Forget Clint-Obama-Rama. And our economy sliding over a cliff.

At Sunday’s Grammy Awards a cataclysm of titanic proportion occurred when Beyonce Knowles introduced a waiting-in-the-wings Tina Turner to a drop-jaw audience as … “The Queen.”

Come Monday an irritated
Aretha Franklin, always and forever to be known as The Queen of Soul, declared the following about the supposed contretemps:

“I dismissed it as a cheap shot for controversy.”

Franklin then made like Storm from the X-Men superheros team and with a severe sweep of her arm annihilated dozens of neighborhoods in Beyonce’s hometown of Houston Texas.

What Aretha may have lost in of-the-moment pop music relevance during recent years — where her musical output has been scattershot and weakly received — she seems to be making up for in sheer mass and madcap, could-give-a-fuck fashion chutzpah. (read the full article)

“I can’t take a well-tanned person seriously.” — Cleveland Amory

Hat tip to Bar Stool Sports.

Isn’t a body that is scantily clad more alluring than a body stripped bare?

Stop a moment and consider the question. You, with your fervid drive to gobble up all the eye candy you can possibly ingest without causing premature blindness. We’re talking to you.

Take for instance one of the Inner Circle’s new models Javan (yes, that’s his real name). Doesn’t the above photo give pause — freeing your fantasy world, allowing your imagination to explode? Concocting your own private, inner world reverie. How satisfying. Yes?

Isn’t that condition a thousand times more erotic than a lewd photograph featuring some model’s engorged genitalia rearing wantonly stiff against the background of a lush California fern garden?

Well, isn’t it? (read the full article)

Don Quixote had it right.

Macrophilia. It’s big terminology for a big inkling … as in the intense sexual attraction to literal giants.

Giants — be they the stuff of the grandest legend or the wonkiest sci-fi romp — are as chimerical as the unicorn or the mermaid, creatures born of mankind’s entreaty to find something more magical than itself. It’s that heady ambition that drives Macrophilia, an abstraction that can never truly be realized yet still beguiles its dreamers nonetheless.

Plus it makes for some great fanfare:

Mammoths with unfettered desires and unyielding bodies! Behemoths breaking seams and busting asses! Grasping! Looming! Dwarfing! Crushing! Cyclopean troglodytes who crave the delicate pleasures that only man can provide! Your body — their plaything. Your world — their toy box! (read the full article)

John “Your body is a wonderland” Mayer does Borat.

Hat tip to Huffington Post.

Super Bowl? Frankly, we prefer the Oscars.

Super Bowl for us is about the new beer commercials where guys make ever bigger jackasses of themselves and, of course, the always good for a laugh half-time show. (Will Britney be this year’s surprise, wowing the fans as she runs onto the field in straight jacket, amid screams and white-smocked orderlies chasing after her with butterfly nets? Only to be met by Dr. Phil rising out of the stage in a sinister puff of smoke, joining his bullfrog basso to her moany contralto for a kick-ass rip on Joey Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated. We can only hope.)

As for the actual football game that is played at the Super Bowl: not really our thing, darling. Football players, however … another story entirely.

And apparently we’re not alone. (read the full article)