes after closing, sit around doing jackshit, and don't bother leaving for a good hour.

Parents who have zero control over their screaming, obnoxious, crying, loud-mouthed kids. On the plus side, it convinced me that I really need to get that vasectomy.

Old people who come in and complain that $10 for a full restaurant meal is expensive. Sorry if your sarsaparilla cost you nickel back in 1901, but much like your waist line, prices are subject to inflation.

Giant ass groups who come in, make a huge mess, go through my personal belongings, then leave me with a giant fucking mess to clean.

Babies. Hoooooooo God do I ever hate babies. You know why they're cute? To make up for the fact that all they do is eat, shit, scream, cry, puke and throw shit around. I absolutely defy you to find anything redeeming about that. Hell, if there was a committee to round up everyone under the age of eighteen and ship them off to an island until they come of age, you better fucking believe I'd be President, V.P., treasurer and secretary.

Point is, the job that people think is good for me and keeps me grounded is making me go staunchly in favour of Cocoa Puffs. Thankfully I can rest easy with the knowledge that I'll be out of here in about three weeks.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Making Porn, Episode 1: The Creation of

As it turns out, creating a porn site is a lot like giving birth to a baby: It's a long, arduous process, but in the end what comes out of it is a part of you that you can be proud of. Also, it involves sticking your penis into other people.

In an effort to start creating content for, I went to Pride for a double helping of Pride and shooting. I had scheduled a scene with Xander Cruise, a friend I had met back in December, along with one with Xtube's Techboy.

The first scene with Xander took place in the pretty little hotel I booked for the night specifically for the scene. Unfortunately, despite asking for a single bed, I got two. Fuck. So of course, I ended up rearranging the entire room to put the two together, and Ryan Russell, our cameraman, was able to set up the lights around the big stupid bed.

The scene itself went amazingly well, although I'm going to play my cards close to my chest on this one. What can I say? Body parts went into other body parts and we looked pretty damn good doing it. More than anything, I was amazed I managed to schedule an entire porn shoot by myself. On the long list of firsts I happen to be proud of, my first homemade sex scene ranks pretty high up there, especially when you consider that I have the organizational skills of a golden retriever.

The Techboy scene was set-up as a sort of mutual benefit sort of thing: we both get to use the video, no one has to pay anyone, and I got a bowl of Miss Vickie's chips to nosh on between shoots. I think we can all agree that chips are delicious, right? Right. Anyway, another hot scene wherein I show off my mad dick taking skills was successfully in the can, and I finally knew what it felt like to take an actual 10 inch black dick.

... Ahem.

Anyway, off camera I ended up going to Toronto Pride's beach party for some much needed beach boozing with Xander Cruise. To be honest, Xander and I have known each other for about eight months so far, and lately, I've been having...feelings. Now before you start assuming that I'm jumping into this willy-nilly, just remember who you're referring to here; I need to make a Pros/Cons list and a Powerpoint Presentation just to decide what to have for breakfast.

The point here is that I may have fallen for him a little. One teensy little problem with this: While I was moving to TO, he was moving to fucking Atlanta. Oh fate, you are a cruel, cockteasing cunt of a mistress. I was doing a pretty good job of hiding those feelings, although it didn't help that we were walking hand-in-hand down the streets of Toronto, kissing openly and generally being very public in our displays of affection. At one point, on the ride home from the island he laid down on my lap while I rubbed his back and tried very hard to convince myself that this wasn't romantic at all and that I wasn't falling for a guy who would be leaving just as I was coming.

Nope, no way that could go horribly wrong.

The next day, we met up one more time so that I could get the pair of jeans I had left at his place. Once again, not romantic whatsoever. We met at a Pizza Pizza by his place where we reenacted that scene from Lady and the Tramp with french fries. This was spotted by a group of lesbians, who looked at us and remarked about what a cute couple we were.

Which got me thinking: When even lesbians, a group of people diametrically opposed to penises, can see that two guys are a cute couple, despite the fact that I was trying very hard to convince myself what we had was good ol' fashioned, no-strings-attached friendliness, then what does that mean? Were they seeing what I was trying very hard to tell myself wasn't there?

We went back to his place where Xander, still a little drunk, told me that I was the only boy he ever let sleep over when he was in Montreal, and that he was disappointed he was leaving when I was coming over. And then he fell asleep while I gave him a backrub.

It was at this point that the floodgates more or less opened. Why the hell had I been so fucking stupid? Who the hell falls for a guy they know is just going to move away? I had this bittersweet lump in my throat; I had finally found a guy who felt as comfortable with me as I was with him. And he was going to be moving to a different country. All I could think about was that it wasn't fair. Was I doing something wrong? Why was it that whenever I finally found a guy who was right for me, we'd end up apart?

The next day, when I was back in Montreal and he was on his way to Atlanta, I did something I never did before: I sent someone a note letting them know how much I cared. I stole away onto the computer at work and typed out the following:

And about all the things you said last night ... Not sure what this counts for, but I think I LIKE like you. Like, a lot. Just saying.

