Barrel Strength

The Internet is for porn. Or as one Dutch-Canadian communications theorist once said, the goal of all technological progress in communications is to allow people to send each other pictures of themselves fucking. The goal has been achieved. Between a photograph labelling system that uniquely identifes each photograph on the net, and easily assembled tumblr websites, there has beeen a proliferation of porn sites, each one more or less assiduously maintained by some porn fanatic. Their number is legion, and growing.

Extensive research into these sites reveals that there are a lot of women out there doing naughty things in front of their husbands or boyfriends, with his cock, with his friend’s cocks, with casual acquaintances, with girflriends, on beaches, in bedrooms, in cars, in parking lots, at swimming pools, nearly everywhere. And as for the men doing things with other men, don’t get me started. Their shamelessness is not less than the women’s and possibly greater.

There are sites for or about amateurs, gays, professional porn stars, trannies, big tit afficionados, teens, older women, bondage and discipline, male domination, female domination, cuckolds (fucking groups of black men while being photographed by the hubby seems to be a large niche), anal, public, nude beach, lesbian, facials, you name it.

All the photos appear to be in the public domain. I am waiting for the first female politician to run successfully for office despite a picture of her with her mouth stuffed with her former boyfriend’s dick. I expect this within the decade. So the Minister of Transportation (say) sucks dick? Meh. If an associate deputy minister of the department of redundancy disports herself on a nude beach, will anyne care?

I think of the hours of work each day that are required to maintain and update these sites. Perhaps I am wrong and the classification system allows for the more rapid recognition of photos consistent with the site’s themes. Surely however, a great deal of labour is poured into these sites for months and years on end. Whoever has maintained a blog knows how often that particular dog has to be walked.

More serious research should be conducted on the sex-habits of North Americans with porn sites as a proxy for actual behaviour. The big issue would be the discount to be applied to assess how representative the sites and the acts depicted are of actual behaviour. I read once that the average North American male has had seven sex partners in life, while the female has had five. Don’t ask me how they derived such figures. If we grant that this behaviour is distributed on a bell curve, then the top five percent of sex practitioners must have way more sexual activity than the norm. Or, as I think more likely, it is a power curve, then a very few people are the Amazons, googles, and hotmails of this world, and a long tail goes out to zero.

Is the inequality of sexual partners and activities increasing with increases of inequality of wealth?

In any case, there are issues of human behaviour worth investigating here. I suspect that, armed with some empirical data, and some skepticism about current ideas of who is doing what to whom, we might come to a better understanding of human nature in prosperous times. How many more bathtubs do we actually need than we have now? Zero to one, maybe. How many more sex partners, orgies, threesomes or kinky sex would you like to have than you have now? You get my point. Social scientists, stop your blathering about empowerment, racialized, otherness, queering, and do some empirical research. Tumblrworld awaits your intrepid explorations. But before you theorize, consult a mathematician for your models.

The Labour government banned fox hunting, in a purely class-based move to ruin one of the greatest pleasures of the English countryside. It was as class-directed as any legislative action, designed to humiliate, infuriate and belittle an entire section of the country — those who like living in the country and riding horses to excitement. It is not my cup of tea, and it is not yours either. And I am pleased to report that the ban is failing, for all the right reasons.

The Telegraph reports:

Seven years after the Labour government passed a contentious law intended to abolish hunting with hounds, the country’s hunts – which no longer chase a live animal, but merely a trail of artificial scent instead – are in the best shape anyone can remember.

Part of the reason is that the law has proved almost comically difficult to enforce. Beneath its stated object of outlawing the hunting of wild mammals with dogs, near-total confusion reigns. In theory, you can hunt mice, but not rats, rabbits but not hares, domestic cats but not wild ones. Birds of prey, but not foxhounds, can be set upon foxes. Yet a bigger factor appears to be that exquisitely delinquent streak in the British character that reacts against the hectoring and bossiness of officialdom. As a result, thousands of people who previously had little obvious interest in hunting have taken it up.

