date machine : Jessica Simpson

Sex Machine: RELATIONSHIPS under stress.. Can true PASSION last?... plus throbbage.

zeitgeisty — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 18:50:00 GMT

The other night me and the girlfriend watched Woody Allen’s ‘Husbands and Wives’ over a heartburn-y meal of 1 pound fajitas from the local Taco City.

Lately that place has been dropping the ball as I’ve noticed the past few times I’ve ordered from there I’ve felt decidedly unwell. Of course I’m no quitter, so I’ll probably stick with them until I wind up in the hospital with botulism. Anyway, the combination of the movie and Mexican food played havoc with my intestines. In the middle of the film I had to rush to the john to release a torrent of mud from between my ass cheeks that was akin to the mud slide Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner experienced in ‘Romancing the Stone’… It was quite impressive I must say, but this entry is not about the sizable heft and weight of my bowel movement, it’s about relationships…

I think the girlfriend was expecting a slightly more humorous flick – even though I had warned her that it was pretty much of a downer – and at its conclusion, she was left in a bummer mood. I recall seeing the film in the theater and coming away from it that the mealy mouthed, passive aggressive character played by Mia Farrow was fucking irritating beyond belief, and after watching it again I felt similarly. To give a quick synopsis for those who haven’t seen it, it’s a film about relationships, specifically two marriages that are having troubles, the typical types of problems all marriages/relationships face i.e. sexual boredom, infidelity, false expectations, the death of ‘passion’, disappointment, resentment, compromise and chronic dissatisfaction.

What I really was struck by watching it this time around, was how sort of naïve it was. I mean especially for a man Allen’s age.

“WAAAAHHHH…relationships never seem to pan out the way you expect them to!!” – uh… No fucking shit Sherlock! You haven’t figured that much out? I suppose if you’ve lived an entire lifetime sheltered from the real world, hard life lessons don’t come quickly. Personally I feel that Woody Allen’s summation of love- “The heart wants what it wants” is the quote of an over-indulged, selfish prick that doesn’t have a thought for anyone besides himself.

Getting back to the flick, one great theme that ran through it was the question..

“Can passion last in a relationship?”

My thoughts on this are - define ‘passion’, and moreover define your idea of a ‘relationship’…

What is a ‘relationship’ to you? Some never ending feeding frenzy of a fuckfest, or is it a partnership? - A coming together of like-minded individuals forging a bond, a levee if you will, to stem the river of bullshit that keeps lapping at the door. Is it companionship, or sex? Does one expect EVERYTHING turned up to 11 for the rest of their lives? Do these same assholes expect Santa to bring them toys if they’ve been good all year?

As far as passion goes, there are many types.. physical, mental, artistic… If you find someone to share any one of these with you, you’re on to something. Of course most people just define passion in a relationship as a physical thing – the most tenuous of all the passions – so when it eventually cools off, all is lost.

All is lost…

I dunno, the thing is, I’m just ambivalent about this whole discussion anyway. You see, somewhere around 30 I started to stop caring when it came to women. I’d been fucked with a few times too many, and I just thought it easier to cut off the emotional spigot. At the time I thought it was the prudent thing to do, to no longer have to endure all that annoyance of dealing with people. Unfortunately, after awhile this whole ‘not caring’ deal spilled over to the rest of my life, so now I seem to not care too much at all about anything in particular. I basically have the inability to feel except in the most extreme circumstances. So I don’t recommend it.. this whole ‘not caring’ deal.

Now don't get me wrong, I can LOVE and I DO love, it's just sometimes it feels like its all buried beneath ten heavy overcoats and a smelly down comforter.

Still, I don’t go in for that self-righteous platitude about having to throw oneself into ‘love’ and give over to the natural joys we are all entitled to. Personally, I don’t believe in entitlement. In fact I believe the opposite; I think most people deserve the worst. It’s funny to hear some people’s reactions to my opinions on love and relationships. They actually become unglued, as if I was some unholy blasphemer. I guess people need their little fairytales, and far be it from me to take it away from them.

jessica simpson... and her tits.

My myspace - - http://www.myspace.com/10separatecatch22s

My Facebook - Zeit Geisty

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1632432989&ref=name

blogger doodle

Dancin'.. does it get you hot?

Telling the truth in relationships

How much sex is enough?

The end of jealousy for me

Get that Zeitgeisty look!

Blogger Doodles

Rate THEIR pick-up lines

Older babe alert

blogger doodles

Obligatory posting on cyber-sex

the importance of finding true sexual compatibility

Will you just take my penis in your hand already?

