Not Dead Yet

Ken here. For those who've missed me, I can now be found cavorting with fair Ginger at a new blog, affectionately known as LustMongers.

Why not give us a visit, luv.

So Long, and Thanks for All The Flesh

Ken asked me to say a few words before I left for the land of monogamous sex, morning breath and a suitable "+1" for weddings, bar mitzvahs and posting bail bonds. It's been a blast, y'all. Our commenters and lurkers are by far the most clever, sexy, deviant, lascivious bunch of drunks God ever brought together in this lifetime, and your questions were astounding - folks, we just couldn't make this shit UP. Here's to undie stealers, horny dads, blow job queens, ass-in-jeans fetishists (I'm looking at you, K) lipstick lezzies and everlasting hard ons - batteries not included.
I'll miss the good 'ol days of unwrapping that special package, not knowing what was underneath (who knew every Friday/Saturday night could be like CHRISTMAS?!?) I'll miss the morning walk of shame, my spiked stilettos getting stuck in every sidewalk crack and subway grate, my sad bunny ears crumpled and dirty, my cotton tail falling off around State St. as I rushed to catch the bus Monday morning for work. I'll miss the drunken debauchery of my local watering hole where - with just a quick twitch of my nose (and 9 Kamikaze shots) I could witness the magical transformation of a "2" at 10PM to a "10" at 2AM. That is what living life is all about, people!!!
Ken, never one to throw in the towel (or hand lotion, for that matter), has found a new partner in crime who I'm certain will take you on a journey so dirty, so naughty, so fraught with sexual tension and lubrication you may just explode. Just be sure to pack your rubbers and a change of underwear and I promise, you'll be fine.
Lots of love and happy humping,
Ariel

Still Living the High Life

Hi. It's me.

Ken, remember?

Yeah.

Well.

This is the post that tells you that I'm still very much alive. Still something of a perv, but still alive.

This is also to tell you that something new is coming. Something glorious and low-carb and robotic. More blogging, for one thing. Like, every day blogging. But with some changes. Most prominently, it is with great sadness that I announce that Ariel, my comrade-in-keyboards for a decade, has chosen to spread her sexy-ass wings and fly to brighter horizons. I wish her the best, and still wonder how she managed to get out of town without ever sitting on my face while wearing her jeans.

But here, as Walt Disney said before they froze him, we keep moving forward. I have found a worthy female co-conspirator with whom I shall soon begin devising plans to conquer the world. Or at least to get laid on a semi-regular basis.

If you are a fan of news and excitement, then you picked a bloody excellent time to be alive, mate. Watch this space for a link to the new place. And, as always, hickies are both welcomed and encouraged.

But... Are They F@#king?

So I'm watching some show that's got Alison Krauss and Robert Plant talking about that album they did together and the interviewer is asking her what it's like to sing with a rock god and asking him what he thinks of Alison's bluegrass background and how many records they think they'll make together and blah blah blah, possibly something else about hair cream and/or trumpets. I listened for about an hour, but never heard the answer to the question I most wanted answered: Are they fucking? Because even though she's, like, 28 and he's somewhere north of 65, I'm certain that they have. I mean, he's Robert Fucking Plant. Isn't that the price of admission?

At Last! A Reason to Go to Church!

I've always argued that if church wants me back, they're gonna have to up the quotient of hot chicks. So this church went out and got a former Miss Massachusetts as its pastor.

On a recent Sunday morning, 30-year-old Nicole Lamarche, a former Miss California, stood before a crowd in a simple clapboard church next to a local watering hole. She wore high-heeled boots, her thin figure draped in a black robe.

So when is she hearing confessions?

Inexplicable

This is either the world's luckiest Ken doll or the woman most in need of human companionship. You tell me.

The Little Victories That I Take Pride In

Look, despite my happy-go-lucky, slap-happy Irishman looks, I'm a miserable, cantankerous bastard. I'd like to blame the drinking or the women or the cold hard lessons I learned in Vietnam but the inescapable fact is, I'm something of a buffoon at times. More often than not, beer is the catalyst.

But I'm working on it, you see. For example, I've long been regarded as the office perv. The guy whose head swivels like a county fair carousel when a hot intern crosses his path. Who lingers a bit too long in the lush company workout room when there are female co-workers present. Who once hired a girl whose resume noted that she was the reigning "Miss East Coast Fitness" and could fit a Buick Skylark in her mouth. So one of my career pathing objectives is, quite frankly, to be less like that guy.

Thing is, I'm starting to realize that being "that guy" may have comprised the bulk of my already limited appeal. To illustrate, last month, my boss informed me that I'd be spending the better part of December working at our office in Virginia. That was not a bad thing, as I saw it, because Kristy, the woman who ran that office, was not only a good friend of mine and outlandishly spectacular drinkin' partner, she was also the owner of one of the most majestic derrieres I have ever encountered in the corporate world. And she was quite aware of this last point, no doubt in part due to my alcohol-fueled odes to her expertly-sculpted buttocks, which she took with a smile and a nod and, I'm sure, a quiet note to have me shot, beaten or fired at some point in the future.

So when my boss gave me my assignment, I nodded and accepted it, silently doing cartwheels in my mind. And then she noted, "Kristy's excited about it too, because she said when she hangs with you, you make her feel like a rock star."

And that was the slap back to reality. Because, seriously, that's all I was doing. Hanging out with these slightly unhinged office chicks, getting sauced and revved up, blathering on and on about how hot they were, and pumping up their egos. Suddenly, I understood why HR meets regularly to discuss "the Ken problem," and I was determined to change my ways. I was going to Virginia, and, goddam it, I wasn't gonna say word one about that ass.

My first day in Happy Virginny, Kristy picks me up at the airport, wearing a skirt so tight that as she bent down to get into her car, I shielded my eyes from possible denim shards. And I never mentioned her ass.

Second day, she greets me at the office wearing pants so fitting it looks like she basically painted herself black from the waist down. The same pants she has on that night when she takes me out for after-work drinks. And I never mentioned her ass.

On my last night there, she took about 8 of us out for post-work drinks. Everyone gets sloppy and, one by one, they fall out of the ranks. Soon, it's just me and Kristy. She's dropping things, bending over left and right, shaking her ass to the music and doing that thing that hot white women in their late 30s do when they're drunk and not quite sure what else to do. She even pulls the classic "did I sit in something?" maneuver--always a favorite of mine--and shoves her ass in my face for inspection. I gave it the once-over, gave a thumbs-up, and ordered another drink on the company tab. I drank it, thanked her for the hospitality over the last few weeks, and wished her a happy holiday. Then we got up, got into her car, drove to my hotel, and she dropped me off. And not once, over a three week stretch, did I say anything about her ass.

Sure, once I got back to my room that night I masturbated furiously for roughly four hours thinking about it--to the point that I swore I'd fractured my wrist. But I never said a thing. And it's the little victories such as these that get me through the work week.