Tag Archives: Johnny Weir

Angels and Puck Bunnies

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Ice hockey is a metaphor for adultery.

Yeah, I know, everyone says that. But it’s true: You have a guy with a long, stiff shaft trying to score into a soft, willing receptacle that does not belong to him. The other guy is trying real hard not to let that happen. It’s a game of inches, as they say, and you can interpret that how you want.

Los Angeles Kings center and former Rachel Hunter boy-toy Jarret Stoll

But Baker, you ask, what about soccer and field goals in football? Doesn’t the metaphor extend to those games? No, because they depend on the human foot, which is the least sexy part of the body and has no business participating in lovemaking (unless you have a weird fetish or are into S&M). You could make a case for lacrosse, since there’s also a stick, but everybody scores in lacrosse and they do it often. I’d say lacrosse is more like your younger sister’s freshman year at college, but that’s a different blog post.

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It’s Hammer Time

TUTTLE MODE | REVIEWS

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

Hello from the gentle winds of Palm Springs.  When I say “gentle winds,” I mean there should’ve been a fucking storm warning issued for the 92264 tonight but, otherwise, it’s been quite lovely here.  Even though the winter polo season is finished and I’m not hitting a little ball from a running horse up and down a big grassy field, I can still sit by the pool and have dinner at the Riviera Hotel with Scott and his mum.

I was on the fence about whether to write about this week’s Celebrity Apprentice or the action film Thor, which I’ve just seen at the Mary Pickford Multiplex in nearby Cathedral City.  Multiplexes and Mary Pickford seem to go together about as much as Cathedral City and me, which is to say we don’t.  The first time I remember being in Cathedral City —it was in the Target parking lot before we knew Target was chasing the gay dollar and then using it against us — I remarked how it seemed somehow different from Palm Springs.  Scott’s mum said, quite matter-of-factly, “Well, James, you know that Cathedral City is where the help lives.”  That made so much sense.

How do your nuts feel now, dude? Can you feel them at all? Hemsworth before (left) and after the Testosterone, Nandrolone Decanoate, Stanozolol, and Anastrozole, a.k.a. The Thunder Cocktail.

In the end, NeNe kind of scares me so I’m going to go with Thor.  Aren’t you glad?  Continue reading

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