Confession: I once had a dream about inadvertently having sex with the Easter Bunny...

[True story!]

In my dream this really hot guy I fancied was going down on me under the covers...

He was giving me the best oral I'd ever had in my entire life TO THIS DAY!!! And I totally came. In my dream. But fo' realz.

Anyway, after I came, he comes up from under the covers to give me a kiss...

And it's only then that I realize it wasn't the hot dude I thought I was in bed with...It was actually the Easter Bunny - big ears n'all!

So now I'm thinking: HOW DID THE EASTER BUNNY GET INTO MY BED???

1. He could have bribed his way in with chocolate...but this theory breaks down when you consider I had no idea until AFTER the fact that I was in bed with him.

Ergo, what more likely happened was...

2. The Easter Bunny roofied me at some bar, which explains why I had no recollection of meeting the Easter Bunny, going home with him, getting naked, and getting into bed with him. Figure the roofies must have worn off while he was working his magic down below.

So now I'm traumatized by Easter, because I was basically date-raped by the Easter Fucking Bunny, albeit in my dream. To be more specific, I'm traumatized by the fact that I actually enjoyed having sex with the Easter Bunny...until I realized it was him. As you can imagine, it's quite a head fuck because I SWEAR I'm not a furry [no offense to those that are].

I think maybe the Easter Bunny puts roofies in chocolate eggs. Eat them at your peril.

And Happy Fucking Easter!

In the weeks since I posted my last blog, I've realized I need to clarify something...

I wrote it in response to a friend's question about the differences in mating rituals between the US and UK. In it I jokingly described the typical rules of engagement for members of the opposite sex in my homeland. However, I'm not typical, and the "average" Brit I profiled is NOT me.

For the record, I'm fragile. I break easily and need to be handled with care. If your intentions are anything less than honorable, please, please tear up my phone number, delete my email address, and stay the fuck away.

A friend just asked why I don't date, and so I pointed him in the direction of an old blog I wrote on dating, and why you should never, ever, ever, in a million years, ever, ever do it.

Suffice to say, I'm ideologically opposed to it. At the end of the day, if I want to have dinner with the primary purpose of being judged, I can just go round to my mom's, so it's surplus to requirements anyways.

Anyhow, my first point on the aforementioned post is this:

My friend subsequently asked what the "Queen's English rules of engagement" were.

As it happens, I once wrote a chapter for a friend's book about dating British Blokes, which more or less covers things...The book was billed as "The Ultimate Guide to Becoming a Better Flirt, a Tougher Chick, and a Hotter Girlfriend--and to Living Life Like a Rock Star," and was written specifically for girls who want to meet boys, but nevertheless gives a fairly accurate overview of the rules of cricket so to speak. Also, please excuse the tone, which was intended for a somewhat different audience...

British Men: How to flirt with, seduce and land a bloke from Blighty

The phrase "dating a British man" is misleading, as in essence it's an oxymoron. The English don't date per se, the term being considered rather crass and, well, American. Though the English may make use of American-style computer dating websites in private, in public even the use of the word "dating" is frowned upon. To get around the embarrassment caused by the "D" word, the English use the euphemism "going-out," which is less direct and therefore far less threatening.

Since the whole "going-out" thing is so painfully embarrassing for Brits, the use of social lubricants and disinhibitors such as alcohol is essential (otherwise the nation would quite likely go the way of the dinosaurs). Consequently, if you're looking to hook up with a British man (or "bloke" as they're called in "Blighty") the best place to start is where copious amounts of said lubricants are consumed, i.e., down the pub.

Once down the pub, the way to flirt with a British bloke is by not flirting. Aggressive American-style flirting would just put the fear of god into your intended, and would likely have the opposite effect as the one desired. A basic knowledge of football and British TV is essential when breaking the ice, since an opening line such as "can you explain the offside rule" will likely be more successful than an obnoxiously obvious "do you come here often" (Brits are rarely direct with their verbiage, and are notorious for taking the scenic route whenever possible). British pub conversation is highly competitive, so get you wit on if you want to be noticed; He or she who jokes best wins. Once you've struck up a good conversation, relax and let the beer take care of the rest.

The mating ritual of a British bloke generally involves him getting rat-arsed (very, very drunk) in the general vicinity of a potential mate before "copping off" (disappearing for some sexual interaction) with them at a point when all inhibitions have disappeared along with the beer. If you're lucky, he'll be drunk enough to ask for your number yet sober enough to remember it, which means you're well on your way to taking the relationship to the next level.

