Postings for February 2004
MY ASS
Posted: Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Just a little reminder before we kick this off: Please Email me any comments, suggestions, or questions you might have about me, my columns, or life in general. Need advice? Fine. I need motivation. Make with the Email.
Most people don’t want to see their own ass but I really need to in unfathomable ways. I want to know what everyone else is staring at. I feel the eyes burn into it as I pass. Not only men either. Women, especially black women, stare at it all the time. It’s an odd ass to see on a Caucasian. I think I’m quite possibly the most ass conscious person alive. If you think you’re looking and I don’t know it, you’re wrong. I guess the fact of the matter is that I’m jealous that complete strangers can appreciate my ass and I can’t. It’s my fucking ass and why should everyone else get joy and pleasure from it but me?
I can’t see my own ass. I mean, I’ve seen it but only in pictures, and odd mirror angles. I’ve never seen dead on, or in the flesh. Apparently, it’s a great ass but I DON’T KNOW. It really kills me, and I’ll admit that I quite often find myself chasing after my own ass buck naked out of the shower, in the hopes I’ll catch a peek.
Having big tits is a huge advantage to having a big ass. First off, I could see them and admire them. I could appreciate my tits and enhance them so that others could appreciate them as well. With the ass, you’re just estimating. Sure, I could get the opinions of the sales girls when I try them on, but they’d let a 2 ton heifer buy the same pants and give her the same raving reviews. A man is never going to provide an honest opinion regarding my ass, because a) he wants in it and b) refer to a. A gay man would be the least reliable in that department because he’d want my ass to look as unappealing as possible.
I do my best with my ass, but I can’t help feeling that there is more that can be done. I shave my asshole every time I shower, even if I don’t shave anything else. I’ve slowly downsized my underwear to the point that it now resembles an eye patch. Thongs are just too much material chafing my crack. I’m preemptively using anti cellulite cream and doing aerobics regularly to avoid the cottage cheese accumulation that usually begins either after marriage or after 30. It’s all I’ve got; I’m giving it all I can in return. All this work for the benefit of strangers.
Speaking of strangers, A filthy homeless man was staring at my ass as I exited the train this afternoon and screamed, “YOU HAVE NO PANTIES ON!!" I ask you, is it fair that HE gets to look at my ass, and I don’t? The answer is, quite simply, No. It’s not fair. Not one bit. He does not deserve my ass. He doesn’t even know enough to realize that I DID indeed have panties on; SPECIAL panties that I buy for my SPECIAL ass. To add insult to injury, he proceeded to bellow, “HOW DARE YOU? YOUR ASS MUST STINK!”
I am quite rarely speechless. This however, was one of those rare occasions. I was tempted to shout back “MY ASS DOESN’T STINK BECAUSE I JUST SNIFFED MY G STRING WHEN I TOOK A PISS AND IT WAS WONDEROUS!” I couldn’t though. Mostly because it’s a lousy attempt at a comeback, but also because I don’t think I should have to. Why should I have to defend my GREAT ASS’s odor to a homeless man that just slept in his own urine? So I continued to walk onward, ass held high, pretending to make a phone call, and pretending that I did not notice that now every other man on the street was staring at my apparently non-panties-wearing stank butt.
I suppose the point of this somewhat egocentric rant is that I’m just a little bit aggravated that I am the proud proprietor of such a marvelous posterior, but I can’t appreciate it, because I can’t see it. Oh well, on to World Peace.
~Silera~
PS - Remember, Email me your comments or questions, and I'll use them to fuel my future articles. Come on and motivate my ass!
Posted by silera
at 12:00 AM
SAINT PATRICK - DRUGGED IN DC
Posted: Sunday, February 15, 2004
Since it's become obvious that Silera has a hard time handing in columns on a regular basis, we've decided to ask YOU, the FoundryMusic.com surfer to help out. What we'd like you to do, starting today, is if there's anything you need answered by an attractive, young, likes-to-be-naked columnist, then here's your chance:
Fire off an Email to silera@foundrymusic.com. She'll get your letters, pick through the best ones, and post them in her next article. Anything goes, ask her what you want. Have fun.
Wth that Said, here's her latest, drunken column...
A few months ago, I drove down to DC with a couple of friends to participate in a poker tournament. It’s about a four-hour drive and we made a weekend of it. We drove all night Thursday, and slept in on Friday until just before the tournament start time. I started drinking tequila as soon as I arrived, by the cup, chilled as I always do. And the story begins.
It was a standard tournament. Eight tables, eight people per table, elimination, blind raises blah blah. I remember doing really well, and being fascinated at my never-ending glass of tequila. Slowly the tables got merged and somehow I was still sitting at my seat with all these pretty chips in front of me. My last clear memory was that there were two tables left and I was at one, and my boyfriend sat at the other. I was given a glass of tequila, which I took a sip of and went off for a smoke. That’s it. Switch off. No memory at all of the rest of the evening.