It's remarkable how I can pretty much revert to a high school mentality when trying to convey shit like this. LIKE like? Really? Christ, I might as well have sent him a letter asking if he liked me back with boxes to be marked as "Yes", "No", or "Maybe".

But then he answered with this:

I LIKE you too Jeremy. I feel very comfortable w u.

Cue the over-analyzing. He capitalized the word "LIKE", which could mean more then just regular like. But he also only answered with one "Like". Were his feelings different then mine? And what did he mean by "comfortable"? I was, and still am, confused. I mean, do friends walk around holding hands? Or give each other public back rubs? Did I fuck this up by telling him?

I remember feeling the same way about Clyde: we never actually said what we were, but in the end he felt the same way about me as I did him. The way I felt around Clyde was almost like the way I felt around Xander: Safe, comfortable and happy. But was it actual full-on "LIKE like"?

All I knew was that it felt a hell of a lot better than the one-sided clusterfuck I had with Captain Bitchtits.

The rest of the trip was less emotionally confusing. I marched in my first pride parade wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of boxer briefs and a pair of Chuck Taylors, and I even went to see Cyndi Lauper perform and managed to squeeze into the VIP section. So that was pretty cool.

Anyway, for now I'm gonna try and mull over the difference between regular, normal singular like and the more serious, crushy, double "LIKE" like. Help me out people; am I wrong to assume that maybe this might be LIKE like and that I'm so afraid of becoming emotionally attached that I'm ruining something perfectly good?

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Are You A Crazy Cat Lady?

If there's one thing no one wants to be, it is a Crazy Cat Lady. Crazy Cat Lady's don't really do anything aside appearing on the local news to either shout racist things into the camera or die alone in their apartment. Need to make sure you're not one of them? Now you can with this handy little quiz!

#1: Look around you: What do you see?

A) Sofas, coffee tables ... Nothing out of the ordinary here!
B) A couple cat toys here and there. Awwww, Mr. Whiskers is scratching the ottoman!
C) A sea of cats. Everywhere. When my army strikes, there will be no survivors.

#2: Complete the following sentence: I think cats are:

A) Cute I guess. I'm more of a dog person.
B) They are just SOOOOO adorable! Sometimes my friends send me these pictures of them with funny captions. Love it!
C) The only people who understand me. Fluffernutter and I would be married if those activist judges stopped getting in the way.
D) Delicious.

#3: How's your sex life?

A) Great! I have regular sex with people I care about.
B) Okay I guess. Men/Women just don't appreciate my personality and the fact that all my clothes smell like cat pee.
C) Lonely ... So very lonely.
D) My seed is precious, and I like to keep it in hollowed-out Precious Moments figurines.

#4: You're going out in public; what do you wear?

A) Jeans, a clean t-shirt, maybe a jacket if it's brisk.
B) A sweater that's three sizes too big and sweat pants that make my ass look like a solid wad of dough.
C) A bathrobe, slippers and absolutely nothing else.
D) Tin foil hats keep the Illuminati from reading my thoughts and can also keep food fresh.

#5: Oh look, a camera crew is coming up to your front door. What are they here for?

A) I dunno, probably one of those pieces where they ask random people for their opinions on shit no one cares about.
B) Oh my God, did I win something? Is my ride getting pimped? I have to go tell my family, they'll be super jealous!
C) They're here to ask me about Obama again. Is it my fault that he's a mind-reading Kenyan who wants to put old people in Auschwitz?

#6: When you hear someone tell a story about nearly losing a child, what's your first reaction?

A) Christ, that's scary shit. Hopefully everything worked out okay.
B) Oh my God! I saw something JUST like that on Oprah the other day. She is so smart. People sure like to kidnap adorable white children, don't they?
C) That's just like the time Mr. Whiskers went out after dark for half an hour. Losing a cat is the hardest thing to experience.
D) The child was obviously trying to learn the way of the wolves for when computers enslave us through our Wiis and force us to mine for cocoa beans.

#7: Be honest: How many cats do you own?

A) None.
B) 1-3. I don't want them to get lonely!
C) I don't know. I've lost count and my house reeks of cat shit.
D) I have owned several and through time I have gained their strength through osmosis. I will be ready to face the New World Order when it arrives.

#8: Who's your favourite singer?

A) Right now I'm feeling The National, Broken Bells, Hot Chip ... shit like that.
B) Lady Gaga! Oh my God, I totally saw her in concert once, and it was amazing! Even if she did show up 2 hours late.
C) Toby Keith. The man speaks the truth. U.S.A.! Boot up yer ass!
D) Vuvuzelas

If you picked mostly A...
Congratulations! You are a normal human being. Go out with your real friends. Enjoy your catless life.

If you picked mostly B...
You're still relatively normal, but hold off on getting any more cats. Otherwise you can kiss any chance of ever having anything remotely resembling a social life goodbye.

If you picked mostly C...
You are a Crazy Cat Lady. Your cats have overrun your one bedroom apartment and are biding their time for when you die. Your days are numbered.

If you picked mostly D...
You are Gary Busey.