Since Brits don't date, men may arrange to be in the vicinity of you and a pint of beer at a future point by asking if you fancy going out somewhere at some predetermined time. Just remember, in responding to such a proposition, never, ever, mention the "D" word. Indeed you may only be certain whether such an appointment is a date after the fact, and even then it's not always clear, but that just goes with the territory and is one of life's great mysteries.

The rules of engagement between the sexes are subtly different across the pond. If a man and woman share conversation on neighboring barstools repeatedly, then the couple concerned are considered to be an "item" (a couple). This happens by default, with no American-style discussions of exclusivity, which would be beyond embarrassing for a Brit. Indeed there's really no such thing as non-exclusive dating as far as Brits are concerned (though one-off drunken shags are always excusable).

Once you have your Brit bloke keep him happy by learning a few essential skills. Once the sex is over, you'll need to locate the kettle and put it on. Put a tea bag into a pre-warmed pot (if available) or mug and pour boiling water onto it. Serve with milk and sugar to taste, saving the honey for your next bout of foreplay.

Occupy LA First Anniversary Photo Essay



The weekend leading up to Occupy LA's October 1st anniversary featured a packed schedule of activities, which included panel discussions, educational events, and a Really, Really Free Market. In anticipation of the big day, several protesters reoccupied City Hall on the Sunday night, erecting tents on the sidewalk surrounding the now restored South Lawn. Though the LAPD harassed campers under the premise of minor infractions, occupiers ensured they stayed within the bounds of local bylaws and codes, and were allowed to stay in their temporary encampment overnight. Despite the fact that two arrests were made -- after those suspected of "crimes" such as first degree jaywalking and possession of a bike with no light were found to have outstanding warrants -- the symbolic victory set a distinctly upbeat tone for Occupy LA's first birthday celebrations, which featured a rally at Pershing Square at noon (where OLA kicked off exactly one year ago), an afternoon of marches and direct actions, and a special evening GA. Though anti-Occupy propaganda and general burnout had taken its toll on numbers, a hardcore group of protesters, who through shared goals have forged strong bonds over the past year, came out to celebrate their numerous tangible achievements (most notably in the realm of foreclosure) and their new American Dream: that another -- fairer -- world is possible.


[Occu-puppy springs into action on the restored South Lawn of City Hall.]


[Agreed: "Revolt Is All We Have -- We Must Overthrow This Corporate Dictatorship."]


[End the Koch party: "Billionaires Your Time Is Up."]


[Yep: "Free Pussy Riot."]


[Clowning around...]


[...As the media circus comes to Downtown.]


[Son Fish gets carded.]


[As temperatures soared well above 100 we wanted to get our nipples out too -- but the sexist law in LA doesn't allow women to bare their breasts in public.]


["Imagine Fairness" -- Nowhere Man gets everywhere; We've occupied with him in LA, Chicago, and New York.]


[A couple of dishy and delish ladies!]


["Power To The People" -- Problem is corporations are apparently people too!]


["Free Hugs" make us happy ]


[Money talks...and corporations walk..over everyone and everything.]


[Anon love...]


[...Can lead to Anon babies.]


[Love it when OccupyFreedomLA gets that faraway look in her eyes.]


["Capitalism's Fate Is The Corporate State."]


[Beware of this chalk pusher -- she could get you arrested with her wares. #Chalkupy]


[Yummy family dinner.]


["Anti-Imperialista ~ Anti-Fascista."]


["Police Are Pawns...And Shellfish."]


[The best kind of birthday party.]


[Who Is Your Enemy?]


[The US Government "Now Detaining Awakened Americans" under unlimited detention without trial provisions of the NDAA.]

Visit our gallery for more pictures of OccupyLA's first anniversary.



Related Posts

Yesterday, a [white] middle class, well educated old lady asked if I'd watched the RNC...

I told her I hadn’t cause I found it hard to watch the mean spiritedness and the lies.

She said I needed to get to know the people who were going to be running our country.

She then told me what we needed was a businessman to run the country who would put the jobless to work. [facepalm]

Later I spoke to my [white] middle class, well educated parents on the phone…they told me they’d read that Romney was going to create a million new jobs.

I asked them how Romney was going to do that. They said by lowering taxes. [doublefacepalm]

Congrats to the Republicans; Their propaganda's working.

Commiserations to the rest of us; We’re so fucked.

Sorry, just had to share, there's so much win in this pic!

