Mark Zuckerberg Has A Small Dick
Yes, this is a deliberately provocative title. No, I have no idea how big Zuckerberg’s dick is, but with a bank account that hung, who cares?
Facebook is not for the modern misanthrope, and I am no exception. I don’t care what your mood is, what you’re thinking, whom you’ve tagged, whom you want to overthrow. I understand it’s the hugest, biggest social revolution in the whole wild world ever, and I heartily applaud positive events that it has helped engender, the Egyptian revolution in particular and the shaking of the Arab world in general, out the private middle ages that it’s in. Teens harassing teens into suicide and stuff like that is unfortunate, but not Facebook’s fault; that’s more the bullying culture of America, which needs to be addressed in another manner.
I have two Facebook accounts, one to promote this blog and a personal one, and I have no idea why I did that because I only go on there to promote this blog, and then I dash off again before the chattering crowds drown me with their thoughts and likes and comments and links. I think I have a combined eighty friends from both accounts, and that really surprises me; I didn’t know that there were eighty people I liked, much less who liked me. And that’s perfectly fine; I have no desire to be popular, no will to amass more friends than I already have.
The reason this comes up is Dame Bea invited Tuttle and me to a party last night in honor of the launch of the 3D version of Taschen’s Big Penis Book, which was coincidentally mentioned in Baker’s wunderpost earlier this week. The party was at their store in Beverly Hills, and a good time was had by all, despite the fact I care even less for big dicks than I do for Facebook.
I am an unabashed, screaming fan of German art book publisher Taschen. I don’t just love it, I aspire to be it: big, bold, sleek, tasteful, smart, glossy, beautiful, expensive, impressive. Yes, I need all of those adjectives re-encoded in my DNA.
According to the lucky bastards who work for Taschen, Facebook doesn’t feel the same way I do. When they posted the invitation to last night’s event, the Taschen Facebook page as well as the personal pages of its administrators were blocked for a weekend, which is a fate that might await me as well for the heresy I am currently writing, but clearly I don’t give a tinker’s damn; whichever of my friends reads this blog already reads it, the rest tune me out.
Interestingly, when Taschen hosted a similar party a while back to promote the 3D version of The Big Book of Breasts, there was not a peep from Facebook. I deduce that, like me, Mark Zuckerberg feels threatened by large cocks. Mind you, the cover of the book features a covered cock, and that was the image used on the invitation as well as the Facebook page, so maybe Zuckerberg’s phobia is more acute than mine. I’m sure it’s the last thing on his mind right now, anyway, seeing as he’s just been caught red-handed trying to fist Google up the ass with smarmy press.
I am not sure why I’m one of the few gheys in the world who doesn’t like big dicks. It probably has something to do with the fact I’m not super hung myself. I am extremely competitive, but only if the competition is rigged my way. If there’s no chance of winning, then I’m not interested. The other more major factor is, being a total top, I have no idea what to do with a big dick in bed. I suppose it is rather nice to watch bouncing up and down. So, properly speaking, I’m not really threatened so much as I am just indifferent to big dicks.
The weirdest thing last night at the Big Penis event was that my name was on the press section list, which isn’t strange per se because I’ve been through the press section at events innumerable times in my life, but this time I was listed as “blogger.” That felt odd. I mean, clearly that’s what I am now three months into this, and that’s what I’m doing with this story, but for some reason, and maybe it was due to the four rums I’d had at Dame Bea’s an hour earlier, I sort of felt like it really said “plumber.” You know how words can have a feeling as well as a meaning? Well, suddenly I felt like a large hairy bruiser from Queens with his ass crack showing and a plunger in his hand. (No offense, John Wood; everyone knows you’re from Boston.)
I decided today that from now on I am going to have them put “Ernest Scribbler” on guests lists instead of blogger to avoid any emotional trauma. I agree with Anna Wintour’s distaste for the word “blog,” and it’s all the more unfortunate because we are going to be stuck with it ad infinitum.
It took a while to get up to the bar on the roof of the Taschen store given the crush of people, who were more interested in reaching the vodka than ogling the hobbit strippers dancing on the display cases downstairs. Or they were keen to get to the vodka so they could be drunk enough to fondle the hobbit strippers later.