“Our membership has doubled to around 1,000 since the law was passed,” says Sam Butler, the Warwickshire’s ebullient Master. “The support we are getting from the communities is incredible. Our range of activities is expanding all the time. Even with the economy the way it is, when everyone’s watching where their money goes, we are hunting at least as much as ever.”

I run a welfare state. The state is me. I am its executive, legislative and judicial branch. The welfare bum is Stumpy, the short-tailed squirrel who was first among all the neighbourhood denizens to come boldly to the back door and beg for food. Her persistence and courage won for her a few almonds, which naturally led to us having to buy almonds by the package to feed the welfare state thus created. Other squirrels have come and gone but Stumpy has become an almond eating welfare-dependent.

 The police force of this welfare state is the cat, a mild-mannered bureaucat cum social worker, who polices the outer bounds of Stumpy’s aggressive screen-climbing and importunism. Milo the cat is a yogourt and kibble-eating near-vegetarian who abhors violence, though he does like to patrol the back yard and give the impression of being a Fierce Predator.

Yesterday Stumpy the squirrel and cat were in near proximity. The squirrel thought the cat had got too close, so cuffed the cat across the face, mildly. The cat backed off.

Today the cat was seen to cuff the squirrel across the face, mildly, and the natural order was restored.

It is wonderfuul to consider that the lion will lie down with the lamb, as long as the lion is well fed and needs a nap. One might as well protect one’s future meal.

For many years and in many venues you heard the factoid that 10% of the population was gay, which surely struck you as nonsense from just looking around you and thinking of the people you have known or met. The figure was an artefact of Alfred Kinsey, the first systematic sex researcher, who was also notoriously weak on statistical methods. Now come some statistics that approach the truth.

Worth a read.

Tiger Woods to ‘apologize’ publicly on Friday – CTV News (17 February 2010)

First of all, I want to say to my 7 iron, I know, I hurt you. I hurt you through neglect, and when I came back to you, I hurt you because my grip was wrong. We know why, we talked about it and I hope we’re all right.

Next, I want to apologize to professional golf. Listen, my income just took a hit, but you guys! Seriously, I get it. A fifty percent drop in revenue is drastic, and I hope to make it up to you. If they wanted to see the Tiger magic before, they will tune in now to see the repentent, new, post-rehab Tiger, putting more into each stroke! Oops, can I have a Mulligan on that remark? Just kidding.

Now, amateur golfers.  You take off every weekend for six, seven hours at a stretch, come back happy, sweaty, tired, a better man.  Now, she’s asking herself, where has that goofy prick been? If I blew the whistle on your part-time thing, I am truly sorry.  And I am a guy who needed that thing. Maybe together, we can work it out.

I had some other people I wanted to give a nod to – the bar-tenders, hoteliers, chauffeurs and sportswriters who protected me – enabled me, I guess – hell, cheered me on – so, guys, thanks. But it’s a new cat now.  I only purr for one kitten at a time. Seriously.

Finally, to the guys at Kwame, Feinstein and Lockyer – long days, guys, I know. But we got a deal! Don’t spend it all in one place.

Thanks, everybody, and see you on the tee. Am I forgetting anybody? No? Awright, we’re gone.

In a recent advice column the issue concerned the tolerance of the housewife for her husband’s Playboys in the living room for the children to see. You can guess the tut-tutting from those guardians of morality.  The readers were warned that dad’s Playboys might give the girls the false idea that their body image and their ability to satisfy a man sexually were of primary importance.

Well, actually…. they are. And anyone who denies it is in rampant denial fo the facts. The ability of the woman to satisfy a man sexually is absolutely primary. It is job #1. Sometimes it is the less immediate concern, such as when mum and dad are shopping for groceries, reading stories to the kids or cooking dinner. Work can interfere too. But over the long haul – especially if there is going to be a long haul – satisfying your man sexually is the job. Because if that is working out, everything else is working out.  Sex life is the measure of the relationship.

