Tag Archives: Gay

The Dreadful Truth About Mila Kunis

I will admit it, I have become something of a dashboard junkie, as they say on WordPress.com, home to close to 700,000 blogs, most of which are more popular than mine.  Well, maybe I’m not a complete junkie.  Making that claim would diminish the pain and suffering of those who are true addicts struggling one day at a time through Dashboards Anonymous.

A screenshot of the search portion of my dashboard as of this morning, showing part of the sick-fuck searches that have landed people on my blog. Of course, I am as thrilled as the Marquis de Sade unwrapping a new torture rack for Christmas that I am attracting such perverted detritus to my blog.

The dashboard is a customizable page, elegantly laid out, easy to use, which controls the blog, its format, etcetera, but also shows all sorts of esoteric stats.  What is astounding is that somehow someone pulled up my page twice yesterday searching for “triple cunted hooker.”  What the hell is that?  I note that my friend Lara Harris surfaced twice as well, which might be a reason she’s not replying to emails or texts, and she’s always responsive.  She’s probably furious she ended up in a blog entitled Gay Old Loony Douchebags on Steroids, I suppose.  I’m unmaking friends with this already, sigh.  Well, we’ve known each other for 30 years, I’m sure we’ll survive a goosing online.

I am also pleased about the “older men fucking twinks,” which must refer to the insert in the Gay Old Loony post of the image of the girly twink from Glee, Chris Colfer, even though I myself don’t have a taste for twinks.

I will admit that I am almost completely caught up with episodes of Glee.  At one point, it embarrassed me as a gay barely closeted homophobe just how gay that show is.  Gay and lesbian. At first I fast-forwarded over the musical numbers, but everyone kept saying, “But that’s the whole point!”  just like that, with the exclamation point.  And their voices would go up when they said it.  So now I watch the fakakta musical numbers.  Well, some of them: not the show tunes, not the duets, and not most of the ballads.  I’ve found the musical numbers are the best opportunity to go and do something else in the kitchen or bathroom while something anodyne splashes around in the background.  I really just want to see Jane Lynch and that blond bimbo, Heather Morris, who has all the best lines.  Dumb people are almost as fun to write as schizophrenics.

Heather Morris, who plays the supremely funny dumb-and-dumber character Brittany on Glee. You can tell she's probably a natural blonde because her name is Heather, and only people who are blond themselves name their daughters Heather because, well, heather is the color of wheat unless it's muddy and you'd look very foolish if your daughter were named Heather and she were a redhead.

A few of the  cast members from Glee work out at Gold’s Gym Hollywood, where if you don’t already know from the aforementioned Gay Old Loony post, I also practice the strenuous art of gravitational-pull-on-the-flesh defiance.  I have seen Matthew Morrison there, and I have to say, dude is fucking fit, in seriously great shape.  I believe that the pneumatically lipped Chord Overstreet also works out there, and might be trained by nutritionist-slash-trainer-to-the-stars Bernardo Coppola, who once told me that he is a second cousin to the illustrious filmmakers-slash-vintners; however, I am told by a reliable source whose last name rhymes with “subtle” that this may be a misrepresentation of the truth.  I’m saying I think Overstreet works out there because Bernardo was training a blond kid with Angelina lips yesterday who I swear was Overstreet, but the kid was wearing a red baseball cap pulled so far down over his head that he looked more like a teenaged duck from the Cartoon Network.

Trainer to TV nobility Bernardo Coppola, who despite his claims is probably not related to Sofia. I have no further comments to this image because I think it speaks for itself, and for Gold's Gym Hollywood in general.

I’m not very good with celebrity sightings, see.  They usually have to come up and introduce themselves before I recognize them.  For instance, apparently I almost collided with Sarah Silverman on the street in Weho the other day, and almost colliding with anyone on the street in LA is as rare as a solar eclipse, but I didn’t notice.  My friend had to point it out.  And I love Sarah Silverman, I would like to do shots of tequila with her and smoke cigarettes out on the patio of a Mexican restaurant under a heat lamp with her.

Sarah Silverman incognito once again. Is it any wonder I missed her on the street after nearly bumping into her? I wonder if she dyes her mustache with Just For Men medium brown as well.

