bitches gotta eat.

TRUTH.

istealforksfromrestaurants:

Can I just say for the record, are you listening the record? I cannot stand motherfuckers that beat around the bush, motherfuckers that try to blow sunshine up my ass, or motherfuckers that can’t figure out how to ask a question. 

There, now you know. I’m sure you’ve been sitting on the edge of your seats wondering what I am thinking right this second, so relax and take a deep sigh. 　

tyson vs. tyson.

This week the celebrity sex gods have thrown us another semi-flaccid bone, this time in the form of male supermodel Tyson Beckford’s as-yet-unreleased sex tape, which features the 41-year-old model-turned-reality show host making hot, passionate love to the sexiest person he can imagine: HIMSELF. According to the unassailable investigative reporting done by reputable news sources such as tmz.com, the tape is a 45-minute long naughty Skype show Beckford put on that was recorded, and is currently being shopped around by, an unnamed female accomplice. Ordinarily, I would completely understand why every pair of panties in the room hit the floor at the phrases “Tyson Beckford” and “masturbates on film,” but celebrity sex tapes are usually TOTALLY BORING. If I wanted to watch insecure attention whores fight for camera time I would turn on an NBA game.

1993 was a big year for my adolescent vagina. Not only did I start menstruating in earnest, but there happened upon the cultural landscape a new breed of heartthrob: THE SWASHBUCKLING HIP HOP FASHION MODEL. Newsstands were filled to overflow with magazines bursting with advertisements featuring these steaming towers of masculinity; bulging muscles, shitty jailhouse neck tattoos, expertly-sculpted and fussed-over facial hair, pants slung several inches below the waist: all of a sudden it became socially acceptable to touch yourself while looking at a dude your mother would’ve otherwise told you to cross the street to avoid. Billboards everywhere were teeming with images of recent parolees dressed head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren Polo. The brightest star among them was one Tyson Beckford, a hot slab of brisket cut from the face of a mountain with pouty lips and those perfect ken doll penis-side cuts. You know what I’m talking about, the MAN V.

That dude was EVERYWHERE, and bitches was going CRAY. I discovered Tyson just as I was recovering from an unhealthy obsession with New Kids on the Block, and soon after my first encounter with that sexy sneer the walls of my locker were papered with his shiny, chiseled abs. That dude was like THE SEX in the mid-to-late 90s, and we could not get enough.

My dial-up internet connection isn’t good enough to send an email in less than an hour and a half, so Skype sex is nothing I ever plan to engage in unless the bitch upstairs gives me the password to her broadband. I can’t imagine someone wants to watch a choppy, pixelated video of me trying to explain why I call my vibrator Samuel L. Jackson while the sound cuts out and the cat walks back and forth across the keyboard anyway. That said, I’m pretty awesome at sexting and I have totally mastered the art of the cell phone self-portrait. Seriously, I’m like the Annie Leibovitz of the bathroom bra shot.

I’m also a dirtbag, and I have too much disposable income, so the only problem I have with the idea of spending twenty dollars to watch this shit is that 1 webcams are always so grainy and horrible and I need to preoccupy myself with, ahem, more important business than squinting at the goddamned computer screen and trying to adjust the contrast and the volume the entire time and 2 Tyson apparently spends the entirety of the video stroking his penis while whining about how fans and the mainstream media often confuse him with actor/singer Tyrese Gibson. (If you don’t know who Tyrese is, I can’t help you. Didn’t you see Transformers? Make a fucking black friend already, GOSH.)

What the shit?! I’m not sure if that is the SADDEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD or if this dude’s ego is the size of the solar system. What kind of asshole jerks off while complaining that he isn’t FAMOUS ENOUGH? Now I understand why sistergirl pulled her hand out of her pants and pressed the record button. Obviously this model slash hacker is a savvy businesswoman and marketing genius. Instead of doing what you and I would do when faced with the prospect of watching this adonis jerk off in the middle of the night, which is to cry tears of rapturous joy while grinding a camel toe imprint into our computer chairs, homegirl picked up the phone and dialed the naked celebrity scandal department at Vivid Video with one hand and tweeted about that shit with the other.

Beckford took to the old Twitter machine himself to confirm the existence of the tape and defend his actions. “Don’t even faze me, we all do it,” he wrote with what I’m assuming was his one free hand, “just mine got caught on film.” Well, that’s an interesting way of putting it? He also tap-tap-tapped out this response: “Sad what women will do for $, it’s not much of a sex tape lol.” Oh, word? It isn’t? Are we really going to pool our beer money to watch a video of what is essentially this dude giving himself a really aggressive thumbs up? Yeah right.

The moral of this story, obviously, is STOP SEXTING DUMB BITCHES YOU CAN’T TRUST. I plant drugs on people and memorize their license plate numbers before I send them pictures of my tits, that way if anything ends up on the goddamned internet I know somebody who’s about to spend the next couple months in jail. And I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t the REAL lesson that your standing with one foot propped on the edge of the bathtub trying to contort your body to take a shadowy picture of your vagina to send to some asshole that didn’t even call you back after that first date even though he said he had a really good time and invited you to chill with him after the Band of Horses show next week who probably isn’t as busy as he’s pretending to be, he just doesn’t like you like that, and maybe it’s not a good idea for you to be sending naked pictures in the first place?”

And to you rational assholes I say, “ABSOLUTELY NOT.” This is the future, and until technology allows us to just sit back and watch our holograms have sex with each other, we are left to communicate our deepest romantic feelings using our iPenises and our Dickberrys to send low-resolution photographs of our genitals to one another. How can you possibly know how much I love you if I don’t send you a picture of my belt-grazing camera phone nipples?! Here’s hoping Tyson knows that broad’s social security or credit card number so he can exact proper revenge. And that he gets to say more than four words in the next Transformers movie.