Tag Archives: sex

CNN News Headline of the Day: “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” Policy Gets a New Look


Bacchante, by Fredrick Leighton; Emperor Justinian I, Unknown; Napoleon on his Imperial Throne, Ingres

A sunny afternoon in 1815, the Bacchante began swirling around Napoleon, rhythmically shaking her tambourine and whispering to him as if it were a grand Californian seduction, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Last night I met a genie and I used my only wish to your benefit. I’ll give you one guess at what it is. But I will tell you this: it’s worth more than that golden crown of laurel leaves you treasure so much.”

“Ahh my little court jesteress, come hither!” Napoleon squeaked to the his young mistress.

“I am not a jesteress, and I’m not joking! See my leopard sheet? Does that not alone prove the gravity of my words? She paused, ”



“When are we going to create this Fourth Reich you promised me?”

“Just as soon as I find out just who that man in the Byzantine mosaic is.” He stared into its piercing gaze for a short while before continuing. “He should be our symbol. Hmm yes, one of levity, and yet seriousness. He is perfect–just look at his flower broche! Not as good as I look in red, though. Brings out the pallor of my skin.”

“I’m sorry for troubling you. I shall have the court historian find out. Why don’t we go for a picnic in Waterloo. I hear the weather is nice this time of year.”

“No…Does this gift glow in the dark? Please say yes.”

“No. It’s just…”

“Out with it!”

“I have the secret to military glory.”

They put their heads together, conspiring. When they emerged again Napoleon had a thin layer of sweat on his face.

“Let me say this slowly and carefully. You are saying that I must first arrive in Waterloo with your doe as my new aide-de-camp to avoid the soldiers’ suspicion, and that I, like Caesar, have had a great dream in which I dined on bread and fish with my men before the battle as the enemy camp loads their guns. Then, we win a grand victory.”

“Yes, that is what I imply, but you leave out one detail.”

“What might that be?”

“My kiss” and she leaned over and kissed him on the tip of his nose before looking at him in the eyes. “I implore you to do as I say. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ is the finest of all military strategies known to man. You shall not fail.”

Napoleon promised her that he would.


USA Today News Headline of the Day: See Tim Burton’s Take on Alice

rafaelaYoung Male Nude, by Hippolyte Flandrin; La Belle Rafaelo, by Tamara de Lempicka; St. John the Baptist in the Wilderness, by Caravaggio

Rafaela rolled over and crumpled up the latest page in her movie script. She was rewriting Alice in Wonderland under her newest nom de plume, Tim Burton. She was sick of using “Ayn Rand.” Everybody already knew she was Russian, and she wanted to continue Western Russification under a more nondescript name to further slap the Westerners in the face with the proverbial sturgeon. 

Alice was really a sexually confused child, she thought to herself. She should be more like her, based on her own experiences at Duke University. She couldn’t help that men fall under her spell, regardless of this confusion, and sometimes kill themselves shortly after. They end up as better people, she reasoned, with a new taste for vodka and samovars, and cheeses and cold-cuts. 

She glanced at the two young men at the sides of her chaise longue. She liked to think they were like the two eels in The Little Mermaid, another classic story of a misunderstood octopus. 

One was breathing very hard with his head between his legs. He stole quick looks at the doorknob and his clothes next to the fireplace, but did not dare run, out of respect for Rafaela’s position as his superior. 

The other was busy staring in the mirror. He saw that his face and behind his ears were covered in red patches, as he frantically scratched his scalp. Rafaela had found him when he was still a busboy. She had waltzed in, knowing everybody who worked there and her sharp eyes could immediately spot the new face and strong forearms. 

“Please bring me a vodka and tonic with promptitude” she had told him and he marveled at her vocabulary. Nobody thought it suspicious that she lulled the manager into only serving vodka at the bar and changing the sepia photographs for Greek Orthodox paintings from her home town of Novgorod, but he felt there was something special about her. She was the Apollonian idea, he decided. 