So it looks like this is turning into some warped celebrity blog in order to drive up readership, which is fine because I’m a star-fucker like anyone else; I drop names more than my abominable landlady Susan Blais sheds tenants, all in the effort to make the person I’m speaking to be awestruck, regardless of the fact I don’t recognize most celebs when I see them.   Vogue editor Anna Wintour has understood that celebrities on the cover get more women to buy her insipid door jam of a magazine.  I shall do the same to trap innocent, depraved keyword searchers in the Web of Killough.

So, big apologies to Mila Kunis, who I’m sure isn’t addicted to crack — the original title of this post was going to be, “Mila Kunis on Crack.”  Had it been “Mila Kunis’s Crack,” I would get even more hits from my lovable coterie of pervs.  Mila, you have the misfortune of being in fourth position on the IMDb Starmeter this week, and now that I have written the last few sentences, I will pick up a few readers interested in your vagina.

What can I say? The internet is god.

Post Scriptum: I usually don’t follow anything Charlie Sheen, even though you think I would because his sort of behavior makes me wince-chuckle in a sort of there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I way, but this latest rant of his was priceless.  What a douche, what a brat, what a scramble-brains.  I’ll bet he gets into serious fantasy roleplay when he’s high and smothered in hookers.  He just doesn’t know when the fantasy begins and when it ends any more.  Bless his black heart.

Wait, before I go, one more picture.  This one of me with Amanda Seyfried’s breasts, which always get me more hits (thanks, boys):

James Killough and Amanda Seyfried

If I put myself (James Killough, needs to be mentioned, sorry) together with Amanda Seyfriend and her breasts like this comp, we become married in the interweb, together forever. I need to have better pictures of me for Google image search, which is why I'm being so bizarrely random with this.

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Gay Old Loony Douchebags on Steroids

The title of this blog was what I used to say GOLD’S Gym stood for as an acronym just after I first joined.  Anything Hollywood takes a while to get used to; it’s just such an other-dimensional sort of place.  Hollywood must have the largest concentration per square inch of Narcissism Personality Disorder in the world, followed closely by schizophrenia, which is what you evolve to as an NPD when your dreams of stardom shatter and you end up rolling through rapid cycles of meth-induced psychotic breaks at the Halifax Apartments one block away from my ultra-glamorous apartment building, owned by the nefarious (in my opinion) Susan Blais.

One of the star trainers at Golds Gym Hollywood, Boris, who once gave me tips on how to do shoulder lifts without my asking. He seems to have his own line of clothing, or maybe he just wears lots of sports gear with his name on it. I doubt he's gay.

Gold’s Gym Hollywood, an LA legend almost as notorious as the original Gold’s in Venice, CA, is one of the simmering cauldrons in this city in which NPD is brewed and fermented, overseen by its good witch general manager, Karen (“What the hell do you need that free week pass for? Just join already, I’ll give you a rate that can’t be beat, plus unlimited tanning.”)

Why be so catty when spinning GOLD’S into an acronym?  I have to say right away that now that I’m used to it, I am addicted to the place; I am at home there, the regulars are part of my personal glass menagerie of Hollywood characters. But let me explain the catty acronym:

Gay: “It is the gayest gym in the world,” noted my gay friend and fellow Gold’s member James Tuttle to his other gay friend at a charity polo tournament in Beverly Hills, which featured James’s Gay Polo League … it exists, I shit you not, follow the link.  The benefit was for the Human Rights Campaign, and there is no gayer issue right now than our right to marry.  This is all to say that James knows from gay.  But just to make sure the other side of the fence weighs in, my model/actress/psychologist friend Lara Harris claims that Gold’s gayness is the reason she joined, “So the men would leave me alone.” Then she added with her hearty laugh, “Of course, it’s been a while since men bothering me at the gym was a problem.”  I have known Lara since we were in our teens in Paris, she was a model and I was Pamela Hanson’s assistant.  I assume she is referring to the fact we are now too old to be chased after, which is very gay of her.

Lara Harris. Yes, I know some beautiful people. She would hate it if I told you we intended to get married once — a woman this beautiful shouldn't be dating a homo no matter how confused he was — so I won't tell you.