In a Venn diagram of awesomeness, this would be in the beyond awesome spot where shed culture and Doctor Who collide.

CBGBs Double SG Feature & Impromptu Afterparty



With SuicideGIrls being a national and international phenomenon, it gives me a great excuse to couch surf and meet more of this awesome community in person. A very stylish white leather sofa bed in NYC is currently serving as my home away from home/office, and on my first night here, as luck would have it, just as my friend Zach and I were trying to figure out what to do with our evening, I saw a tweet from Lux. Turned out CBGBs were hosting a double SG feature as part of their film festival, and were screening Suicide Girls Must Die coupled with the world premiere of the super sexy new Suicide Girls UK movie.



Fabrizia, Payton, Sunshine, Spliff, Auriga, Tore, Lux, and Yankee were at the screening, and afterwards we got to spend some quality time drinking Blue Moon at a nearby bar. Par for the course for an SG get together, a suitable amount of silliness ensued. Alcohol has somewhat dulled my memory of that night, but I do remember trying on a bra that wasn't mine in the middle of the bar. I know the golden rule of the internets is "pix or it didn't happen" - so here you are:



Also, this happened on the way home, because that's just the way I rock & roll:



Click HERE for more image from the night. Pix by @zdroberts.

Codependence Day: Cheers To A Long, Beautiful, And Dysfunctional Relationship


[Above: Manko Suicide in Long Live The Queen]

Being English in America is a rather peculiar affair come July 4th. After all, you Yanks are busy inviting each other to barbecues, waving flags, enthusiastically lighting the fuses of an inordinate amout of pyrotechnics, and, rather ironically, singing "This Land Is Your Land" in celebration of the Declaration of Independence from our country. However, for us, attending an Independence Day celebration is akin to being Guy Fawkes at a Bonfire Night party, which is the anniversary we save our fireworks for.

On this apparently auspicious day, one wonders too if, given the benefit of hindsight, America's emancipation is truly a cause for celebration or commiseration? Was freedom from the tyranny of what any reasonable (ie. non-Republican) person might consider a decidedly moderate tax worth it, given the price you've subsequently paid? After all, if you'd have stuck with us, you'd already have true universal healthcare, no ominous questions hanging over your right to choose, nationwide gay marriage, a more pragmatic policy towards drugs, no death penalty, far stricter campaign finance laws, and, dare I say it, a somewhat more democratic democracy. (Not to mention football that's actually played with feet, news bulletins that actually broadcast news, and cups of tea that are actually worth drinking.)

And declarations aside, a relationship that's endured for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for 236 years after it was officially annulled hardly smacks of independence. Like a divorced couple that's unwilling and unable to sever the emotional, financial and legal ties, the affairs of Britain and America remain inextricably entwined. (If you need further proof of this point, have a chat with Richard O'Dwyer or Julian Assange.) So, as we mark the anniversary of the day our relationship was officially redefined, we should perhaps define it again. Let's take a moment to consider all that's both wonderful and dysfunctional about America and Great Britain's "special relationship" and raise a glass to Codependence Day.



It should be noted that the author of this article hails from England, but is a naturalized American, who wrote this missive in her country of choice (the United States) while enjoying guacamole, chips, salsa, and a very stiff margarita. She also acknowledges that King George III was probably a bit of a dick.

Remind me again why they needed to remake The Great Gatsby. Was the original just too poignant? Was the acting too damn good? Or was it because it lacked a hip-hop, dance and alt rock soundtrack?

Writing about advertising guru George Parker’s preferred pronominal profanities got me thinking about my own. I have to say I’m partial to “wanker” in the British colloquial sense of the word, which has little to do with a person’s propensity for actual genital manipulation, though it can be used to describe socially masturbatory behavior.

The reason I love this word so much is that its use is surprisingly subtle. In the UK, you can call your best friend a wanker and it’ll be taken as a term of endearment, or you can call your worst enemy one, in which case what’s conveyed is entirely different. It’s one of those limber words that’s transformed by context and tone.

Fortunately, my fellow Brits are innately attuned to the unspoken nuances attached to such verbiage and almost unfailingly understand precisely in which way it’s been used – and, more importantly, whether they’ve been insulted or not. Sadly, having realized the hard way that this skill is not encoded in the DNA of many people I encounter on this side of the Atlantic, I’ve had to retire the word from my common vernacular to avoid further confused looks, embarrassing silences, and spectacularly awkward moments.

Anyway, just saying. Carry on…you wankers.