Then Rafaela quickly sat up and began to dress while the dog watched her. She modeled for him for a few minutes before speaking. “Boys, I must speak with my editor immediately. Which one of you will take me?” Neither answered and she cleared her throat. The very sound made them both jump. 

The panicky one who name she could not remember thought “Oh shit, I should have been showing more interest in her conversation. Now she might beat me as only she knows how.” “I will,” he said aloud, hoping she would spare him for having idle hands. 

In the car with her sarcastic smile and angrily glistening eyes she began to tell him the plot: “You know, a lot of people seem to think the story is really about an acid trip. But it isn’t. Alice was actually in the middle of a fertility ritual in Russia, similar to the Bacchic rituals of Rome. There is a mythical flower called The Muse, or The Grace. As the old saying goes, ‘The children who suckle the Grace Flower, suckle from the very meaning of life.’

So she’s rubbing her thighs together, slick with the pulp of the crushed Muse flowers and wiping ladybugs on the apples of her cheeks when the world begins to spin out of control. Generally in this stage of consciousness girls realize that everybody is actually born a boy. It’s a rite of passage totally incomprehensible to you Westerners–with your logical sudoku and your Brain Age games.” She roared laughter. 

“They also discover that they will soon undergo a rebirth into something more similarly resembling a hermaphrodite and then refashion the universe in their own image. You know, we all find it quite silly that you westerners are so stagnated in your mental development and ever have these realizations–an extended adolescence. Or like dogs who never really change mental ages. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” she laughed again. 

“What will Alice’s world be like?” he asked politely. 

“Cats should talk, she thinks, and have two rows of compact teeth. Flowers could put their fragrance to better use, even have the best breath a singer ever had. Also, it’s ridiculous that everybody is not skilled in the art of fencing, disc jockeying, or taxidermy for Stalin’s sake.”

“So what becomes of Alice?”

“Maybe she wakes up. Maybe she doesn’t. Hmm I must send a copy of this script to Coutney Love. But think about it. This will be almost unprecedented! A new dawn for cinema and the character’s that embrace their silver screens. But I’d like to know what you, the average plebe, thinks.”

“But so many more than just Perez Hilton shall understand, as I originally feared. It shall be a smashing hit!”  His faith in Rafaela was restored.

Fox News Headline of the Day: Florida Mayor Arrested After Found Nude at Camp Site

campersPortrait of Ambroise Thomas, by Hippolyte Flandrin; Portrait of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, by Maurice Quentin de la Tour

“That’s it. He has officially lost his circumcision!” a tall, lanky camper whispered to his wife as they watched Ambroise enter the campsite.  “Ever since the soccer game he coached before the elections, nobody has been sure.”

“Can I help you sir?” he managed to ask Ambroise.

“Yes, indeed. I’ve come to see Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Do you know his whereabouts? It’s a sensitive matter”

“And where are you coming from, might I ask?”

“I come directly from the naturalist colony of Gainsville. I’m on a tour for my new book, Living Al Gore for 365 Days , I was hoping he could give me a bit of old-fashioned…literary criticism.”

The kind stranger went to fetch Rousseau who was humming and whittling a dying Jesus out of a block of wood, “Mr. Rousseau, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Rousseau’s ears immediately perked up. “Oh, from where does he come?” he managed to force himself to say while his mind wandered back to the moonlit evening they had shared. They had both been forced to go to the ‘Swamp’ of UF for social reasons, and ended up in a bar, talking about the merits of More’s Utopia. He had the kind of nose that will pierce your skin, flanked by his black eyes. He sighed. Suddenly he realized that he had to buy some time to change clothes and his wig.

“From the noble city of Orlando.”

“Tell him I shall be there soon.”

“He says he’s cold, sir, that he needs a blanket, or some underwear soon, sir, or his testicles will freeze off.”

“Well, that he musn’t worry about,” he answered with a chuckle.

They shared a cool embrace upon seeing each other and Rousseau patted him on the back. “Ambroise, how goes the city of Orlando these days?”