Old: It is indeed very gay of me to comment about age, real girly, but the fact is there are some gnarly old coots working out at Gold’s, leathered by the sun, all pumped and vascular from the steroids.  I try not to count myself amongst the gay daddies, but the fact is I am one of them, albeit non-steroidal.  As the Puerto Rican saying goes, “As a gay man, you die at 35.  If you are lucky, you are resurrected at 45 as a daddy.”  To be honest, I never died. I am very lucky that way.  To the common queen, aging is as catastrophic as it is for most women.  That hasn’t been the case for me.  (Incidentally, I’ll allow you to call me daddy, but not bear.  Properly speaking, I am a wolf. As someone I know in London once commented re: bears, “Whatever happened to just being a fat old queen?”  I agree.  And I’m not a bear.)

The super girly twink from "Glee" surrounded mostly by wolves, with one bear daddy in the background near the bar. This photo should get a Pulitzer for demonstrating in a single image the breadth of the spectrum of gay men.

Loony:  Any member of Golds knows what the loony bit means.  The most obvious case in point is the little old man — and I use “old” here in the truest sense, not in some hyperoblic take on the more precise “aging” as it would refer to me and Lara; the codger in question is in his 70s, at least, and he is about 5’6″, so quite little — who works out in leather shorts held up with white suspenders, thigh-high boots, a big steel link chain dangling from his waist, and a leather cap.  He is the pinnacle of true Gay Old Looniness in Hollywood, everything else trickles down from there.  (He’s probably worth $100 million and the joke is on me.)

Douchebags: Ok, so, what happened in the first weeks after I joined was I had a couple of run-ins with a few bitchy muscle marys, which prompted the whole acronym: this was really just a not-terribly-witty, rather forced way of turning the D in Gold’s into “douchebags.”  The worst problem with Gold’s is Karen keeps the rates so low and is so successful raking in the members that there is overcrowding.  Plus, this crowd is serious about working out, more than anywhere else; they are there ALL the time. Equipment can get scarce and the hissing over dumbbells, bench presses and squat machines (for the bottom bitches — you know, hard glutes, “buns of steel”) can get fierce.  On one particular occasion, I was alternating chest on a bench  with abs on a powerball during a busy time periodwhen this uppity, feral homo bounced over to me and said, “I don’t mean to be an asshole, but are you using this bench?” Well, my water bottle is on it, my backpack is under it, I am only inches away from it doing abs on my powerball, which you are interrupting and I’ve got a weight in my hands hovering over my head, so the answer is manifest, “Yes, I am.”  So she (and I very rarely feminize men like that in speech or writing) tutted and hissed and muttered something about how wrong it was for me to hog all the equipment.  It took me five seconds to become white with rage.  I wanted to brain her with the 25-lb dumbbell.  No, the 30.  But I resisted.  From a tall man’s viewpoint (I am 6’3″), uppity, feral homo already has her comeuppance: she’s 5’8″.  I let it slide.

A few days later, she did the EXACT same thing.  This time, I was ready. I had rehearsed.  “You’re the guy who apologized for being an asshole the other day,” I said. “You’re right, you’re not an asshole. You’re a douchebag.”  Of course, I was being a bully.  Had the uppity, feral homo not been 5’8″, I doubt I would’ve said that.  But, hooley-kabooley, was she in a froth!  “I am NOT a douchebag,” she kept hissing, stomping around the weight room, now as white with rage as I was a few days before.  I picked up my backpack and went into the other room.

When I told James Tuttle, the aforementioned polo-playing gay expert, that I was being picked on at the gym — uppity, feral homo wasn’t the only one being uppity with me — he explained that the other guys probably felt I was gruff and rough, didn’t understand my inner cuddly soul, and therefore treated me aggressively in anticipation of being treated aggressively back, which in the case of uppity, feral homo turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Arnold pre-bypass surgery for the melted heart valves. Bet he still would have done it all again even if had he known what would happen.

Steroids:  Need we elaborate on this last letter/word? Arnold Schwarzenegger worked out at the original Gold’s in Venice.  The tradition proudly continues inland at the Hollywood branch.

Again, I’m fine with Gold’s now.  It’s not the best gym I’ve belonged to, that award probably goes to Gymbox in London simply because of all the wonderful people who work and work out there, I miss them terribly, but Gold’s does have its plusses, including the unlimited tanning Karen sold me so I can look as leathery as the other codgers in due course.

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