Snark and ass

blogger doodles

5 things I'm thankful for

licking ass and taking names

Snarky and assinine responses

Blogger doodles

The Origins of my cold, black heart

relationship dealbreakers

The different kinds of vaginas

bloggerdoodles

Snarky dating confessions responses

Blogger doodles

I wanna bang your friend

Show me your jugs

translations

Blogger doodles

Is there an expiration date on passion?

translations

bloggerdoodles

crazy pants

used to be cool - zeitgeisty on MTV

hurting for a squirting - the female ejaculation file

translations...

blogger doodles 3

the gardener and the rose

We fart therefore we are

TRANSLATIONS

Blogger doodles 2

My most cringeworthy moments with women

Are you a sociopath part 2

Are you a sociopath part 1

translations...

blogger doodles

The worst sex of my life

The sex and the city movie was lame

commitment phobia is a myth

Translations...

TYPES

Do.. do women really suck in bed?

The odd disconnect between profile photos and reality

50 sexual expereiences I've never had

Dating COnfessions translations

I'm a breast man... the JUGS file

John McCain makes my peepee go limp

Video blog - 'The word on the steet' - the nature of attraction.

My dating confessions TRANSLATIONS

My internet dating advice

What we want vs. What we need and the power balance between man and women

All Porn SUCKS!!

The night PAULINA and I discussed sex

How important are someone's politics when choosing a patrner?

Nerve Confessions: It's all about the looks stupid!

Sex with someone I love - The MASTURBATION file

The Greatest Online Dating story - The PERSONALS file

'But baby I HAVE to put a profile up, it's required!!' - The GIRLFRIEND file

BITE ME! - Snark.

My first kiss...a remembrance of thing past

Feel the paste in you face - The FACIAL file

Talk dirty to me!!

I abstain! The fear to fuck

The unvarnished TRUTH about dating on the internet.

BITE ME!!!

Pontifications on the bangin' of ass - The ANAL file

The brass ring

Love Machine: Making Love to ESPN

amboabe — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 09:19:00 GMT

I used to play high school football. I was obsessed with the NFL when I was younger and there were a few years in my life where I thought my destiny lay in professional sports. Sundays were an exhausting waste during football season. I would wake up early and inhale pre-game prognostication, watch random early games with teams I didn't care about, and make mental notes about random position players for use in comparative analysis. Who's the best right guard in the AFC? Does the 46 defense have a place in the league anymore? With the sun going down and eight or ten hours heedlessly tossed away, I would turn the TV off and realize the weekend was suddenly over, I had done nothing, and my favorite team had lost an away game with a fourth quarter defensive lapse. When I was ten I actually cried one Monday Night when the Raiders lost to the Jets in a game that effectively knocked them out of playoff contention.

There are a lot of women online who profess a shared love of sports. They claim to get along better with men than with other women, prefer beer to wine, like watching ESPN and wearing a big foam Number One hand on gameday. You see them every now and then, at sports bars or Super Bowl parties, wearing team jerseys and talking 3rd down percentages with the barrel-gutted dudes waging a group assault on a pitcher of hefewiezen and a trough of fried anything. It's like being in a strip club and watching a woman with self-possessed swagger move up to the stage with a fistful of dollar bills. It's not that it's so strange to imagine a woman being interested in sports, but I don't understand the impulse for a woman to try and identify with the underlying culture of sports, the sloth, the statistical road to nowhere, the pornographic explosion of team logos and colors, the desperate clinging to the loose storyline of the season every Sunday night, trying to postpone the postgame sobriety as long as possible.

I spent a winter in Prague in my early twenties. I rented an attic room in a hostel in the suburbs for $225 a month, and spent most of my mornings and afternoons clattering away on an old typewriter I had packed into my duffel bag. On Sunday nights I would walk downtown and find an internet café to check in with the NFL. There weren't any places to stream games live yet so I would sit and stare at a small pop-up window with a list of statistics and a written description of every play. Kaufman carries for 2 yard gain. 2nd down and 8.

It wasn't quite an addiction, but it was a lonely attempt to connect to a community. The language of sports, the biblical arcana of the NFL rulebook, the secret conclusions carried in random statistics, the crotch shaking energy of cheering in unison with 60,000 other people; it's all a way of gaining an identity without having to risk anything.

Shortly after that winter I stopped caring about professional sports. I lost track of who the new SportsCenter anchors were, I missed out on the Cinderella stories of yesterday's worst teams turning into playoff contenders, I missed all the controversies about inappropriate celebration dances, spats between teammates, superstars unhappy with their coaches, the salary hold-outs, the retirements, the steroid scandals, and the fallout of someone trying to board a plane with some cocaine or marijuana in their carry-on. The story in professional sports is always the same.