“Oh, it’s dreadful, my dear old friend. Just last week we had a single mother let loose a little too much on the Disney boardwalk, which is technically in the city of Celebration–why in God’s name would anybody want to live there escapes me. Have people forgotten Calvin already?  Anyway, this mother, she had taken her child to take pictures with the infamous Alvin, Simon, and Theodore, the chipmunk children. Do you realize how insane the guy who lives with the 3 chipmunks is? He calls them his children, teaches them to hoola hoop and plays the piano. and I thought it right to intervene, since it only teaches kids to be psychopaths. Unfortunately, she didn’t swallow this very easily and started calling me and my book all sorts of names and went to all the major papers. The Huffington Post even put it on their front page!”

“Mercy, have mercy on me! That places puts Gomorrah to shame! I think that that blasphemous Eisenhower, or whatever his name is, must poison the waters. My worst suspicions are confirmed. He is a warlock, maybe even thousands of years old”

“That is why I’m here. I thought it would be good to take an extended rest in nature, find myself again, and do a little personality searching. I’ll probably even write the sequel to my book, maybe Living Karl Rove for  365 Days. I’ve always admired his fortitude.”

“You should put on clothes.”

“No! They remind me too much of where I come from.”

Just then they heard sirens.

Sunday Edition-This Week in Pictures: Child Stars, Where are They Now?

boysThe Blue Boy, by Thomas Gainsborough; Archangel Michael, by Guido Reni

Folsom Prison:
girls and boysInteresting Story, by Laura Muntz Lyall; Judith and Holofernes, by Caravaggio

Rehab in New York, New York:
La Muñeca, by Fernando Botero; Woman with Dove, by Tamara de Lempicka

Geneva, Switzerland:
blackSewing, by Harry Herman Roseland; Nude with Calla Lillies, by Diego Rivera

An orgy in Rome, Italy
mexicanRetrato de Ignacio Sanchez, by Diego Rivera; Bacchus, by Caravaggio

A beach in South Carolina:
fishyGirl with a Watering Can, by Renoir; L’Invention Collective, by Rene Magritte

CNN News Headline of the Day: India’s Farmers Cursed with Severe Drought

Portrait of Caterina Cornaro, Wife of King James II of Cyprus, by Titian

Caterina was gazing in the far away mirror during spin class, keeping up with the electrifying classical music while her mind drifted. She began to think of her birthday party that year. She had met a girl from Holland in a club who fell in love with her. “Where the fuck are you from,” she had slurred. But the Dutch girl just purred back that she was from Amsterdam and slipped an ice cube down her shirt. Suddenly, she bent the space-time continuum.

Her sweat was stopped in mid-air. “Whoa, the Indian master in Mexico told me I would have flashbacks from that peyote, but I only had one hit!” She wandered out into the main chamber of the gym to cool off, but noticeably cheered up when she saw the thick chested men lifting weights. She couldn’t help but reach out and stroke the steely muscles and smell the sweat on her fingers before wiping it off on her gym bag, saving it for a happy memory later.

She continued out into the parking lot where she saw her Tuesday/Thursday spinning instructor in the middle of inhaling some thick smoke from a a suspicious device. She got in, sucked it down for him, checking out the outlines of his bulge in spandex while she was at it, and got back out. Little did she know, this man would end up accompanying her to India. She restarted time by concentrating very hard on a happy memory. “Oh yeah, the guy I met last week was insane. He showed his passport to me in the bar and it only said “42” where his name should be. He just said that he and his body had all the answers to the world. Later on he admitted it was just for a prank he was going to play on his friend that worked at the airport.” Just then the scent of sweat from her gym bag wafted up to her nostrils, and the whoosh of traffic and the cawing of birds started again.

She knocked on his window, and he motioned her to come in. Sitting there on the warm felt seats, they sat and listened to the radio DJ who was saying “Peter Pan…dies.” She could feel each individual palpitation of her heart, her every nerve was stimulated. “I have found my purpose in life, and if it happened while I was smoking with a spinning instructor, so be it. I must stop this evil from happening.” She looked at him and thought, “No, this was destiny, he will come with me. I can’t do it without him.” With the most coy smile she could manage she asked him out for coffee. She prayed that the ploy would work, just like she looked out the window and wished for her little brother to die every night after she said her prayers and drew naked ladies in her diary.

