“Obviously the cherubs are boys so my thought behind it is that at some point my boys are going to need to look after me and that’s what they’re doing in the picture. Everything has a meaning. It’s just sometimes I wake up and I think, you know, I’ve got an idea of an image I would like on me. Some people love tattoos, some people don’t. It’s just something that I have always found can kind of express how I’m feeling, or the thoughts that I have or memories. Most of my tattoos are memories and things that mean things to me. There’s not one tattoo that I’ve got on me that doesn’t mean something.”

– David Beckham explaining the, um, reasoning behind his new tit tat, which casts him as Jesus getting massaged by his children-as-cherubs.

Unbelievable douche.

From the Urban Dictionary:

Meathead (n):

1. An enormously muscular guy who cannot hold a conversation about anything other than weight-lifting and protein shakes. Gets upset very quickly when he cannot complete his own sentences and thoughts. Can be found at nightclubs wearing shirts that are 10 sizes too small (if at all). They are by far the most closely related human beings to that of apes, chimpanzees, and other primate. They are evolutionary hindered and are less capable of following directions than my dead hampster.

2. One who puts inordinate effort into building up his shoulders, arms, chest, and back, all this to the detriment of his out-of-proportion lower body.

3. A man with a pneumatic torso by virtue of steroids, creatine, HGH, and a diet consisting only of protein shakes — capped with (to quote Rachel Maddow) a teeny, teeny, tiny, tiiiiiiny little head.

4. An actor whose instantly forgettable movies are merely time fillers between his Men’s Health covers.

If you’re like me, then the sex appeal of gay porn doyen Michael Lucas ranks down there with David Caruso or the entire male cast of Two And A Half Men.

Maybe it’s that awful Zoolander pouts he perpetually sports. Could be that I have zero interest in the hoity-toity international porn full of zoned-out looking Euro models he produces. His insistence on being in front of the camera in order to lecherously casting couch his models even though nobody but him wants to see that might have something to do with it. I also could give a fuck what a porn entrepreneur thinks about Israeli-Palestinian relations too, and the fact that he’s a wealthy GOProud quisling pretty much tops off my antipathy.

Anyway, Michael’s such a virile sex god among mere mortals that he confided to Michael Musto over dinner that he just can’t bring himself to spread for dick.

I know. The revelation hit me close to home too. Damn, I say.

“I know that I fuck very well,” says born Top Man Michael eloquently, “but it’s not because I was fucked!” Hey, it’s not as if we could ever expect Michael to condescend to take one for his partner’s pleasure — Michael ain’t gonna spread for no roses! Nothing else about him is remotely giving or inviting anyway. In the end, only the thrill of being Michael — and barring that, having your world rocked by Michael — can move him.

But there’s even more — or less! — to the Lucas persona! He can’t even suck dick worth a damn! “In my Falcon days,” he relates wistfully, “they made me do it and it was OK. But I thought, ‘These guys really know how to suck a dick!’ I was awful.”

Why, I could almost believe that coupling with a preening, pouting, pornographic enfant terrible is the gay equivalent of scoring with a top model and finding out she won’t go down on you because jizz has too many calories!

“Goddang it — I ain’t got no time for no proofreadin’! I’m mad now!”

Outrage. Believe it or not, it doesn’t always have to be corporately-funded, organized by phony PR groups with the words “American,” Freedom,” and “Prosperity” in their names, and staged by selfish elderly people with government pensions and gimme caps.

Sometimes people gather and demonstrate because of legitimate gripes with draconian austerity measures — like when the government unilaterally attempts to actually take a pretty darn fundamental American right away from a whole class of people who’ve been unfairly denigrated as deadbeats.

So what’s a group of media gadflies boiling over with inchoate rage and resentment toward a world rapidly leaving them in the dust to do when their self-generated narrative gets thrown for a loop by real populist pushback? Why, amass a veritable tide of counter-protesters — a few hundred of them — armed with a grammatically-challenged panoply of signage who collectively try in vain to co-opt the message.

Like a Kardashian clawing for high-end cellulite cream, nobody steps on the Teabaggers’ line.

The dilemma of “Gay or Guido?” has long plagued society — and personally kept me up at night — but now may be the time to simply split the difference and go with Gaydo.

Proving both that television will run a fad into the ground and that it’s apparently impossible to do a gay-themed reality show with any redeeming value, a Gaydo-devoted entry called Under The Boardwalk is currently in the works. Producers are holding auditions for “personalities” (read: boozers, aspiring porn stars, sluts, fake-ass lesbians, date rapists, and future murderers), the whole thing slated to be set in Atlantic City (?), Ventor (?), or Margate (??).

