As you may have read, I used to hate foreigners. As much as this pains me to admit, this was not my only act of youthful bigotry. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I was filled with hate years before. In order to cleanse myself of the racism that has coursed through my veins for so long, I must expose the evil within me. So I tell you this in hopes that someday you will be able to forgive me, my internet brethren and sistren: I used to be a white supremacist.
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It all started when I was 4, after my family moved out of Los Angeles to a suburb of Cleveland. Though I don’t remember anything from my days in the city of angels, my parents insist that I had a black best friend, so I can only assume that I wasn’t bigoted just yet. It seems that the transition came about in my new cornbread Ohio suburb.
Naturally, my sister and I were pretty damn whiny about the whole move thing, since we felt so at home in our city of crack and earthquakes, so we bitched and cried and cried and bitched to my parents. Eventually, the folks decided to make it up to us by getting us each a cat!
My sister, who was 5 or 6, got a brown calico female that she named Daisy. I got Daisy’s brother, a black cat with a really cool white belly that I named Mickey. Clearly, we were painfully unoriginal Disney-loving tykes when it came to naming our cats. Incidentally, Mickey and Daisy were quite the incestuous siblings, kittyhumping day and night, but I digress.
One day, my sister and I got pretty bored with the status quo, as young whippersnappers are want to do. Our status quo? A brown cat and a black cat. Since Mickey’s white belly looked so cool, we thought he would look even cooler if he were completely decked out in that white fur of his. While we were discussing the issue, we decided there was no reason for Daisy to be stuck with boring ol’ brown if Mickey was getting even whiter and more awesome. Our parents liked Mickey’s white spot too, so they would be thrilled if we surprised them with all-white Mickey and Daisy Redux!
Obviously, we thought about decking the cats out in white paint, but, as my astute big sister pointed out, paint comes off. We needed something that would last longer, something that would stick to them. We realized that the durable, permanent solution we were looking for was right in our trusty arts and crafts kits: Elmer's Glue.
We grabbed our glue and went to work, covering both our cats with as much Elmer’s as possible. I was sure that the cats would be ecstatic about the whole ordeal, since everybody knows how fun it is to get glue all over your hands and then peel it off, like a neat new layer of skin (I wasn’t a twisted little kid for enjoying that, right? Right??). After a good glue-bath for each, we couldn’t have been prouder of our new kitties. Now when Mickey and Daisy shack up, we’ll get a whole litter of Caucasian fur balls!
Naturally, this ended exactly as you can imagine: We showed our parents, and they were glowing. They adored the cats’ new looks so much that they decided to reward us with a trip to Bennigan’s for ice cream! At least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.
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I can only hope that confronting this awful bigotry and sharing it with you can serve as a purging of my sins. I pray that these words I’ve written can be my waters of purity, slowly but surely washing away the thick, syrupy glue of white supremacy from my dark, matted fur. I may whine, scratch and bite at my tail all the while, but in the end, I will be cleansed anew.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Death of Scrambled Porn (And What You Can Do To Save It!)
Technology is certainly a-hustlin’ and a-bustlin’, providing us with all sorts of unprecedented access to media: broke college students can watch full movies for free at the click of a button; Wall Street execs can figure out the optimal time to jump just by looking at their Blackberry updates; both of the world’s Amazon Kindle owners can pay to read books they could have gotten at the library for free; and stoners can try to figure out their DVR so they can watch the Nannerpuss commercial over and over again.
That being said, technology giveth, and technology taketh away. Let’s not forget about all those media that are rapidly going the way of pogs and the dodo. I’ve seen minidiscs come and, thankfully, go. I’m a bit more concerned about the waning popularity of newspapers, since a good stack helps the diminutive Sax see over the steering wheel. Most importantly, though, it seems that with the advent of digital cable, scrambled porn has completely died off.
For my female, Mormon and six-year-old readers who may not be familiar, scrambled porn was what adolescent boys had to settle for back in my day, unless they were the son of the town’s token Cool Dad who actually had the Playboy channel. Y’see, back in the days of analog cable, if you didn’t get a porn channel, it would just appear as lots of blurry, scrambled static stuff. With some luck, tenacity, and tin foil, however, that blur would sometimes take the form of a boob! Rumor has it that a kid down Back Harlow Road once even spotted half a vagina, the lucky fuck.
Now I know what you’re thinking: But Sax, isn’t life better when we can get all sorts of crazy, kinky, non-scrambled porn at the click of a button? Don’t get me wrong, I love that I can think up something that would have been absolutely unheard of just a few years ago, and be able to find a video of it online within seconds, like say, three midgets, Orrin Hatch and a paraplegic sloth….