It seems that most male strippers are rather short. If I added another five feet to my height by getting up there and jiggling my junk, it would be scary as fuck, aside from the fact that having a six-foot-three middle-aged modern misanthrope go-go dancing is in general inadvisable; if anyone actually touched me, I’d kick him or her in the face just as a reflex.
Taschen obviously isn’t indifferent to big dicks, but that’s because The Big Penis Book and The Big Book of Breasts are some of the company’s hottest sellers. Smut trumps art, I guess. However, contrary to urban legend, I have been assured that neither book is the bread and butter of the company. Those would be the limited editions I can never seem to afford, which are so stunning I feel like I should wear gloves flicking through them.
Personally, I would rather have Taschen’s Helmut Newton book than the Big Penis Book. I did see a stack of copies of it in the toilets, by which point I was drunk enough to try to steal one, but cleverly there was a security guard there making sure I didn’t leave the back of the store with a twenty-pound tome tucked down the front of my pants.
So when I finally got to the roof, who should be there but one of my favorite movie stars of all time, Gurdeep “Deep” Roy, the guy who plays all the Oompa Loompas in Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He was surrounded by big-breasted babes, God bless him. Very nice guy. Apparently he’s a Sikh, which would make sense from his first name. When he said, “I’m a Sikh,” he did this twirl thing around his head with his hand like he was making a turban out of air, and I knew I was a fan for a reason.
Gurdeep is actually not from India, but Kenya, which reminds me of far less amusing news. It would appear that the rogue state of Uganda is slipping further into the heart of darkness by passing a bill in parliament making homosexuality a crime. Apparently this version of the bill doesn’t make it punishable by death the way an earlier version did. In case anyone is catching up with the horror show going down in Kampala, Ugandan gay rights activist David Kato was beaten to death with a hammer in January. Beating us to death is, of course, the preferred, time-honored way to murder us, although in Iran they seem to prefer hanging, which Uganda was going to make the official way of execution once it had institutionalized the right to kill homosexuals.
There is no way to boycott Uganda or Ugandan products; I’m not sure they make anything, do they, other than blood diamonds? You shouldn’t be buying those, anyway. But apparently they are being inspired and goaded forward by the American evangelical movement, which has seized the country with a fury in recent decades, presumably because they don’t have anything better to do because they aren’t making anything. So I guess the only action we can take is to boycott companies and products that are either owned by or support American evangelical groups.
At the end of the day, it’s pretty clear religion equals terrorism. So why don’t we just boycott God?
It was a great party, right! The tiny rooftop bar was a total crush until we realized that we just have to hang on to our precious plastic cups until they ran out of them, then it was good for a while before some do-gooder ran to Rite-Aid down the street, that fucker. And you kept pointing to that small person, saying he was an Oompa Loompa and I thought, “Oh God, I hope no one hears him saying that.” It turns out he was the actual Oompa Loompa from the damn film! Midgets and porn stars, just another book launch in L.A.
I can’t believe I waited for you and Dame Bea and Tess on the pavement for so long when I knew nearly everyone who was already inside. It was most definitely the gayest couple of hours that Beverly Hills has had in quite a while. I haven’t been felt up that much in ages but it was in the nicest way.
Yes, yes, yes Kee-lo, on so many levels
You’re the second person to subscribe to this blog and this is the first time you comment. Filthy, filthy girl. How’s the baby?
Thanks for joining us, Jen.
James Killough in a sentence: He goes out of his way to promote my writing, within his own writings, at least twice a week here, and he does it by attaching my name to images and content describing shirtless and, in some cases, pantsless men.
You will tell me if we get booted from wordpress for this article, right?
I enjoy the Taschen art books (along with the similar Scala/Riverside titles, which I fear are out of print). Taschen is perfect for the B-level artist or secondary art movement, if you want a dedicated book. My favorite in my collection is the monograph on George Seurat. There’s also a pretty good one on the futurism movement.
For the record, I’m indifferent to big dicks as well. It seems like a burden to own one.
You’ll know if we get booted because there will just be white noise where so much fun existed previously. Hopefully, WordPress would give me an opportunity to change the images first, but they aren’t pornographic, meaning they’re not in anyone’s hole. Everyone’s taking potshots at Zuckerberg right now, anyway, even though I really liked him as Jesse Eisenberg in that movie.