Following an NFL season is like reading the same book year after year after year. There are variations, nuances and subtle shifts in meaning float to the surface, but the larger story is identical. Someone always wins, someone always looses. The winners work better together than the losers, they understand their weaknesses better, compensate for them, stick to the game plan, get some lucky breaks, and win. Last year it was New York, this year it's Tennessee, next year it'll be Jacksonville. The names and faces will be different. The jargon will be the same.

Sports is such a permanent ballast for so many relationships. I wish there were statistics for the prevalence of sex on Sunday nights during football season. How many men get plastered watching other men brutalize one another, come home buzzed and filled with the sense memory of cheerleaders and take to their wives or girlfriends with elephantine urgency? How many women have to compete with Sports Center on Sunday nights for attention and a little empathy?

Maybe it's a welcome respite. The subconscious knowledge that you can count on some time every week where you don't have to worry about your partner, where you can part ways for a little while and be your own separate selves; maybe it's a relief. Coming back together after a day alone could refresh the appreciation you each have for one another.

But how appreciative could someone be for a man stumbling home with the rancid breath of hot wings and Miller Lite, in the male equivalent of a muumuu? How many men piston themselves into a lather on top of their women, get up for another beer, and then wind up in their sweaty underwear on the couch hypnotized by the nursery rhyme of the 11PM Sports Center? Who'll make that porno? I would watch it.

Previous Posts:

Date Machine: 5 Things I'm Thankful For

Sex Machine: Having Sex at Weddings

Love Machine: What Work Is

Sex Machine: Sleeping Naked

Love Machine: Breaking Up in a Text Message

Date Night: The F U Date

Sex Machine: Shave My Bush

Love Machine: Taking A Break From Dating

Date Machine: The Celebrity You Most Resemble

Sex Machine: I Kissed A Boy

Vote Machine: No Gay People Can't

Sex Machine: Let's Have an Orgy

Sex Machine: My First STD

Sex Machine: There's a Possibility You've Been Infected With HIV

Love Machine: Let's Make Babies

Date Machine: Rate My Pick-Up Lines

Sex Machine: My Kingdom for a Boner

Date Machine: Don't Make Poopy in the Office

Nerve Confessions: Fat and Skinny, Ugly, Pretty

Crying In Public: Some Corner in Brooklyn

Dating the Web: Don't Google Fisting and Why Women Apologize So Much

Date Machine: The Woman in the Coffee Shop and The Woman at the Bus Stop

Love Machine: Your Mom Will Do

Date Machine: Scary Movies or I Peed My Pants

Date Machine: Rate My Ethics

Love Machine: Let's Just Be Friends

Love Machine: Must Be Willing to Lie About Where We Met

Sex Machine: Why Women Are Great In Bed

Sex Machine: Why Women Suck in Bed

Date Night: All By Myself on a Saturday Night

Sex Machine: Spank My Ass

Celebrity Confession: Jessica Simpson thinks she has the perfect guy

spjv840 — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 11:36:00 GMT

In a recent interview with People Magazine, Jessica Simpsons lets it all hang out (again) about her relationship with Tony Romo. This girl will never learn.

"I just told (Tony) today, 'You're the love of my life.’ I don't really ever say that to anybody."

Firstly, admitting that anyone is the love of your life is a no-no. It's not sweet or charming, it's bordering on psycho material and sounds desperate. It's always girls that are spewing this kind of line around. You never hear a guy tell their partner that they're the love of his life (well, except for Barack last night, but he doesn't count - that was almost...sweet). Guys know better.

Poor ol' Simpleson. She's just a sweet country girl at heart, isn't she? She just wants to do the right thing. Even if the right thing involves wearing horrible country-inspired clothing and even worse career decisions.

She also told People that she changed her phone number and e-mail address so ex-boyfriends and anyone in her life before BimboRomo cannot contact her. Again with the psycho material! She did this, apparently, to prove her devotion to Romo, yet Romo hasn't done the same. This doesn't bother Simpson, however, because she isn't "a jealous girlfriend". She even went so far as to say that Romo was the "perfect guy". Expect a break up in the next four months. Men don't like to hear that they're perfect unless they're saying it about themselves. It's too much pressure.

When asked about her relationship with John Mayer, she confessed: "I had to regain self-esteem and self-value". Hence, the too-small bikini choices.