That night, once again covered in sweat, she held her hand on his chest, and once again began concentrating on a very happy memory, but this time his whole masculinity was involved and around them everything stood still. His cat had his arms stretched out at the foot of the bed, the Fox News pundit glared at the camera. He looked at her and asked her, “Am I dreaming?”

“No, no, you’re passed out. You’re having the coolest dream you will ever have,” she answered.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, they were in a foreign place, all he could hear were wind instruments and murmuring.  Nobody spoke English, he very soon realized. Meanwhile she was cursing to herself “Goddamn, Caterina, this isn’t Neverland, this is bloody India, some battle camp.” She shut her eyes with all her might but could not concentrate well enough with the screams coming from what she assumed to be the infirmary and the smell of mountain lion waste. She was just thinking that she would have to spend years there, learning the language, when she was approached by a man, muscular and seemingly a Greek hoplite. She smiled.

Her spinning instructor pulled her toward him and whispered, “I dated a Greek girl, ok, am dating a Greek girl. Let me handle this.”

“Hallow, barbarian. I am a representative of Alexander the Great. What news do you come bearing?” the tall fellow said.

“Hello, noble gentlemen. Behold, we are from the future! But don’t worry, Alexander wins” he proclaimed with his left hand raised in a salute, not realizing, yet, that it was not a dream, and that actions have consequences. Seeing no response on the man’s face he beat his chest twice with his fist.

“Come with me.”

They were dragged before the King himself. He was not a gorgeous, muscular blond, as he is sometimes shown in the movies, but more like Danny Devito, a gay one dressed in costume for a low-rent Broadway play and covered in blood and horse manure. “I guess money really does work miracles,” she thought to herself.

An interpreter with his head bowed spoke very quickly, making it difficult for the spinning instructor to understand the dialect.

“I’m pretty sure they want us to be the court fortune tellers and snake charmers” he told her, seeing the confused look on her face, then turned to the man and demanded, “What! Why snake charmers?”

“It is custom”

“Please explain.”

But he just looked away and put his thumb to his left eye ball and grimaced, “Please cooperate or I will die, right now.”

Seeing no other course of action he nodded his head. Just then a crazy man ran into the room brandishing a knife screaming in a language he assumed to be Aramaic until his eyes rolled back into his head. Caterina concentrated as hard as she could to get out of there, but there was a tyranny of motion all around her.

“He has cursed you but…I cannot believe this, you are still standing!” the interpreter screamed with his hands on his cheeks.

When she turned around she could see that the once lush landscape was now barren. A tumbleweed blew into the tent.

“Oh, by the shield of Achilles you must have deflected the curse onto the land!”

She laughed at the sight of his face and finally she felt spacetime bending around her again. The Indian reds and golds morphed into a beach and a gaggle of what she presumed to be bridesmaids. She judged that it was around the time of the Renaissance. “Shouldn’t St. Thomas be around here somewhere? Or Martin Luther, or something? ”

“How did a street walker get in here!?” one of them demanded, pushing her out of sight. But a stocky man silenced her by raising his index finger from his glass. “Her skin radiates dew and the fresh morning sun,” he thought. “My, what shapely ankles, so unlike my sister’s,” he noticed.

“I demand an audience with you” he said in Catarina’s general direction.


“What a silken accent the vixen has!”

Without realizing what he was doing he pulled her aside and got down on one knee.

“Please, consider me, creature from another world, my tender alien, as a husband. Let us be as two chess players, thinking of the other’s moves at all times. Let us be as the pages of a book, stuck together until one takes a knife and cuts them apart. Let us..”

