Today is the last of this current wankathon. The girlfriend returns tomorrow and so will the usual, somewhat less saucy, content of this reputable blog. Having forgotten about it yesterday, I’m a day behind so have to go for a double whammy today – which is a bit of a struggle as after only five days I’ve run out of things to wank about. How bad is that? Hopefully I’ll think of something while writing the bit about Christina Aguilera…
As one of the original pop-tartlets, Christina Aguilera distinguished herself from the others by a) being talented and b) appearing to have a much stronger grasp of her own sexuality than her peers. Unlike the rest of the batch, Xxxtina genuinely appeared to age and mature in front of our own eyes; becoming a glamorous, confident personality rather than mere post-legal jailbait.
Feast your joy-receptors on ‘Candyman’, possibly Lustina’s coolest music vid and most likeable song. In fact, this refreshingly original and flavourful pop track was so good I think it went straight to Radio 2. The video, of course, harks back to that golden age of the US military when it wasn’t starting and losing wars. This setting blends perfectly with the bounce and character of the song and Aguilera is (probably) the only female singer around who could pull off the vintage pin-up style without simply looking like a cheap stripper. Awesome song, awesome broad. Awesome wank. Which kinda makes you think about stuff too.
Still, no ideas for any further wankage; I’m watching Hellboy on DVD so my heart isn’t really in it. In most cases where my imagination fail me I find it’s best to think about Cheryl Tweedy (which also keeps to the whole “popstars worth giving a damn about” theme and makes this almost seem brilliantly thought-out – almost). Tweedy/Cole is widely regarded as fitter than anyone you will ever even dream of fucking and scientists from over twenty nations are working together to conclusively prove that this whole Ashley Cole thing is a mass-hallucination and, in reality, Cheryl spends her time away from the rest of the girl group walking barefoot through dewy meadows, having pillow fights with herself in sexy PJs and sitting in front of her computer until 3am watching Garth Merenghi clips on YouTube and chatting to her buddies on MSN while getting stoned.
Anyway, please enjoy this video of Cheryl Tweedy half-heartedly trying to squeeze into a box:
Here’s another of her getting gunged – which, as we all know, is basically the Saturday kids TV equivalent of a facial:
And here she is again, this time riding a tiny motorbike. The vid also features Holly Willoughby, once voted “TV personality you’d most like to have as your fuck buddy” by readers of the Radio Times, dressed up as a schoolgirl. Did the guys who judge what’s acceptable on TV take Saturday mornings off back then? Why was there such a load of hassle about her possessing a cleavage and showing it on the telly at 8pm in the evening after she spent much of her early career staining the sheets of millions of schoolboys (of all ages) across the country. She was hardcore breakfast-porn, everyone knew it and loved her for it. Some mornings, I would even love her for it more than once. Obvious joke. I feel more ashamed about that than having written about wanking for the past six days.
I had planned on featuring for tonight’s wankathon a spread of flaunty ‘real’ girls that I’d stumbled upon earlier. Unfortunately, I have just experienced a real selection of ‘real’ girls in that really real bastion of blandcore, Oxford. In what can only be described as one of the most depressingly dire of nights out in living memory, I was exposed to the full, frank, bare-bosomed ugliness of the personality-less hordes of Oxfordian nightcrawlers. The Carling Academy (which, in its defence, does host some excellent gigs which puts it into that annoying category of regretably relevant) is due the brunt of my rage. Some underage aspirational victims informed us that it was 80s night, thus supposedly explaining their crimped hair and horrendously bad outfits. My first assumption was that they just supposed this was what adults wore, having seen photos of their parents dressed similarly when they were in their 20s. Come to think of it, if they didn’t tell us it was 80s night I wouldn’t have been able to guess. Unless the DJ was being ironic and was just using 80s as an umbrella term for music from any year that is pretty forgettable and certainly not designed to be danced to. At least not danced to properly. An important distinction the distressingly featureless people sweating and swarming across the dancefloor should note. Does nobody know how to move with passion anymore? The closest I got to seeing anyone dance like they meant it was the obligatory group of quasi-emos who still try to get mainstream chicks. They did their usual mini-mosh bounce around but this was discounted from being interesting because they were only doing it to fulfil the unwritten duty of their demographic. Is everyone so self-conscious that they can’t let loose in a dark, dingy room filled with drunken idiots whose lusting eyes aren’t seeing with enough depth to criticise your movements? Tragic. Also, everyone was ugly. Not in the exciting sense, which is essentially just attractive but with a stronger taste, but in the dull, dull, fucking dull sense where there was nobody appealing enough to warrant any detailed scrutiny. I kind of just floated around trying to identify a person worth knowing. Then I got the bus home.
Well done Oxford; you’ve ruined my wank. An advisory message for anyone out there who’s following this wankathon and is still tempted to crack one out to these ladies: remember that the internet is here so you can avoid having to relate to real girls.
Another of my more shameful irresistable attractions is Gemma Atkinson, who’s worth mentioning because she’s about as ‘real girl’ as I’ll be willing to go from now on. Anyone deemed more real than her shall be avoided and anyone equally or less real are officially disingenous and thus my type. That and the fact that she looks pretty smoking in that picture. Maybe one day there’ll be a wankathon for you Gem. Until then however, you’re my litmus test for acceptable levels of reality and girliness.
I apologise for the stark realness of the above image. It’s purpose is to shock and offend. At the time of writing, the two girls caught in this photo are undergoing de-authenticity theraphy to increase their levels of fakeness. On a brighter note, the friend who’s sticking her lips in has since helped work herself to a level of disingeuity where her boyfriend Dave is only sure whether she exists or not 50% of the time. Well done to her.
