Someone start a boy band. Okay, someone already has. A lot.
Okay, stop it.
Usually there is a considerable amount of female energy at Smut, considering that it is sometimes a distinctly feminine thing to want to discuss stuff that other people are much more comfortable doing and then shutting the hell up about. But this past Monday night, I was the only one representing the yoni, and I am surprised I didn't leave with ejaculate on any of my belongings.
The crowd was fantastic. Thanks guys. It's amazing what can happen when you get some Grade-A man meat down at Smut.
After my first foray into a herpes bit that is so far, going surprisingly well in development, I introduced the first performer of the evening. The lovely Aaron Lawry, who is a new babe on New York's doorstep, narrowly escaping the confines of Tuscon, AZ. Those confines being a lot of wide open desert, I guess, and a bit of reaction to songs that we might listen to go to bed here in New York. He is an excellent pianist and songwriter, and I wish that our sound system had picked up on him a lot better, because I realized 2 lines later that he had said something hilarious or poigniant, but that it couldnt be heard in the balance of the sound. Ray is an excellent tech maestro, but was maybe just a bit too cute for his tight yummy britches that night. That sounded dirty... even though I totally took a bite out of him. He'll show you the scar.
And then, my love, my life, MCC/MC(squared) (and any other thing he wants me to call him instead of his name so he doesn't get Googled and have total strangers know about the teenage boys he jerked-off... when he was also a teenager--calm down) took the stage. In amazing and jittering form (as the name of his blog would suggest, the kid can throw up just thinking about it), he exposed the yummy inner workings of his psyche, which have allowed him to be both Christian of the Year and Homecoming King as well as seducing all the straight football players at his sleepovers ("Let's see if we can make the white stuff come out."). The authenticity of that newly-deepened young man voice saying "I heard what you did with Mark. Wanna do it with me?" is so spot-on. It's comforting. I am telling you, that kid is going places. I've seen him do a million things at this point. He keeps constantly surprising me. Soon he will have my job. Seriously. And I'll be the only motherfucka that'll be surprised.
As does gin apparently. I am having this problem where I am getting old. And in addition to that, I can't hold my gin lately. So I have two and I am all screwed. Only not in the fun way, like with someone else. It sucks.
And Stuckey was there, and Murray was there. And they were Stuckey & Murray. And God saw that it was good. And then he let me have some. And it was a Stuckey & Murray sandwich. And I was the sweetmeat. Although, technically, I suppose that would make it a Desiree sandwich, on Stuckey & Murray, which kind of sounds like a bread of some sort. Or a bun. They show their buns on the cover of their album "Destination: Rock Bottom." I got one for free, cause they did me. I am starting the rumor, and you heard it here. They played some lovely songs at Smut, that made the whole world grin for a moment. I particularly enjoyed the moment that I explained to a girl (that had them) what DSL were. And when the next verse came around, S&M kindly explained that it would involve a high-speed connection from her lips to their (collective) weiner. We also found out what a few of their favorite things were, which I think involve brazilian-waxed coochies, face-sitting while channel surfing, period boobs, and not when their farts bleed, or Carson Daly. Ew. The Milk ad.
Okay so, would it be like a tuberculosis-cough spatter of blood, or would you fart, and just have a slow dribble down your crack?
Moving along...
Oh yeah, and Mike Daisey is a genius. In case you didn't know. You missed it. I mean, I am sure it's a story he could tell again, but it won't be the same. And I am guessing he wouldn't. He has such a comprehensive insight into stuff, that I am sure there are millions of things he could expound upon. This sounds like I am writing an essay. He told a story about getting stabbed. Yeah. Stabbed by a big crazy masturbating rapist with a butter knife while at work. And you know because of the intricacy of that phrase I am not just making it up (it would have taken more patience than I have). Oh, there were intimate details, and I know you want to look at a picture of his face and think, oh come on... I mean, perhaps he needs to get some shit tattooed on his face for you to know that he is a fuckin' killa. (In the cool sense, not in the, I-just-blew-his-alabi sense). He's actually super sweet. In the center, especially. I got some good Mike Daisey sweat on me after the show. I know.
(I also understand that I use to many parenthetical notes. Please don't write me.)
