Tag Archives: Glee

Omnia Vincit Phallus

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I’m trying to make this follow-up post about massive cock a little classier with a title in Latin, which means “phallus conquers all,” a twist on the popular, hopeful gay armband tattoo “omnia vincit amor,” or love conquers all.

Given what has happened in the past few days with hits to our site since the Big Penis Book post, as a content company we have to comment on the effect salacious text and images have on internet traffic.  This is also an excellent opportunity for us to post more images from the Taschen books.  Out of consideration for our token Str8, the beleaguered Eric Baker, whom I imagine is sitting there in Jersey with his head in his hands regretting his association with the feral, smut-minded Gheys of PFC, we are including images from the Big Book of Breasts as well:

There's no point provoking the good burghers of WordPress with naked erections as the lead image. Plenty of room for that later. Well, as much room as all of this flesh can leave.

Just a quick tangent: I have been asked by a few readers why I sometimes use “Ghey” and other times “gay.”  Ghey is the noun, gay is the adjective; e.g., I am a Ghey who makes outrageously gay statements.  And henceforth, “Str8” is the noun, “straight” the adjective.  There is no rhyme or reason for this; this is my sandbox, my content, I make the rules.

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I Think I Cannes

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

I’m going to tell you about an HGTV show that I would love to like.  It’s called Secrets From a Stylist.  I know that I complained about HGTV’s programming a couple of weeks ago, when constant airings of House Hunters were beginning to erode my mental state.  I’ve since stopped automatically tuning to HGTV when I sit down after a long day of dressing my girls or playing my ponies but this show is already in our DVR queue.  It pops up every Saturday night like clockwork and I just watched the most recent episode.

The premise of the show is really quite good.  Perky stylist Emily Henderson analyses the style of each member of the homeowner couple with an interesting multiple choice test, designs their room for one person’s style, then layers on the other person’s style to create a perfect blend in which the inhabitants can live happily ever after.  What could go wrong?

The well-adjusted Dan Vickery adjusts himself (right).

In the beginning, I felt very close to this show.  I’d watched Emily win the Design Star competition over that very cute gay guy, Dan Vickery, whom I couldn’t watch without thinking whether or not he had a corrected cleft palate.  We need more cute, well-adjusted gays on TV to show America that we’re not always wearing leather halters or snorting cocaine on dance floors lit from below while listening to Gloria Gaynor or Cher but, in spite of all that, I actually rooted for Emily.

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So It’s Really A Fag Hag Thing

We’ve gotten to the bottom of Gwyneth Paltrow’s recent appearances on Glee.  I draw your attention to this little item in Nikki Finke’s Deadline.com, in which show creator Ryan Murphy outs Gwyneth for who she truly is to him.  For those too lazy to click, I refer you to the following quotation:

“Gwyneth is sort of the muse of the show,” Murphy said. “She’s somebody who I write on the weekends and say, ‘What do you think about this for an episode even if you’re not in it?’ She has opinions. She’s great.”

Like in "Avatar," "How to Train Your Dragon," and "Eragon," where the dragon chooses the rider who will fly her, a Fag Hag chooses her Ghey and they bond for life.

Murphy is hiding behind subtleties that many creative Gheys might not see themselves, which is why Dr. Killough is here to explain.  He uses the word “muse.”  But a muse is distant, an inspiration, someone the artist aspires to commune with, a siren who unblocks the creative flow just by being there.  Gwyneth is the muse transformed, the mermaid wrenched willingly from the sea and forced to walk on land.  She has become Murphy’s Fag Hag.

Apparently she has been this since they worked together on Running With Scissors, Murphy’s decidedly unfunny adaptation of Augusten Burrough’s exceedingly funny memoir.  He should have gone with archly flip for RWS’s tone, not with sincerity and contrition.  I’m sure he knows that now with the tone he established in Glee, which would have served RWS better.

A true muse is someone like my creative partner, Rain Li, who basically ignores you, making you desire his or her company and the inspiration that it gives you all the more.  Rain and I hardly ever speak on the phone; I’m lucky to get a text-based Skype session once a quarter, during which she types one line every ten minutes until I just give up at 2 a.m.  I won’t hear from her for months, but then a single “You aw-right, dahling?” in that mockney Beijing accent and my entire career path becomes clear to me.  That’s a muse. Continue reading

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Miss Paltrow Unravels?

Let me say right off the bat that I really used to like Gwyneth Paltrow as an actress, and she seems like a perfectly nice person as well.  I’ve never heard a bad thing about her from the few people I know who have enjoyed an interpersonal relationship with her.  Gwyneth seems familiar to me; she’s someone who might be a cousin of mine, if I had cousins.  Sadly or fortunately, both of my parents were only children.

A recent song and dance number from "Glee." Is it just me, or does La Gwyneth seem a little stiff here? I know nothing about dance; hate doing it myself, I look ridiculous. I'm far better chatting up the bartender. When I downloaded this image I started humming that gay show tune from 'Blazing Saddles': "Throw out your hands, stick out your tush!"

Gwyneth is the right kind of WASPy, you know, not the lockjawed Newport Great Gatsby manqué kind, but the down-to-earth, Yankee, descendant-of-Cotton Mather kind, who knows how to clip a coupon even though there’s a hundred million in the bank, who appreciates a well-waxed pew.  In other words, the kind we like, who inform our work with their realness and quirkiness, not the kind we feel like pushing over the porch after four scotch and sodas because they sound like an un-oiled screen door opening and shutting incessantly and are blighted with equine humor.

Gwyneth seems to be struggling these days, trying to regain a foothold in a business she once ruled over with confidence side by side with the likes of Matt Damon, who seems ready to have a constellation named after him, and her ex Ben Affleck, who is doing pretty well as a director of Boston versions of The Wire, which somehow end up on the big screen rather than where they belong. Continue reading

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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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