Harlowe Pilgrim's Cock and Bull Blog: August 2012

Monday, August 20, 2012

Crack Down on Pussy Riot

Um … what the hell’s a Pussy Riot?

Is it the first week back to university, after a long and lonely summer vacation? A smokin’ troupe of naked comediennes? Or a drunken titty-bar brawl?

Witness my mind at work.

Well, Pussy Riot’s been all over the news. It turns out they’re an activist, all girl punk band from Russia, that has run afoul of one President Vladimir Putin. Apparently, the girls were under the impression there’s free speech in Russia.

Sure there is, as long as you don’t piss off the wrong people. And if you do, you still have your free speech—it’s just that you quickly find yourself exercising it from the Gulag.

Isn’t that the same old shit world-over? It’s even the same old shit here, in my favorite constitutional republic, the good ole U.S. of A. (although hopefully to a lesser extent).

Anyhow, it appears that Pussy Riot’s exercised their free speech one too many times for the authorities. And who knew they would crack down? They always seemed like such nice guys.

The verdict here is a two-year prison sentence handed down to three of the group’s members, for … hooliganism. Let’s see here: murder, rape, theft, hooliganism. Must be hooliganism sounds like a more serious crime in Russian.

Still, it’s not like Pussy Riot didn’t know they were pushing it—and I doubt they’re surprised they ended up behind bars. They probably got what they wanted, seeing as their story has become world news.

And you don’t achieve that these days unless you’re a booty-flashing singer, a penis picture texting politician, or a big dicktator with a little nuke.

Unless you’re a girl punk group, and you call yourself Pussy Riot.

The naughty news men and ladies just love getting to say that.

- Harlowe Pilgrim

Harlowe Pilgrim’s books are available at Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords.com, Books-A-Million, and most other online booksellers.

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Saturday, August 11, 2012

Peeing on People

Does it piss you off to be peed on?

And I’m talking in the literal sense, with actual urine flow—not in the figurative sense of the bad water we all wade through, just living life.
Some may be into it—but for most people, if they haven’t asked for a golden shower, I really don’t think they’re up for one. Call us prudes …

For instance, there’s this strange story of a guy who made a pass at a girl in a bar. I know—it happens a million times a night. So, the girl in the bar shot him down. I know—that happens a million times a night, too.

And what happened next? Of course, the guy moved on down the line … and made a pass at another girl, right? Or lowered his standards? Or waited until the girl who shot him down had a few more Margaritas, and then tried his luck again?

Well, no. None of the above. What he did was … whip it out, and pee on the poor girl’s leg.

And I understand she was not amused. The nice lawmen who arrested the dumbass were not amused either.

Taking an unwelcome leak on the object of your affection may not be the best way to win her over. It makes the rest of us cavemen seem almost romantic by comparison. Okay, well … we like to think it does.

Now, everyone knows that girls like bad boys—but I submit that they’re not all created equal. I’m sure that after all was said and done, our lady did not see her assailant as the equivalent of a bad-ass gangster or a crusty-ass biker (well known favorite archetypes of the fair sex).

So, what the hell was this dufus thinking?

“I’m a superhero with piss-power, and I’m here to impress your pants off!”

Maybe … maybe not. He probably wasn’t thinking at all. He was probably busy metabolizing alcohol.

And there’s always something to be said for letting the animal instinct run free—it does need exercise every now and then. Marking your territory? That’s something a dog would do. Could it be that the fellow’s half canine?

If so, we could actually extract a moral from this story: Just because your mother was a bitch (or your father was a bitch), doesn’t mean that pissing on something makes it yours.

Then again, I could just be out of touch.

-Harlowe Pilgrim

Harlowe Pilgrim’s books are available at Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords.com, Books-A-Million, and most other online booksellers.

Follow on Twitter @ https://twitter.com/HarlowePilgrim

Monday, August 6, 2012

Put a Condom on my Olympics

Put a condom on my Olympics … it’s time for another round of the quadrennial summer games. And it’s looking to be a hot one in London.