Seeing no choice of action while the knights surrounded them Catarina responded “OK”

Immediately he whisked her away to find the artist for the ceremony who was to paint the swarthy bride. He paid him a handsome sum and he began to paint Catarina’s portrait instead. (It now hangs on her bedroom wall as the only memory left of a happy matrimony)

After the consummation of the wedding, she lay watching his ball of a belly move steadily up and down, and thought of the gold coins in her pocket. With a shocking pain, she was able to return to her spinning class again in the year 2009, just as she had left it. She finished the class and went to do some bicep curls. During rep number two, Cooper Anderson began panicking on screen, “The worst case of drought in 500 years has struck India…” She moved closer to the television and thought to herself:

“Man, India’s fucked.” She had forgotten all about Peter Pan.

CNN Headline of the Day: “Poetry for the Eyes”

trioSt. John the Baptist, by Da Vinci; Amour Victorious by Caravaggio; David with the Head of Goliath, by Caravaggio

Auntie Kitty, now little old lady, straightened her lacy coaster under her warm Pepsi and told her granddaughter:

“There’s a dangerous trio on the loose: the leader of the Trinidad Cartel, an adulterer/aspiring stage actor, and a murderer,  involved in strapping backpacks to himself and crossing borders. They are being called the Red-Hooded Tobago Boy and His Two Little Wolves. You be careful to stay away from such boys! The first one, I’ll tell you, Salome, he is an over-sexed monster. He’s also known to be the largest distributor of LSD this side of the Atlantic Ocean. One day, he gave a hit to the youngest one of the bunch, the second one. He was seen standing naked outside of FAO Schwarz screaming “Ain’t nobody home! What shampoo am I supposed to use? Why are you sweating so much?” Then he looked at Virgin Records and began to laugh hysterically as the neon lights began pumping their fists to the music.  The 3rd one accidentally murdered his accountant in an attempt at friendship. He placed him in the bathtub and began combing his body for lice. Unfortunately, this was done with an electric shaver. Oh the horror of that fateful night! I cannot finish the story!”

“Oh, please do, grandmaman!”

“Well, then they began to accuse each other and poke each other in the chest. Somewhere along the line, one of them came up with the idea of cutting his head off, probably to shrink it and sell it as contraband, perhaps a scam for tourists. They did, but then they noticed…” She hesitated.

“Do you know what a boner is? Have you had sexual relations yet?”

“Only on the very small, almost quantum, scale.”

“Hmm, right, you sly little rodent. Anywho, it later that somebody had bought it and it’s now located in Sierra Leone. It is kept in a sacred vessel made of tiger teeth and giraffe fur to ward off the majestic evil that surrounds it. The locals believe that one day the Man from Trinidad shall return to claim his son (the rumor is that he’s his son). They have made an altar to him, and even make pilgrimages to the Cape Verde islands, where is body is believed to be. If only they knew he was really a scoundrel and a thief!”

“Ok. I shall not have any relations with them, Grandmaman.”

CNN News Headline of the Day: Anticipating a Small Party

party hardyThe Allegory of Age Governed by Prudence, by Titian

Lion: Ever since the Chronicles of Narnia I have lost all anonymity! I get recognized in the street everywhere I go.

Cassanova: Oh, Christ, do stop complaining! You look as if you are about to cry! I am wanted in 6 countries for sodomy, incestuous relations, and polygamy.  At least people don’t call you the Tuscan Prince of Prison Rape. I suppose this is my curse. Please bear yours with a…

Dumbledore:  Of curses you speak, young Cassanova! Don’t test me! I still maintain a correspondence with the vicar of Costa Rica, Martin Luther de Carnavales. He controls a local tribe in the Balboan forests. Why it would be heaven for you! They would feed you peeled bananas and their own special kind of burrito. Are you imagining this yet? And then they would wait until twilight, when your white skin is gleaming purple and descend upon thy knightly body. Valhalla, indeed.

Lion grudgingly drinks a glass of wine. Feeling no effect in his system, he growls vociferously at the wolf named Jack London to get him more.

The wolf named Jack London: Ok, I think it’s time to start the music now. Hmm definitely no Chopin. I know!

The sounds of “Du Hast” begin to fill the room, and Titian cannot but help flick his head about in tune with the metal madness. He picked up the nearest bottle of liquor and let it stream down his face.

“At least people don’t mistake you for King Leonidas,” Titian laughed at the rest of them. The dog assented.