Okay, stop it.
Usually there is a considerable amount of female energy at Smut, considering that it is sometimes a distinctly feminine thing to want to discuss stuff that other people are much more comfortable doing and then shutting the hell up about. But this past Monday night, I was the only one representing the yoni, and I am surprised I didn't leave with ejaculate on any of my belongings.
The crowd was fantastic. Thanks guys. It's amazing what can happen when you get some Grade-A man meat down at Smut.
After my first foray into a herpes bit that is so far, going surprisingly well in development, I introduced the first performer of the evening. The lovely Aaron Lawry, who is a new babe on New York's doorstep, narrowly escaping the confines of Tuscon, AZ. Those confines being a lot of wide open desert, I guess, and a bit of reaction to songs that we might listen to go to bed here in New York. He is an excellent pianist and songwriter, and I wish that our sound system had picked up on him a lot better, because I realized 2 lines later that he had said something hilarious or poigniant, but that it couldnt be heard in the balance of the sound. Ray is an excellent tech maestro, but was maybe just a bit too cute for his tight yummy britches that night. That sounded dirty... even though I totally took a bite out of him. He'll show you the scar.
And then, my love, my life, MCC/MC(squared) (and any other thing he wants me to call him instead of his name so he doesn't get Googled and have total strangers know about the teenage boys he jerked-off... when he was also a teenager--calm down) took the stage. In amazing and jittering form (as the name of his blog would suggest, the kid can throw up just thinking about it), he exposed the yummy inner workings of his psyche, which have allowed him to be both Christian of the Year and Homecoming King as well as seducing all the straight football players at his sleepovers ("Let's see if we can make the white stuff come out."). The authenticity of that newly-deepened young man voice saying "I heard what you did with Mark. Wanna do it with me?" is so spot-on. It's comforting. I am telling you, that kid is going places. I've seen him do a million things at this point. He keeps constantly surprising me. Soon he will have my job. Seriously. And I'll be the only motherfucka that'll be surprised.
As does gin apparently. I am having this problem where I am getting old. And in addition to that, I can't hold my gin lately. So I have two and I am all screwed. Only not in the fun way, like with someone else. It sucks.
And Stuckey was there, and Murray was there. And they were Stuckey & Murray. And God saw that it was good. And then he let me have some. And it was a Stuckey & Murray sandwich. And I was the sweetmeat. Although, technically, I suppose that would make it a Desiree sandwich, on Stuckey & Murray, which kind of sounds like a bread of some sort. Or a bun. They show their buns on the cover of their album "Destination: Rock Bottom." I got one for free, cause they did me. I am starting the rumor, and you heard it here. They played some lovely songs at Smut, that made the whole world grin for a moment. I particularly enjoyed the moment that I explained to a girl (that had them) what DSL were. And when the next verse came around, S&M kindly explained that it would involve a high-speed connection from her lips to their (collective) weiner. We also found out what a few of their favorite things were, which I think involve brazilian-waxed coochies, face-sitting while channel surfing, period boobs, and not when their farts bleed, or Carson Daly. Ew. The Milk ad.
Okay so, would it be like a tuberculosis-cough spatter of blood, or would you fart, and just have a slow dribble down your crack?
Moving along...
Oh yeah, and Mike Daisey is a genius. In case you didn't know. You missed it. I mean, I am sure it's a story he could tell again, but it won't be the same. And I am guessing he wouldn't. He has such a comprehensive insight into stuff, that I am sure there are millions of things he could expound upon. This sounds like I am writing an essay. He told a story about getting stabbed. Yeah. Stabbed by a big crazy masturbating rapist with a butter knife while at work. And you know because of the intricacy of that phrase I am not just making it up (it would have taken more patience than I have). Oh, there were intimate details, and I know you want to look at a picture of his face and think, oh come on... I mean, perhaps he needs to get some shit tattooed on his face for you to know that he is a fuckin' killa. (In the cool sense, not in the, I-just-blew-his-alabi sense). He's actually super sweet. In the center, especially. I got some good Mike Daisey sweat on me after the show. I know.
(I also understand that I use to many parenthetical notes. Please don't write me.)
posted by DesTheRay at 2:22 PM
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