When you live to fuck and fuck to live there are few — precious few — moments that throw a wrench into your spectacular cum flow and shut the whole Vegasy water show down.

Such was the moment last Wednesday, at approximately 9:57 in the evening, when the men of Raging Stallion — whom on happier days we refer to as a stable of studs, as a stampede of rambunctious ponies — came face to face with grief as they witnessed the sudden, shocking going of Chris from the American Idol stage.

Not Chris, not Chris! — the cry went up. Hunky, quarterback-chested boy-beauty Chris! He of the Justin Timberlake scalp stubble, the glittery ear studs in each ear, the athletic neck of such promising thickness!

A pall fell over the men crowded into the TV room, for the sling room had been emptied and all filming had stopped throughout the studio as it always does during the Results show.

Each man sat sunk in his own private thoughts with nary a concern for how he was hanging at the moment, vaguely aware that his major manhood was modestly — but ah, not completely, never completely — concealed by a towel.

Instead all eyes were on Chris, who was going out, in the cruel tradition of the show, bravely: singing his — alas, still tuneless — final, losing song.

And while we’d like to say a tear was shed in that room, it wasn’t. Porn stars — like Joan Crawford in The Damned Don’t Cry — have to conserve their liquid flow for the camera.

Different people handle grief differently. Stallion stars Vincenzo and Sarib (above) immediately went before the cameras and starting fucking like rabid dogs. This was their therapy. (read the full article)

Image, communications experts tell us, is all about what you look like and sound like, but has very little to do with what you are actually saying.

And the power of one’s image is the theme running through two recent columns from our favorite gal reporter, the Pulitzer Prize winning fashion writer Robin Givhan.

Givhan’s special gift is her ability to read the pop-cultural information in the way hair is combed or a suit is worn. Her columns, nominally about clothing, are more likely to be about the cultural impact of a pop celebrity or politician — she has written about Condi Rice (”Rice’s coat and boots speak of sex and power … a volatile combination … that in political circles rarely leads to anything but scandal”) as well as Dick Cheney (”The vice president was dressed in the kind of attire one typically wears to operate a snow blower.”)

Thus it was with relish that we read her column today which connected the powerful visual jujitsu of the Rutgers basketball girls with the Duke Lacrosse boys. Both teams were coming back from a barrage of racial slurs and both were the prime players in near simultaneous press conferences: (read the full article)

OMYGAWD!

It’s our favorite porn dream come true! Whenever these two outrageously cute American Idols hit the stage our wicked minds race to undress them. Then we toss blond-streaked Blake and hypnotically slate-eyed Chris together and … well, wait to see what pops up.

And we thought it was a dream. And guess what! It is, apparently. Courtesy of Photoshop…

OR IS IT?

hat tip to Towleroad

Considering whether I would watch last night’s American Idol showdown reminded me of one of Samuel Goldwyn’s classic malapropisms: “You’ve got to take the bitter with the sour.”

Preferring to do neither, the boyfriend and I skipped the battle of the dullards. We will, however, TIVO tonight’s finale because Elliott Yamin is scheduled to perform with the new Queen of Soul, Mary J. Blige — Fuckin’ A, E!

Yesterday my bitter mood regarding Elliott’s ouster finally lifted. I got sane and started to rethink things — to reevaluate the play of the Fates. Soon a lot of silver linings began to sparkle through the cloud cover, and I began to feel that my boy pulled off the best of all possible outcomes for himself. He matured as a man, deepened as a vocalist, earned a gigantic fan base, and, by placing third, escaped the clutches of the vampiric Clive Davis and the draconian contract from American Idol’s 19 Management. All of that made me happy. Which made me reflect on all of the qualities I came to appreciate about Elliott Yamin throughout the competition.

Here then are 10 Reasons Why I Love Elliott Yamin and why I’ll remember him long after this season of Idol fades to blah. (read the full article)

Of course I’m making reference to the small patch of land that became infamous following JFK’s assassination in 1963. It has been speculated that extra gunshots were fired — in synch with Lee Harvey Oswald’s — from the bushes of the knoll, doubly insuring the president’s demise. In a similar conspiratorial spirit I offer you my observations about last night’s big Idol sing-off and why hidden forces worked extra hard to guarantee that Elliott Yamin would not be back for his well-deserved Kodak Theater moment.

It’s a freaky coincidence how the first singer to begin each year’s Final Three show is the Idollette voted off the following evening. This mystery has proven true since Idol debuted four years ago. Elliott, of course, went first last night.

The AI band, lovingly referred to by detractors as Bandzilla, was set on stun and destroy whenever Elliott took the stage. The effect was like watching a small boat negotiate gigantic waves and treacherous tides on its journey home. To stay the course Elliott had to push his voice hard and then compensate for the extra effort by losing some of his natural flair. Even with the extra contorting, he never wavered — despite the higher key he used to churn out the cheese during Count Chocula’s pick for him: Journey’s Open Arms. (read the full article)