At this point, you may think to yourself, she got drunk, but that is not the case. I drink Patron Silver chilled by the cup every time I go out. I drink so much of it in fact, that I’ve been given the bottles I’ve finished at least half a dozen times by the bartender at the end of the night. I drink so much Patron, that I showed up at a bar I’m a regular one night, and asked for my Patron from a new bartender that was filling in for the evening, and was told, “Oh, they told me you’d be here. We haven’t gotten our delivery yet because of the snow so I have no Patron.” Then, she called the manager and allowed me to buy my own Patron from a liquor store and served it to me for tips only all night. I drink tequila and lots of it. I remember having 5 cups on this particular night, and I was told I drank 8. Eight cups of tequila would not be the catalyst for the events that follow.
This is the part of the story where I can only relay what I have been TOLD happened. Apparently, I was the belle of the ball. A crowd gathered around me and showered me with tequila. One of the players at my table went out for a smoke, and told my boyfriend, “There’s this chick at my table that reeks of tequila and every time she bets I go in against her, and she wins!” My boyfriend responds, “Yeah, that’s my girlfriend, she doesn’t bluff.”
I was the tenth one out, and not because I lost. My chips were taken away from me because I started throwing them at the dealer. I left gracefully without any fuss, and walked to the hall, where I decided I wanted to take a nap. A waiter saw me and told my friend. I was propped up and for a bit until someone could find my boyfriend. In his infinite wisdom, he decided to take me out to the car and leave me there alone and return to the tournament. We had driven 4 hours to get there; no way was he going to let my drunk ass ruin the evening.
The night rolled along without me, and after the tournament was over, plans were made to go to a diner- maybe even a bar. Plans are funny. So is walking out to the parking lot and seeing a woman standing next to a car with only her thong and turtleneck on and her pants around her ankles. Yeah. There was no urine, no vomit, and no indication as to why the pants were off. Mind you -these weren’t just any pants. These were my black leather pants that look painted on and I have to lie on a bed and tug and sweat for 5 minutes to get zipped up. How I managed to get the off in my complete stupor will forever be a mystery. That is not my mind on Patron silver, that is my mind on Patron silver and whatever the fuck was in that fifth tequila. (On a sidenote, I’m quite certain I wasn’t raped because my tampon was still in when I woke up. There’s always a silver lining- or cotton cork to be precise.)
I was put in the back seat and told to put my pants on. The group went to a diner and I was left in the car. Then we drove home, and apparently I asked every ten minutes of the last hour where we were and why. My memory resumes with waking up at home, in the parking lot and asking why we came back. I was told not to ask and to go to sleep. I went to sleep.
The next day, with the help of the half dozen people that saw me pantless in the parking lot, I reconstructed the evening and came to the conclusion that I was drugged and my boyfriend is a saint.
Remember kids, get those questions into Silera today! Drunk? Tired? it don't matter! FIRE OFF A QUESTION TODAY!
Posted by silera
at 12:00 AM
I'M A POOL GIRL
Posted: Thursday, February 5, 2004
The great thing about having a chick on staff who likes to take pictures of herself naked is that we can't stay mad at her for very long.
Actually, let me clarify that; *I* can't stay mad at her for very long. You see, even when she takes SEVEN MONTHS to come up with a new column, and we feel like beating her with phone books for taking her sweet ass time, we just can't bring ourselves to do it. Why? Because she's a chick who likes to take pictures of herself naked. As much as we LOVE FoundryMusicDanny, FoundryMusicGrizz, Ass Dragging Moose, FoundryMusicDoc, The Dark Nut, or even Sister Irene... if ANY of them thinks that they can slack off and make good by sending us naked pictures of their asses, they're wrong. They're just giving us MORE incentive to beat them all with phone books. Having said that, here's the latest column by our chick writer who likes to take pictures of herself naked:
I’m a pool girl.
The beach is just way too much trouble. You have to pick a spot, and maneuver the long walk on the hot sand from the boardwalk to where you decide to set up camp for the day. There’s a lot of shit to carry, and pack up at the end of the day. One day at the beach means two weeks of sand in your car, bathroom, shoes, and bags. I’ll go to the beach but I just don’t like it.
The pool on the other hand is a breeze. You just show up with your towel. If you want to get wet, you do. If you don’t, you just lay down and tan all day. There are clear lines where the water begins and the concrete ends. You come in one way, and leave the same way. You can wash off the chlorine before getting anywhere near your car or belongings. If you want to spice it up, you can go to a wave pool or dive into the deep end. - All controlled activities, that you can opt into or choose to forego.