And if you disagree with me, please go live somewhere else, preferably in a convent.

The previous examples of “Hand of God” have been on shaky ground but this example might be more compelling.  An earlier article in NYT discussed how the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) was being sabotaged by its own future.  It stated the following.

A pair of otherwise distinguished physicists have suggested that the hypothesized Higgs boson, which physicists hope to produce with the collider, might be so abhorrent to nature that its creation would ripple backward through time and stop the collider before it could make one, like a time traveler who goes back in time to kill his grandfather….

This malign influence from the future, they argue, could explain why the United States Superconducting Supercollider, also designed to find the Higgs, was canceled in 1993 after billions of dollars had already been spent, an event so unlikely that Dr. Nielsen calls it an “anti-miracle.”…

Dr. Nielsen and Dr. Ninomiya have proposed a kind of test: that CERN engage in a game of chance, a “card-drawing” exercise using perhaps a random-number generator, in order to discern bad luck from the future. If the outcome was sufficiently unlikely, say drawing the one spade in a deck with 100 million hearts, the machine would either not run at all, or only at low energies unlikely to find the Higgs.

Odd as it may seem the events are starting to bear this hypothesis correct.  A Popular Science article notes the follow.

First, a coolant leak destroyed some of the magnets that guide the energy beam. Then LHC officials postponed the restart of the machine to add additional safety features. Now, a bird dropping a piece of bread on a section of the accelerator has, according to the Register, shut down the whole operation.

The bird dropped some bread on a section of outdoor machinery, eventually leading to significant over heating in parts of the accelerator. The LHC was not operational at the time of the incident, but the spike produced so much heat that had the beam been on, automatic failsafes would have shut down the machine.

Hand of God?  Only Maradona knows!

Amidst all the foofarah of Obama, world doom, and Mighty Subjects of Pressing Concern, I noted the following on Monday, November 10th, 2008. A survey of  2,360 Czech women showed that the length of foreplay was irrelevant to the number and strength of womens’ orgasms. It all depends on the quality and duration of intercourse.

Thirty-five years of feminist propaganda down the tubes. This reminds me of the old Australian joke: “What is the definition of Australian foreplay?” Answer: “Brace yourself, Sheila”.

Here is what the report said, courtesy of the Telegraph:

“In the study, reported in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, the academics quizzed a representative sample of 2,360 Czech women of all ages about details of their sex lives, including orgasmic consistency with a partner along with estimated duration of foreplay and intercourse.

“Results show that for the women in the study, the average duration of foreplay was 15.4 minutes, and intercourse, 16.2 minutes.

“The researchers point out that 16.2 minutes is considerably longer than reported in American studies, where intercourse was found to last on average seven minutes.

“They added: “It could be that this reflects, a greater appreciation of intercourse and sensuality by Europeans than by Americans.”

“The researchers looked at frequency of orgasm in the women, and foreplay and intercourse data. They concluded the links with foreplay were insignificant. Instead they suggest that the longer intercourse lasts, the greater the probability of orgasm for the women.”

Or is this the proof of Nelson’s dictum: “Never mind manoeuvres, always go straight at them”.

No definition of foreplay was supplied, so it is not possible to know what the researchers meant. But fucking them long and hard is always recommended. Sound doctrine and policy. Women appreciate the performance, it seems.

Now, back to the recession, inflation, and world doom.

Melts in your own keeper’s box, not in your hands.

Lots to be savoured in pubs in London’s West End and other fine Blue establishments elsewhere through to next Wednesday.

Because the bearded evil twin of Rafa Benitez in ours has turned Anfield into one giant Agonizer booth.

UPDATE: What weird badge of honour is there in coming back against Inter after losing out to Barnsley — 29 places below them in the League — and before that equalizing at half-time with a side 129 places below?

The only thing close to Mohamed Fayed’s heart that has been murdered is the fate of Fulham Football Club in the Premiership. And that’s no conspiracy theory: just look for the crazy rich merchant perched at Harrod’s.