Josh Muggins's Blah Blah Blah

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October 17, 2010

Loose Ends




Hit Girl: Making the world safe for "the C word"


My previous post, as its title amply reveals, was a callous and desperate attempt to draw more traffic to this site from among Wired Society’s dregs. October’s site stats seem to indicate that the effort succeeded wildly: by any measure—unique visitors, hits, pages viewed, bandwith, the girth of my erections as I view those stats—this month is on a pace to easily outdistance any other month in this website’s history.

However, a closer view of the data reveals that a great many of our new visitors were not in fact attracted by that unseemly, pandering post, but by an earlier unseemly, pandering post. Indeed, for the first time since I’ve started paying attention, more people are accessing this site from an archived page—specifically, Blog 56, in which I enumerate and describe my favorite Adult Video performers—than from the front page.

Clearly, the newfound success of Josh Muggins’s Blah Blah Blah rests squarely on the shoulders of one person, specifically the latte-creamy, Hawaiian-sun-roasted shoulders of porn vet and part-time brothel employee Mika Tan.

Which would be fine by me if these new visitors came for the Tan and stayed for the erudite social criticism. But the stats compiled by my provider imply that the bulk of them stay just long enough to note that, while there is a rather fetching mugshot of Mika Tan on that page, there are no embedded videos of her in action, nor even so much as a nude still, and then they are off and clicking their way to places their mothers would not want them clicking to.

The search terms by which new visitors arrive at this site offer no solace, either. “mika tan” is outpacing dull, old, never-filmed-receiving-a-double-penetration “josh muggins” for the title of Most Frequent Search. And here are the other runners-up:

3. (tie) muggings milf

3. (tie) rolling fella bomber

4. (tie) mika tan vegas husband

4. (tie) mika tan tells you to touch yourself

4. (tie) kill monogamy

4. (tie) just jaeckin

4. (tie) film emmanuelle racquetball

4. (tie) (some damn thing in Arabic)

(Sigh.)

Have I mentioned recently that I have an advanced degree, hold an associate professorship, and am the solo author of three textbooks and two memoirs, one of which actually sells?

(Sigh…)

Well, as long as I’m revisiting earlier scuzzy posts, here are some other updates.


Spartacus Lives!

My paean to Spartacus has also upped the Sleaze Quotient here and attracted no shortage of seamy, one-handed visitors. I concluded that post with get-well wishes for the ailing star of the Starz series, Andy Whitfield, so that we could all soon return to that wondrous world of patrician Roman intrigues and CGI blood and random arena tits.

Well, this recent Slate piece informs us that all is well with Andy and therefore with the world, for we will get our Season 2 with only a slight delay.

It is, on the whole, a good piece, if shockingly devoid of tits or even the word “tits” (with author Matt Feeney opting for “toplessness”), and I recommend it to both Spartacus aficionados and newbies hankering to know what all the fuss is about. The analysis does get a little intellectually overheated, however, as tends to happen with your Slate bloggers. (Hegel gets dragged into it at one point.) Slate folks are wont to masturbate mentally over the sorts of things that inspire the rest of us to do it the old-fashioned way.

This reminds me: Over summer, at the annual Muggins family gathering (held this year at a rented mountain cabin) I was asked over dinner one evening which shows I was staying current with. When I admitted to not being above an affection for Spartacus, most of the Mugginses present were nonplussed. We’re a wholesome clan, you see, so the name didn’t quite register with anyone other than my nephew, who agreed enthusiastically and then began to regale his fellow diners with some of his favorite scenes of grisly carnage.

That would be my twenty-nine-year-old nephew, the unemployed one, the one who has sponged off his girlfriend since losing his job four years ago, the one who set defecating in every one of the cabin’s five toilets as his sole ambition for the week-long get-together. My kindred spirit, my only soulmate within the extended Muggins clan.

(Sigh…)


Excessive Drinking on Mad Men Update

I offered my thoughts on the excessive daytime drinking that goes on in any typical episode of Mad Men a few weeks back. Someone with way too much time on her hands at The Daily Beast has actually charted each character’s fuel intake episode by episode for the bulk of Season 4. “Who’s Mad Men’s Biggest Drunk?” the story teases.

Spoiler alert: It’s Don.


Sexbot Update

Speaking of sexbots—not that I have been recently, but that is neither here nor there—The Onion recently gave its typically astute take on the development of more and more lifelike mechanical pleasure-givers.


Monogamy Lives, Too

As part of its annual survey into the state of the American Man, Esquire asked a few hundred twenty-year-olds and an equal number of fifty-year-olds, “Do you believe that lifelong monogamy is a realistic expectation for a married couple?” (Scroll down to Item 28.) The twenty-year-old lads say yes by a 64%-36% margin; the fifty-year-olds agree by an 81%-20% margin. Proving, I suppose, that we really do lose a whole lot of brain cells after we hit twenty.

I have more to say on this topic and about the survey in broader terms, but that will be its own post.


It’s Official: The C Word Trumps the W Word

Long-time faithful readers—I’m talking to both of you—help me out here. I’m sure that at some point I’ve ranted about the “C-word” before, but I can’t for the life of me figure out which post it was in.

As I recall, I was in high dudgeon to discover (much belatedly, it appears) that lowly cunt had vaulted to the coveted “The [Insert Letter]-Word” status over that much more worthy and elegant (and fun to say) C-word contender, cocksucker.

I was reminded of this while reading Salon’s Joan Walsh’s deconstruction of the recent kerfluffle over the use of the word “whore” in the California governor’s race. (An aide to Jerry Brown was caught using it in reference to Brown’s female opponent.) Some Republicans tried to equate using “whore” to describe a woman with using “the N-word” to describe a black person, but Walsh demurred on the grounds that “whore” is now commonly used to describe men as well as women (cf. Roger Clemens, Jay Leno, Dick Morris), while the N-word is not used metaphorically by anyone. (Well, except John Lennon. But he’s dead.)

“The only word that I'd say comes close [to the N-word] with its power to demean and shock,” Walsh concludes, “is that nasty C-word.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake, as Donald Rumsfeld used to say. Where does cunt get off, claiming this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named eminence? In the delightful Kick-Ass, the word gets bandied about by an eleven-year-old girl while she dispatches a roomful of thugs.

Look, I’m a self-professed wussie, one who's terrified of offending others, and I’ve just invoked cunt twice—oops, that makes three times. If that doesn’t prove how tame it really is, then I don’t know what will.


Oh, Yeah: I Live, Too

I intimated a while ago that I might by dying. Turns out I’m not.