So, let's look at something that'll make heterosexual men the world over uncomfortable, let's look at the world's most fanciable men, living or dead. Let's put aside our prejudices and childish aspersions, as long as balls don't touch we're OK. So who are the world's hottest men-babes? The mabes. Don't be shy, I'll start us off by listing a few.
In the silver fox category we have George Clooney jostling for space with Schean Schonnery, both men exude maturity, sophistication and greying pubes. Sean seems to get more palatable with age, like an ill-conceived war. By the time he's a 100, if he makes it that far, he'll be like a walking bag of pheromone-exuding skin, making women cream their pants just by growing a new ear hair or wet-farting Auld Lang Syne. Personally I prefer George, he seems like he'd be a good laugh and you could share a post-coital spliff cos he's a f#cking liberal. Plus you could spend long summers at his villa on Lake Como. Paradiso.
Next up pop/rock stars, I'm going to throw Elvis into the equation. I'm talking a young Elvis when he first hit the scene back in the 1950s, looking like a baby-faced, doe-eyed, greasy-haired morally corrupting sex-god, swivelling those snake-hips at the female audience and making them tear their hair out with teenage longing and primordial lust. This was obviously before he discovered that the burger was the secret of the universe and he'd fly from Tennessee to Colorado to eat a sandwich that consisted of a hollowed out loaf of bread with a whole jar of peanut butter, jelly and a pound of bacon. I refer to it as the colon clogger, as did his colon. A sandwich that any mere mortal's arteries would spontaneously combust just from looking at it. Also in the pop star category we have Rod Stewart, a man whose pants were so tight that back in the 70s women would become pregnant just from watching him on TV (it was rumoured at the time that he was responsible for 1 in 5 births the world over). Him and Tom Jones used to have a little wager on who could get them the tightest. I think it's safe to say, from the vantage point of history, that Rod won that one. And he's still going, God bless him, the pants still as tight.
From the 70s to the 80s, the hirsute decade as it was known. A decade that gave us the hairy bear-god that is The Hoff. Ah, to lay my weary head down on that soft, downy rug of a chest and let the day's troubles wash over me like the soothing blue waves of the Pacific Ocean lapping up to the beaches of Los Angeles county, which David would patrol in those fetching orange shorts with one of those weird rescue cans they'd carry, which were no help to anyone, least of all a drowning child. A man who - even when drenched in his own ethanol-like urine surrounded by his traumatized weeping spawn because daddy has, yet again, fallen asleep blind drunk on the kitchen floor - still oozes more sex appeal than a thousand Chippendales in a thousand firemen's uniforms. To sit at the drive-in movies in his car KITT, his arm gentling resting on my shoulders when KITT interrupts us with one of his always hilarious wisecracks breaking the sexual tension as we all laugh, throwing our heads back in unified joy. Don't hassle the Hoff, indeed.
After that little digression let's move on to Johnny Depp, a man-boy who has eternally young looks, even when he's dressed like someone's dragged him through a tramp's vomit - backwards - then used him to clean a public toilet. Still, somehow, he manages to look youthful and boyish. But that's what happens when you sell your soul to Vanessa Paradis, she'll grant you anything. Another scholar in the loony school of method acting is Brad Pitt, who's next on the list. We all know Angelina's no good for him, bullying him, crushing the crazy life out of him with her constant demands for a bigger more "internationally diverse" family. Why don't you marry the African continent then Ange? Huh? And leave Brad out of it to smoke weed and screw his co-stars. While we're on the pretty boys how's about David Beckham? A little too pretty perhaps? And that voice would get infuriating. He sounds like he couldn't outsmart a mentally retarded Teletubbie, but he can wear Armani, can't he? And that's what really counts.
For those amongst us who can read, the literary legend, the maverick wordsmith, the always encouraging Hunter S. Thompson. One for the thinkers, the intellectuals, plus no one can look quite so charming in a pair of aviators while threateningly waving a .357 magnum in your face and muttering inanely about those goddamn bats that keep circling like vultures. If you don't find his wisdom, anarchy and binge mentality attractive then you're no human I'd recognise.
And finally, with a slight sadness that it's all over, Clive Owen - the man who would be Bond if that blonde-haired tart hadn't robbed him of it. Those searing eyes of his that command your attention, serenading you, no, hypnotising you. Who doesn't want to crawl into his muscular arms and be told everything's going to be just fine. Just fine.