Thought I’d leave you with this one. One of these girls is possibly real and the other might be fake. Alternatively, it could be the other way round. Either way, how did this situation come about and did the photographer not to think to take another shot with the disinterested less attractive/flaunty friend out of the way? Also, I thought they only drunk out of cups like that in American teen comedies? I’m not sure why the posing lady is so excited. Maybe it’s because the crappy wickery furniture in the background is her miserable friend’s? Which of these girls would you fuck and which would you chuck? Who’s more real?
More wankathon tomorrow featuring Christina Aguilera (pictured below, looking kinda ‘real’ but hot with huge boobs)
I was reading an article the other day claiming American Apparel, nu-ethical productionist of skinny shit for cheap ‘n crunky fashionsluts, has spent squillions of cents pushing their adverts across the peoplenet. Y’know the ones: white background; Helvetica font; grungy co-ed chick with what looks like a roofy hangover. As much as those ads are effective in getting me to clickity-click my way thru to ogle some more models, I guess AA’s target audience of professional porn stars, amateur porn stars and students going to a fancy dress party as one of the above aren’t as susceptible to such subtle marketing techniques. The company has been losing greens in the millions lately.
Even if the absent girlfriend demographic isn’t what they’re going for, I’m willing to do my bit for this noble corporation which pulls illegal immigrants out of American sweatshops and puts them back in the gutter where they belong. (It probably roughs them up a bit on the way too, spitting in their faces and, if they’re a teenage chick with a bit of a tan, dressing them in Appy gear and photographing them for one of their adverts). Hence why today’s wankathon is celebrating commerical jailbait of the trendiest variety.
As a bit of extra fun, wholly ripped-off frominspired by Andrea and the rest of those black-lashed blog-bunnies from Heartless Doll, I thought I’d put together a quiz for y’all to try out. It’s called American Apparel or pr0n; and it’s probably not safe for work. Unless you work for American Apparel, in which case your desk is probably damp with this stuff. You’re a bad man.
American Apparel or pr0n
Below are some teeny snippets of what I’ll describe as pretty racy shit. Some of these shots are from American Apparel adverts; some are from the dark side of the infoweb (which is kind of like the dark side of an iceberg in that it’s shady, wet and much, much bigger than the light side…). Your task is to sort out the marketing porn from the real pr0n. Click on the images to find out. How many did you get right?
All day I’ve felt as though my eyes are sinking in vinegar. My body has been taut with the sort of tension M. Night Shyamalan stupidly believes he’s the master of. My nerves have been tighter than a Catholic choirboy’s asshole used to be and I’m so knackered I can barely think of a third cuntish sentence. Something to do with being highly strung… Any contemporary references to hanging? (Wait a minute, am I suggesting M. Night Shyamalan and Catholic choirboy gags are contemporary?) What about those emo kids who all committed suicide? They’d have probably cut their wrists; that’s what’s cool I guess. Hanging yourself is just so Shawshank Redemption. Which came out in 1994 and is another reference which doesn’t help my contemporary credentials much.
What I’m saying is that I should be sprawled across my bed cuddling a vodka bottle right now. Instead, I’m sat here in the dark listening to Thrash Unreal and wondering how to describe the sensation of two chilli powder-coated caterpillars attempting to force my eyeballs (which themselves feel like the planet Krypton moments before it exploded) across a pumping bass amp wrapped in glasspaper. Because that description was just wank.
Unfortunately, I can’t go to bed yet. My girlfriend left me alone (yet again) for a week-long tour of her native ex-Soviet satellite state (or something; she speaks commie) and I am therefore honour-bound to perform the obligatory wankathon in her absence. I don’t really fancy it, to be honest. Despite this, it is my duty as a man to tame the hairless mongoose at least as many times as I cook hot dinners while my girlfriend’s away. It’s for my readers and my gender that I declare the return of the absent girlfriend wankathon and prepare to flog the naked pirate like a champion.
The object of today’s wankathon (simply because I recently spent an obscene amount of money on some new threads and am feeling moderately fashionable) are the type of trendy, sub-trash, abused-chic style-whores who mostly exist to appear in the galleries of Last Night’s Party. It’s hard to pin down what’s best about these mistresses of the ‘victimise me’ look: the fact that half their monthly calorie intake comes from swallowing your load in the toilets of some electric jivebox or the accesible-only-by-force demeanour which makes you keep your distance until nightfall? Regardless of the answer, these chicks stumble along a 24-hour walk of shame safe in the knowledge that substance abuse never goes out of fashion. We should celebrate that.
More hot sluts in fine cuts (which I’m definitely going to turn into a website one day) can be found on Last Night Party (which is where I found these pics), Deadlamb’s Giblets and STNF, which is where I go to get all my style questions answered. Questions such as: if I was a grubby fashionista chick getting paid in ounces, exactly how much slut can I push into this pout…
I’m only kidding fashion chicks; I just really need to sleep…
I’ve kind of retired from Crunkfish for the time being, but sometimes I stumble across things on the net which are simply too awesome to be kept to myself. Rest assured that most things involving Keeley Hazell will come under this category of awesomeness.
Keeley Hazell (quite possibly the hottest girl ever to exist outside of my imagination) stars in FHMs ‘Lady Selector’ promotion for their 100 Sexiest Women issue, appearing in a variety of guises – as chosen by you. I don’t think I can handle this amount of power.
To balance the levels of hotness without overloading your brain, I recommend you concentrate on the last fat girl you saw crying outside a club to temper the raw sexiness of young Keeley.