Re: promoting your writing in my writing. It’s my way of having sex with you.
James Killough you are an exceptional essayist and critic. I was chortling all the way through this piece. I have truly been missing out by not visiting this blog. I have subscribed and look forward to more of this sardonic; masterful magnificence. I LOVE your blog.
It is also the lot of chaps who regularly comment. The wit of Mr. Tuttle is at all times stimulating, saucy and clever. And the talented (clearly repressed homosexual,) Eric J. Baker is really making his mark in my mind.
I am disgracefully not truly gay, but I am trying to decide which of you hunky husbands to ask to walk down the aisle with me. If I was not so darn irrevocably irreligious, I would love to be a conscript to Mormonism, for the right to polygamous[ly] invest my hopefulness in a trifecta. I may not be in the big dick book. And you all can cock-block me, but you can’t stop me from dreaming.
In my experience, most guys are just a couple of drinks or a long prison sentence away from a gay relationship.
Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Anderson, and for subscribing. Keep flirting, it’s flattering,
I’m glad you’ve chosen this course. Two toppers are not compatible any other way.
Yes, even people mixed up in the sick and twisted world of man/woman sex have toppers and bottomers. I only take the bottom spot if we are in a seated position, so I can grab her by the thighs and stand up if I suddenly need to exert my control.
On a related note, I see the amount of traffic this story has brought. My anxiety over image control in my next post is already rising.
Nah, we’re actually at a normal level for traffic right now. Tuttle is our star blogger. When he posts, we spike, then I catch the downstream current the next day.
It’s only a matter of time before Tuttle has his own cable show. You can’t keep hair like that off TV, can you?
He and his bf Scott have two shows in development.
I hope they are successful.
I think a one-size-fits-all penis, with screw on shaft lengthening segments would be cool. I could keep my lengthen[ers] in the pocket of my leather chaps. When a mood hit me, I could quickly adapt.
That way I could penis accessorize and jazz up my penchant for BDSM Sex Dungeon accouterments.
You know, always be unpre[dic]table.
One moment I would Shock them with the “Girthsome,, Butch-n-Leather Penal Guard.” Then, boom! Do a chameleon penis adjustment, and Suddenly I am the caged, hairless, boy bitch.
It’s not so bad, Eric. One simply has to watch out what kind of shorts one wears to the gym.
For the record (before we get booted!) I would like to say that your articles have been quite brilliant and that Killough is right to call attention to them with the shirtless, pantsless hotties that draw attention to your eloquence.
I must disagree, however, with your idea that Taschen is the home of “secondary art.” There are several top tier artists in photography and architecture who find a home there. The fact that they were Helmut Newton’s choice to present his amazing images is a testament to their ability to market artists who are ahead of the curve.
But, mostly, I wanted to say how proud I am to be co-contributing with you.
Sorry, Mr. Tuttle, that I missed your comment. This post is it’s own country now and I didn’t have an up-to-date visa.
I misspoke if I implied Taschen is home to secondary artists only. What I meant to say was that, in additon to offering titles on the legendary artists, they also offer portable, readable, and inexpensive books on painters who don’t usually have monographs, e.g. Seurat. I like being able to hit the highlights and gain some inslight into an artists style without having to buy a $150 hardcover that weighs 27 pounds. The company Riverside had similar offerings, but I believe they are no longer available.
Thanks for the compliments on my writing, which mean a lot coming from someone who knows the craft so well.
خیلی کیرهای قشنگ و کلفت و درازی دارند . دلم میخواد بخورمشون
Some of you may not know that Lord Google, God of Everything and Everything Else, has a feature called Google Translate. This is apparently in Farsi, and translates as, “Kyrhay too long and is nice and thick. I want Bkhvrmsh.” I am presuming that Saman is keen cock up his bum. Well done, Saman. Just don’t let the mullahs catch you.
how to make my penis bigger all the time
Stop having sex. That way nobody will notice.
my penis very small
Can you move to Africa?
Who is the man holding his penis with two hands?
Hard to say (so to speak) without having the book in hand. It appears his name might be Phil, but it’s fuzzy in the screenshot of the book page. He’s in two pictures, and form his hairstyle it would appear the picture was taken in the 70s.
— James K.