I know people are going to say, where the hell's Robert Pattison, but any man whose manhood looks like a mini-milk covered in glitter is off the goddamn list. Remember, never wink at a woman with big hands.
what a great idea for a blog no homo!!!!!!!!!111
Added: 33 days ago by marv
So, the end of summer, it's a time when the ninjas here at Kontraband go away on holiday to exotic climes, to drink elaborate cocktails off the naked breasts of local waitresses, nutshot the natives, eat endangered animals, desecrate holy places of worship, fight with the local law enforcement, burn the rainforests for firewood, fight Somali pirates and limbo until our spinal columns snap like the crushing jaws of reality after realising you've left the house without any pants on, and today's the day you fight for promotion.
Because although we sleep with one eye open, while balancing on an eyebrow and always in the ninja stance, ready for an attack from our many, many enemies sometimes we need to chill. We need to get sun-burnt until we resemble Zoidberg in Bermuda shorts and drink lots of cheap foreign booze that'll make us dance on the heads of dwarves and leave us shouting fluorescent soup into the sands of a remote beach, burying the foul bile quickly, hoping that no-one'll notice until the next day when a small child trips over and lands face down it in. We need to pretend that we're going away to seek the sights, sounds and culture of another world, another land, to savour the unspoken pleasure of seeing another race and their local customs. When in reality we'll just be staring at topless women on the beach, nursing a pounding hangover and telling ourselves to move into the cooling shade, then realising we'll already there and it's still 100 degrees. While also taking notes on the size of ladies' thongs and the plumpness of their butt cheeks, researching future picture galleries for the greater good. We'll also be arguing with local taxi drivers over the outrageous fares they'll no doubt charge us, spotting our spoilt, pale, pasty, junk food ridden Western bodies, and the scent of money coming off our socks with sandals ensemble and faux designer shades.
So the usual KB team will be dwindled, we'll be flying the flag at half-mast, lamely limping along with the remaining office-monkeys coping as best they can. Which'll mainly mean crying, arguing and fighting about who's getting the bacon in and whose turn it is to have a break down because we can't print that picture of Keyboard Cat making out with Emma Watson. Thus, tragically, regretfully, the updates will be lighter. Especially on pictures and the blog, which will no doubt make the days longer, the edging ever closer to death will become almost tangible, the relentless boredom of the working day an abhorrent reality. Of maybe you'll not even notice.
For the lighter updates we can only apologise, but blame the scumbags who think they deserve a break in their working lives. There was talk of replacing the absentees with infant marmosets, a brain in a jar, those nodding dogs you see in cars, a see-saw, a coin-operated fortune-telling dinosaur, a pack of tarot cards, the Doozers from Fraggle Rock, the spittle from a rabid dog, a dozen lolcat images and the entire cast of Golden Girls (until we realised most of them were dead). But they wanted a job to come back to, and job security is paramount in these troubled times, so we just decided we'd try and share their responsibilities amongst the remaining few. It's going to be tough for them, pity their ineptitude, but most of all abuse them, heckle them, and demand to know why a full update is not occurring.
do some work!!
Added: 31 days ago by paddyo
"Can't evolution be the answer to how and not why" a young, confused fourth-grader named Stan Marsh once asked. Ten simple words uttered by a crudely constructed cartoon character levelled a debate that has been shouted at me from both sides for as long as I can remember. On one hand, there were laughable drawings of 'crocaducks' and leaps of faith that the world was only as old as the Bible says. And on the other, a glaring failure to explain how the universe could be five billion years old without a single, plausible theory as to its beginnings. The Big Bang theory is as much a 'flying spaghetti monster' as any all-knowing and wholly unprovable deity.
Their mutual flaws aside, intelligent design and evolution seem to have little in common. Intelligent design is, simply put, a thinly veiled religious theory masquerading as science while evolution is little more than a naked emperor in that scholars and elite members of the 'intelligentsia' can dream up fantastical hypotheses about 'god' particles that are nothing more than a mile wide and an inch thick.
The alternative, of course, is intelligent design which quite scientifically states that God did it. Specifically, God did it in six days. Even God doesn't roll on Shabbas.