…okay, I’m back. Sorry for the delay, I got, um… distracted. Anyway, scrambled porn had so many great qualities that can’t possibly be replaced by all the girls and cups in the world. For one thing, it’s the only porn this side of Erotic Photo Hunt that is its own little game. Like the Blue’s Clues of sex, horny twelve-year-olds had to search around and try to piece everything together in their Spanking Chair until it all comes together in the form of a Goo Skidoo. It’s not just vigorous masturbation; it’s a learning experience!
Keeping on the subject of children’s shows, I think it’s also worth noting that Barney, Mister Rogers and (obviously) Pee Wee Herman would appreciate the value of scrambled porn. This is because it gives all viewers an opportunity to exercise their imaginations, as countless shows from our youth have encouraged us to do (Or maybe kids’ shows are just an elaborate ruse to get people to watch scrambled porn, which would be fine by me). If you take scrambled porn at face value, it’s really not that sexy. But if you let yourself try to read between the blurry lines, you can see yourself being slapped on the ass with a spatula by your elementary school lunch lady, right there on the TV, which kicks the crap out of anything I’ve found on RedTube (and believe me, I’ve seen it all… several times).
That’s not all that’s great about scrambled porn! Unlike other pornography (except for stumbling across the ol’ mid-orgasm Tranny Surprise) scrambled porn forced viewers to explore all ends of their sexuality, and not just because it usually took place in a room full of guys during sleepovers. They would squint just right and tell themselves that they were staring at a nice luscious pair of breasts, only to find out as the focus changed that they’ve been wanking it to the back of some dude’s scrotum. (As an aside, such is the Murphy’s Law of scrambled porn: If the image becomes clear, it’s balls). In our world of taboo and lacking sexual education, Kinsey would be damn proud that scrambled porn has filled some gaps.
So what do we do? Can we let scrambled pornography become a relic of the past, reserved in a museum alongside cuneiform tablets and Gutenberg’s printing press? Should we accept that pornography will never again be able to stir our imaginations along with our loins? To this I shout a hearty, resounding “NO”, hoping that my cries will serve as a beacon to my scrambled porn-loving brethren across the far reaches the Internet!
But how can we save this medium from extinction? I propose the creation of a charitable organization that aims to focus all of its resources on the preservation of scrambled pornography: a blurry, shaky, negatively-colored Sierra Club of ephemeral, inaudible sex, if I may. I’ve even gone through the trouble of thinking up a name for such an organization: the Scrambled Pornography Continuation Association, or SPCA for short.
So how can you do your part? Start your own local SPCA chapter! Local chapters may try to raise money through old-fashioned scrambled porn bake sales, or they could get a bit more inventive, such as by playing Scrambled Porn I-Spy:
1) Have community members each pay a $20 entry fee
2) Set up a projector in a large public space (or in your parents’ basement, if you’d like to simulate most real scrambled porn experiences)
3) Play a clip of scrambled pornography
4) Award prizes to the first people to correctly identify a nipple, a dildo, a feather duster, a Rubik’s Cube, and so forth.
All proceeds will be pooled together until there is enough money to purchase a cable television channel. Just like how some rich guy bought a video of Marilyn Monroe fellating a man just so it would go unviewed, keeping her legacy untainted, the SPCA will buy space its own channel in order to protect it from the clutches of unscrambled pornography. In fact, it will be an improvement on scrambled porn, since it will feature 24 hours of constant blurry-blurry; no more boring-ass horseracing before dark!
The SPCA will even try to use new media to benefit scrambled porn: Watch it on the go with your iPod Touch; get automatic vibrating alerts on your cell phone every time the Scrambled Porn Channel shows what may or may not be insertion; or use DVR to watch your favorite scenes over and over again, allowing you to impress your friends with lines like, “See? I told you they were balls!" With such advances in scrambled porn at our fingertips, we can be sure to keep it thriving for millennia to come.
Oh, and all surplus SPCA money will go toward trying to purchase the aforementioned Marilyn Monroe video, of course.
That being said, technology giveth, and technology taketh away. Let’s not forget about all those media that are rapidly going the way of pogs and the dodo. I’ve seen minidiscs come and, thankfully, go. I’m a bit more concerned about the waning popularity of newspapers, since a good stack helps the diminutive Sax see over the steering wheel. Most importantly, though, it seems that with the advent of digital cable, scrambled porn has completely died off.
