CreepyTweets

On Twitter? CreepyTweets is a MUST follow. Rude Not To approved.

http://twitter.com/creepytweets

Padma Lakshmi & Golden Showers

Traffic has been shooting through the roof on Rude Not To and I just couldn’t figure it out. I rarely have time to post and I’m just not that popular. Then I found it! Through some amazing tweak of Google’s algorithm, I am now receiving some serious search equity. Do an image search for Padma Lakshmi and Rude Not To is the second result. Do an image search for Golden Shower and Rude Not To is the first result! Pretty much the awesomist thing to happen all weekend.

Thank you Google.
Thank you WordPress.
Thank you Padma.
Thank you Golden Showers…

In-House

Please Welcome Guest Blogger, Voltron:

At the bachelor party your Rude Not To host and I attended in Vegas this past weekend, one night’s activities included the time honored tradition of procurement and enjoyment of in-house entertainment. I find in-house to provide much more bang for one’s buck than a visit to the neighborhood strip club. There are really no pretenses with in-house. First, you have prepaid for titties and ass grinding on your junk, so $20 for a half-song lap dance as is customary at a strip club doesn’t come into the equation (note: you are a boner if you buy a lap dance at a strip club mid-way through a song, but that’s another subject altogether). In the comfort of one’s hotel suite, apartment, or home, in-house ‘hooas are not under the watchful eye of some greasy strip club pit boss that looks like Triple H. But I digress…

Despite all the advantages of in-house, things can and do go wrong. This weekend in Vegas was one such situation. The big mistake was hiring “escorts” instead of “strippers”. To the uninitiated, these are one in the same. They are, in fact, not. Both have titties and a vagina and really only have a job because you are genetically predisposed to being a dirt bag (its OK). I think the similarities end there though. Strippers are professional cock-teases. Some even specialize in an advanced form of the erotic arts, be it insertion of something inanimate into their gap or some soft-core S&M with the bachelor. They dance, they grind on your cock, they work for tips, and if you’re lucky, you should be able to grab a handful of titties.

Escorts, on the other hand, are more or less dead behind the eyes prostitutes that get paid to show up under the pretense of a “date”, fuck the payee, and leave. They range from “high-price call girls” (chicks that you would probably pick out of a crowd as worthy of your boner) to “the rest” (chubby chicks with stretch marks, a likely case of Hep-C, and noticeable scars from past surgeries).

Well, the ass-clown in charge of strippers at this past weekend’s bachelor party hired escorts for the in-house. It’s kinda like taking a dump in a porta-john. It will work in a pinch, but it’s not the optimal situation. These bitches couldn’t do anything right. It was the singular most disappointing in-house experience of my long and distinguished bachelor party career. I felt much better once someone produced an unopened package of bologna, which functioned as a processed meat projectile that had the uncanny knack for adhering to any surface in which it made contact, be it a wall, ceiling, or escort/stripper’s buttocks. Oh yeah…. the donkey we rented for the night ate all the amphetamines someone left on the coffee table. He died, so we dragged it to the nearest elevator and left it there. Oh Vegas. You’re incorrigible.

XO – Voltron