As is written in the original science journal from two thousand and some odd years ago, light was created on the first day, heaven and earth came next, then man, and later woman followed by a 'ta-da' and a bow. After that, man takes over and no more attention is paid to the matter of our origins for roughly eighteen hundred years.
For Stan Marsh's sake, let's briefly assume two things: that God did make the universe and that evolution, while proven, is actually the process by which God continues his ongoing work.
If these two things are true, what would be the benefit of including every detail of this painstaking process at the beginning of the Bible? Surely, the human authors wouldn't comprehend the gravity of what they were writing. That would be equivalent to expecting a toddler to run a marathon. Now toddlers do grow up and some do go on to run marathons, but it takes time and years of experience and even then most do not.
Clearly the main purpose of the Bible is to set a moral standard for society through stories of everyday hardships as lessons for how to live our lives. Cataloguing every last amoeba and missing link would only serve to confuse the greater message.
Say, for instance, you're living on your uncle's water farm where life is simple, if a little boring. Occasionally, you have to fend off a pack of Tusken raiders or repair a faulty droid. Mostly, though, you'd just like to go into Anchorhead with your buddies or shoot some womp rats. Sure, you have some lingering questions about your father and that weirdo in the hills, but your immediate concern is learning the family business.
When Ben Kenobi needs to convince Luke Skywalker to leave the farm and come with him to Alderaan, he doesn't go into unnecessary details about Padme or Palpatine. Shmi Skywalker never comes up. He simply tells Luke what he needs to know at the time: Darth Vader killed his father. It's not entirely true, but it'll do for now. Through young Luke's eyes, Darth Vader is to Anakin Skywalker as evolution is to the Bible.
Episodes one, two, and three of the Star Wars canon, bearing the trials of young Anakin from his humble beginnings to his inevitable turn to the dark side, have zero immediate value in convincing Luke to do anything or go anywhere after the princess's message is received. Ben Kenobi trusts that Luke will learn all of this on his own as he experiences life outside Tatooine. Inside the cave watching the princess plead for his help, the old Jedi does not have the luxury of a lengthy history lesson.
In Episode five, Yoda attempts to further enlighten an older, yet still immature Luke. Even after saving the princess, aiding the rebellion, and seeing Obi-Wan come back as an ethereal spirit, Luke does not fully understand his father's fall and the temptation he himself will have to overcome. Yoda warns the young Jedi not to face Darth Vader on Cloud City to no avail. In fact, it's not even until Luke stares past his own artificial hand at his father's severed, metal limb on the second Death Star that he fully realizes how Anakin had been deceived and what that implies for Luke's own path.
By seeing the twisted machine his father had become, Luke was able to avoid the same fate for himself. Evolution may be the road map for which we decide what direction to take in life in the short term and as a species in the long term. It is not necessarily the road itself nor even the means of travel.
This is ultimately what Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the creators of South Park, are suggesting when Stan Marsh redefines the question evolution attempts to answer.
Now let's say the Bible is written not by human vessels of God but by men alone. Even with all of our technology and generations of discovery and invention, we still cannot explain with absolute certainty from where and whence we came. Two thousand years ago, a mythical super-being reaching down from above blinking all life into existence within a week would have sufficed as a prologue to a larger purpose. Sometimes, a few over-generalized words can establish all the context and setting you need. After all, the greatest modern story ever told opens with 'A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...'
i'm reading through your blog again, and just wanted to make one more comment that i overlooked. your argument is based on a false premise and at least one major logical fallacy. your false premise is that you seem think scientists just throw conjecture around and treat them as facts in the face of what you seem to perceive to be common sense. this is just not the case. hypothesis are created often, but for them to morph into theories, they have to have sufficient evidence supporting them. this takes the form of fulfilled predictions, replication of experiments, and so on. the age of the earth, dna, and transitional fossils were not discovered when darwin wrote his book. discovering them decades later (and in the case of fossils, continuing on into the present day) fulfilled some of the predictions that he made. the main logical fallacy that impacts the rest of your argument is the argument from ignorance. you are basically arguing that because we don't or maybe even can't know how the universe was formed, that god is an acceptable answer. it is not. "the big bang" is not a complete theory. it is a way to refer to that of which we are unsure, much in the same manner as "dark matter." science does not claim to have the answers to everything, only that they believe those answers to be found in nature.
Added: 44 days ago by mmorrisson