In relationships, there are pool girls and there are beach girls. Each have their advantages, but I suggest that if you’re a female you strive to be a pool girl, and if you’re a male, you snag yourself up a pool girl. You may think pool girls are boring, even prudish, but I submit to you that their approach to relationships is far superior to that of the beach girl and even more surprisingly, your average pool girl is a much better fuck buddy than a beach girl any day.
Beach girls don’t draw lines. They’re that wet, sloppy sand you use to make sand castles. If you’re a beach girl, you never really know where the water starts and ends. You think you’ve gotten the perfect spot, then the tide rises and you have to get up and move to dry ground. You go in the water, and instead of leisurely lounging around, a huge wave comes over you and drags you into the ocean, while the ground below you slips through your toes. Beach girls think that the beach means freedom, when in actuality you are at the mercy of the elements. In relationships, they think that not drawing clear lines means that they’re not clinging or possessive, yet the fact that there are no lines is a constant irritant and the cause of never ending strife. Beach girls never consciously make the decision to dive into the water. Once they’re in the water, getting out is a long struggle as waves drag them down; they sink into the ground, and readjust their bikinis under the water trying to empty the 5 pounds of sand that has accumulated in their crotches as they emerge from the filthy water.
The pool girl on the other hand, has the advantage of knowing exactly how far she’s willing to go at the pool. Maybe she just wants to sit on the edge and wet her feet. Maybe, she wants to stand in the shallow end to the waist so as to not mess up her hair. Maybe she’s ready for a day of diving and Marco Polo. It’s all up to her. When she’s ready to get out of the water, her exit ala Denise Richards in Wild Things is nothing less than sex and grace at it’s best. A pool girl won’t ask you if you’re seeing other people. A pool girl won’t wait for a call the next day. A pool girl will know what she wants and will make it very clear to you what it is. There’s no guessing, no guilt, no remorse and no jellyfish.
So the next time you wake up next to a girl that didn't need to know your name before allowing you to put your toys in her sandbox, you'll regret not having addressed the pool-versus-beach question the night before as you decide whether to run or walk away...
Summer is just around the corner fellas. I suggest you hit the pool.
~Silera~
Posted by silera
at 12:00 AM
ROSES ARE RED...AND?
Posted: Friday, February 14, 2003
...and now, a very special VALENTINE'S DAY COLUMN by our very own Silera...
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
It’s Valentines Day
I want to fuck you.
Forget about dinner
And the movie too
Just rent me a porno
And screw me til noon
If you give me chocolate
I may start to moo
I don’t want a teddy
Just eat my poon
I waxed my balloon knot
And my pussy too
Finger my asshole
Use spit for lube
I’ll lick your balls
And tug on your mule
I’ll thank you for fucking
My face with your tool
I’ll get on all fours
We’ll try something new
Stick it in slow
And fill me with sploo
It's Valentines Day, folks and while some ladies might enjoy a nice bunch of roses or even some candy I can't say I've ever given much of a shit.
It’s a stupid holiday and I don’t like it. It’s the dumbest, most arbitrary day of the year. Somehow, all the other 364 days of the year aren’t good enough to show whoever you’re with that you want to be with them. It’s also another day where cunt-ish women can rate and evaluate their partner’s affection for them based on the gift that they get. The most popular Valentine’s Day gifts (Jewelry, lingerie, and flowers) serve no useful purpose whatsoever, other than forcing me find somewhere to display said gift so that I can show appreciation for getting such a useless piece of shit.
If I get flowers, I get cut by thorns while I try to trim them down and put them in a vase. Gee, thanks, maim me and make responsible for prolonging this lifeless organism that you paid too much for. Teddy bears? Why does a grown woman need a fucking toy? Unless it vibrates I don’t need toys. Unless that fucking teddy bear comes with a leather strap on and cuffs, leave in the fucking store. Chocolates? Yeah, help your girlfriend break out in pimples and gain 20 lbs just a few weeks before spring and bikini season.
Lingerie? What man knows the size of his woman’s ass? They inevitably buy it too big and it then becomes the cause for a dish-breaking, high-pitched rumble. “My ass is NOT that big!” “My tits aren’t BIG enough for you?!” Tears abound and the killer question comes up, “Do I look FAT!?!”
Jewelry seems like a safe option, but then you might break up. If you buy her cheap shit, you ain’t getting any lovin’ that night. If you buy her good shit, you’ve just spent a month’s salary and you’ll never get it back.
In conclusion, on Valentine’s I want what I want every other night. I want to be fucked until I’m sweaty and have no feeling in my legs. I want to fall asleep afterwards, and if you want to be romantic, bring me my cigarette and a glass of water to the bed, and you’ll be sure to get good morning blow job.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
~Silera~
Posted by silera
at 12:00 AM
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