The biggest news so far out of the pre-Olympic run-up is the story about the 150,000 condoms being provided to the athletes in Olympic Park. Now, I like condoms and I like sex, but that sounds like quite a lot of both. I sure hope they find time to take in a few of the athletic events while they’re there.

It’s not like the boatload of condoms comes as a shock—the Olympics and condoms go together like peanut butter and jelly, leather and lace, and vodka and orange juice. It used to be that sailors and condoms went together … but I guess these days, the sailors are keeping it zipped on the ship, and it’s the athletes going ashore to spread the love.

In terms of a friendly wager, I saw where you can actually bet on whether or not the Olympics will run out of condoms. Imagine if they were just a few shaft-wrappers short; whoever placed the order for only 150,000 would be shit-canned faster than you can say, “Hey, wanna hook up?” “Okay.”

And what happens if they do run out? Screw-mageddon? Paternity tests and infections for everybody?

Psst … don’t even think about telling the American political establishment where the condoms will be coming from. Remember the scandal that erupted when they figured out Team USA is wearing uniforms made in China? I’m pretty sure the Olympic rubbers aren’t made in the USA. I heard a rumor they actually test the things on egg rolls, but I’m not sure I completely trust the source.

So which is more valuable as memorabilia? An unopened Olympic condom in pristine condition, or one that’s been properly put through it’s paces? Obviously, if used … it depends on who’s DNA it’s been slathered in. If you go that route, thorough documentation is a must. Video is also highly recommended, for obvious reasons. In fact, the video’s good even if you don't have a collectible condom …

You know, maybe they should just make sex an official Olympic event; sounds like they’ve already made it the main event. What country wouldn’t want to medal in sex? Talk about national pride. Just roll one on your pole—or open up your vault—and go for the gold, baby. Just don't go for broke. Broke and condoms do not go together.

-Harlowe Pilgrim

Harlowe Pilgrim’s books are available at Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords.com, Books-A-Million, and most other online booksellers.

Follow on Twitter @ https://twitter.com/HarlowePilgrim

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Really? He Put Fireworks in his Ass?

Have you heard the one about the guy who shot the fireworks out of his ass?

Sounds like someone’s been to too many KISS concerts.

I saw a news article describing the incident, but we won’t bother ourselves with the facts here. Just the idea that it actually occurred is quite thought provoking.

Imagine how that emergency call went:

“Help! We need help! My friend just blew up his ass!”

“Um … would you mind repeating that, Sir? It sounded like you said …”

“Yes! He blew up his ass! That’s what I said! And that might not be all, either … please, we really need help.”

“Is this a prank call?”

“No! Lady, please …”

“Um … okay. So, your friend just blew up his ass. I … I need to ask you a couple questions, alright?”

“Fucking A! What’s the matter with you? Just send someone, will you?”

“Sir, I have to ask … please stay calm. Now, how exactly did he blow his ass up?”

“Fireworks. Between his ass cheeks.”

“Really? He put fireworks in his ass?”
“Yes.”

“Hmmm …”

“Hmmm what? This is an goddamned emergency!”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry about what?”

“Sir, I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to do much for your friend.”

“What?! Why not?!”

“Well … unfortunately … it sounds like your friend’s stupidity has reached an advanced stage; it’s likely he’s terminal. We will not be sending anyone out.”
“But … wait!”

“Have a good night, Sir. Goodbye.”

Now, I’ve never even contemplated putting explosives in my ass … and it’s amazing to me that this guy did. And he lit the fuse! I guess his mother never told him not to. Funny, our mothers never had to tell us not to. Somehow, I doubt that Einstein is this guy’s last name.

You’re probably thinking what I was thinking: surer than shit, this story is straight out of a trailer park, somewhere deep in the heart of Appalachia—with the bad judgment being the product of good moonshine and better inbreeding.

But as it turns out, this little show of pyrotechnic prowess was put on down under—as in, Australia. Do they have moonshine in Australia? Inbreeding? Nah …

It’s fitting that it happened in Australia, though—seeing as he was burnt down under. What a place to even have an open flame! What if there was a methane leak? Maybe there was (obviously something went very wrong).

Confucius say, “Man who cauterize asshole shut, find himself in high pressure situation.”

Indeed.