However will they manage to find an assemblage of dignity-deficient gay tools who dress like trash, fuck anything that moves, are willing to drop their pants at the sight of the camera, and put maximum effort into asserting their individuality by acting just like everybody else?

And furthermore, are they not calling the manwhores of Tool Academy because they’re overqualified?

Nasty Porn Taint n. 1. a figurative rock-and-a-hard-place in which a prospective big-C Conservative presidential candidate must opt to forgo the profit generated from making on-demand adult entertainment available in his chain of hotels if he hopes to accrue political capital from a constituency that tears its collective hair out at the thought that somewhere — anywhere — there is a person enjoying sexual stimulation and not conceiving a child in the most desultory manner possible.

2. The tendency for out-of-the-loop socially conservative nuisance groups to inadvertently incorporate generally-known and -used sex slang into their banner titles and mission statements, thus undercutting their own message with unintentional and irony-free hilarity enjoyed by those who masturbate without crying afterward.

This is so over-the-top that it feels like it should be a parody.

Yes, it would be wicked awesome if we had a well-meaning, uncheckable king to daddy our every move, make us have babies, and keep us from sluttin’ it up with other men. Monarchs who rule by divine right have always looked out for their subjects’ best interests, and nothing could possibly go wrong if we tried it now.

I’m also frankly becoming ever-more distressed by the alarming number of grown men sporting too-young pixie Hobbit ‘dos.

Never take nutritional advice from dipwad celebs who require armies of personal assistants and can’t even feed themselves:

“Sprinkling charcoal on your food, a diet of maple syrup or ‘reabsorbing’ your sperm are just some of the health tips celebrities have espoused this year.

‘Alex, sperm can’t be reabsorbed once they have formed in the testes! In fact sperm die after a few days and the nutritional content of ejaculate is really rather small. And it’s worth remembering that unprotected sex might result in pregnancy or passing on of a sexually-transmitted infection.’”

First it was supposed to be “groundbreaking.” Then it was supposed to be glossy, voyeuristic sexploitation. Then it was supposed to be a guilty pleasure none of us would admit to watching.

For most of us, it was just a gay take on Heathers we skipped.

For a show so relentlessly promoted and purportedly much-watched, Logo doesn’t exactly seem to be racing to renew its new signature show, The A-List: New York. Series like The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire have already been greenlit for sophomore runs, but despite finishing its fledgling year and capping it all off with a requisite reunion show, The A-List cast has yet to even hear anything definite from producers regarding renewal.

Cast member Reichen Lehmkuhl — weathering some bad press as of late — has been getting the chill from the network as well, citing a nebulous mid-January date as the cut-off for the yea or nea on a second season order.

Yoink! What does it all mean? Is there a critical mass even in the Reality TV landscape for venal, preening luxury (a show devoted to reigniting the freakin’ Gold Rush some two hundred years after that died out is by comparison a hit)? Were the series’s theatrics so transparently contrived that we just opted to watch trashy telenovelas instead? Or — or — have the machinations of Conservative gay quislings who voted with the GOP’s “I got mine — so fuck y’all!” platform created an antipathy toward the Gilded Gays who value personal fortune and social mobility above all else?

One of the readers at Joe My God beat me to the punch, but there’s one paraphrased classic movie line that perfectly sums up my personal schadenfreude toward everything A-List:

Who are they? Who were they? Who do they hope to be?

Seriously, fuck you:

“An activist for a sub-group of the anti-gay group the National Organization for Marriage is speaking out against the use of the rainbow as a symbol for gay rights. ‘We are the real rainbow coalition. The gay lobby does not own the rainbow,’ she said.

Dr. Jennifer Roback Morse is the founder and president of the Ruth Institute, which describes itself as ‘a project of the National Organization for Marriage.’ On its site, the group describes its mission statement as ‘to promote life-long married love to college students by creating an intellectual and social climate favorable to marriage.’

Becky Yeh of right-wing American Family News Network’s OneNewsNow, a product of the American Family Association, writes that Morse says ‘the rainbow is a sign of God’s covenant with man.’ Morse told ONN: ‘Proposition 8 was passed by a great grassroots coalition that included people from all across the religious traditions, and also people of every race and color. We are the real rainbow coalition. The gay lobby does not own the rainbow.’”

Three things:

1) A handful of well-placed (and presumably well-compensated) Uncle Toms doesn’t exactly equal all-inclusive.

2) Why is it that every under-attended NOM rally this past summer featured only priests and the elderly?

3) Is there anything — freedom, guns, wedding rings, Christmas, the Presidency, the nation — that hasn’t been stolen from self-entitled Christians?