For my female, Mormon and six-year-old readers who may not be familiar, scrambled porn was what adolescent boys had to settle for back in my day, unless they were the son of the town’s token Cool Dad who actually had the Playboy channel. Y’see, back in the days of analog cable, if you didn’t get a porn channel, it would just appear as lots of blurry, scrambled static stuff. With some luck, tenacity, and tin foil, however, that blur would sometimes take the form of a boob! Rumor has it that a kid down Back Harlow Road once even spotted half a vagina, the lucky fuck.
Now I know what you’re thinking: But Sax, isn’t life better when we can get all sorts of crazy, kinky, non-scrambled porn at the click of a button? Don’t get me wrong, I love that I can think up something that would have been absolutely unheard of just a few years ago, and be able to find a video of it online within seconds, like say, three midgets, Orrin Hatch and a paraplegic sloth….
…okay, I’m back. Sorry for the delay, I got, um… distracted. Anyway, scrambled porn had so many great qualities that can’t possibly be replaced by all the girls and cups in the world. For one thing, it’s the only porn this side of Erotic Photo Hunt that is its own little game. Like the Blue’s Clues of sex, horny twelve-year-olds had to search around and try to piece everything together in their Spanking Chair until it all comes together in the form of a Goo Skidoo. It’s not just vigorous masturbation; it’s a learning experience!
Keeping on the subject of children’s shows, I think it’s also worth noting that Barney, Mister Rogers and (obviously) Pee Wee Herman would appreciate the value of scrambled porn. This is because it gives all viewers an opportunity to exercise their imaginations, as countless shows from our youth have encouraged us to do (Or maybe kids’ shows are just an elaborate ruse to get people to watch scrambled porn, which would be fine by me). If you take scrambled porn at face value, it’s really not that sexy. But if you let yourself try to read between the blurry lines, you can see yourself being slapped on the ass with a spatula by your elementary school lunch lady, right there on the TV, which kicks the crap out of anything I’ve found on RedTube (and believe me, I’ve seen it all… several times).
That’s not all that’s great about scrambled porn! Unlike other pornography (except for stumbling across the ol’ mid-orgasm Tranny Surprise) scrambled porn forced viewers to explore all ends of their sexuality, and not just because it usually took place in a room full of guys during sleepovers. They would squint just right and tell themselves that they were staring at a nice luscious pair of breasts, only to find out as the focus changed that they’ve been wanking it to the back of some dude’s scrotum. (As an aside, such is the Murphy’s Law of scrambled porn: If the image becomes clear, it’s balls). In our world of taboo and lacking sexual education, Kinsey would be damn proud that scrambled porn has filled some gaps.
So what do we do? Can we let scrambled pornography become a relic of the past, reserved in a museum alongside cuneiform tablets and Gutenberg’s printing press? Should we accept that pornography will never again be able to stir our imaginations along with our loins? To this I shout a hearty, resounding “NO”, hoping that my cries will serve as a beacon to my scrambled porn-loving brethren across the far reaches the Internet!
But how can we save this medium from extinction? I propose the creation of a charitable organization that aims to focus all of its resources on the preservation of scrambled pornography: a blurry, shaky, negatively-colored Sierra Club of ephemeral, inaudible sex, if I may. I’ve even gone through the trouble of thinking up a name for such an organization: the Scrambled Pornography Continuation Association, or SPCA for short.
So how can you do your part? Start your own local SPCA chapter! Local chapters may try to raise money through old-fashioned scrambled porn bake sales, or they could get a bit more inventive, such as by playing Scrambled Porn I-Spy:
1) Have community members each pay a $20 entry fee
2) Set up a projector in a large public space (or in your parents’ basement, if you’d like to simulate most real scrambled porn experiences)
3) Play a clip of scrambled pornography
4) Award prizes to the first people to correctly identify a nipple, a dildo, a feather duster, a Rubik’s Cube, and so forth.
All proceeds will be pooled together until there is enough money to purchase a cable television channel. Just like how some rich guy bought a video of Marilyn Monroe fellating a man just so it would go unviewed, keeping her legacy untainted, the SPCA will buy space its own channel in order to protect it from the clutches of unscrambled pornography. In fact, it will be an improvement on scrambled porn, since it will feature 24 hours of constant blurry-blurry; no more boring-ass horseracing before dark!
The SPCA will even try to use new media to benefit scrambled porn: Watch it on the go with your iPod Touch; get automatic vibrating alerts on your cell phone every time the Scrambled Porn Channel shows what may or may not be insertion; or use DVR to watch your favorite scenes over and over again, allowing you to impress your friends with lines like, “See? I told you they were balls!" With such advances in scrambled porn at our fingertips, we can be sure to keep it thriving for millennia to come.
Oh, and all surplus SPCA money will go toward trying to purchase the aforementioned Marilyn Monroe video, of course.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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