Bloggy Mountin' Breakdown, Part 2

Ya know, you gotta love the internet. That vast galaxy of humanity, marked by speckled patterns of light--sometimes brilliant, sometimes faint. These constellations are made not of stars, but rather of myriad expressions of life. Our collected wisdom, drawn from millennia of thought, passion, courage and folly. Our feelings. Our experiences. Our desire to connect with one another. Oh yeah, and our porn. Musn't forget that.

Wow! There's a lotta porn out there! In't there?! Y'know what I mean. You look at it too. Don't know why I'm even bothering to ask. It is inspiring and comforting to know that if you wanna watch, say, for example, old people fuckin or bein' fucked, you have available to you in this fantastic, heretofore unimaginable age more porn than you can shake your stick at.

Somewhere out there was a living, electric euphoria. Except for that when I hit all my old fave websites, I hadda problem.


See, my computer's about a year old. The processor was still fairly adequate, but the amount of memory I had available to me was a little lacking, 'least, in terms of highly sophisticated artistic media like internet porn. Mind you, I'm not saying I couldn't see anything at all. It's just, when a video keeps freezing and moving ahead a few choppy steps before freezing again, it becomes difficult to really settle in and appreciate the subtle shifting of liver spots and wrinkles. Just when you're starting to feel titillated, you find yerself stuck looking at some blurry freeze frame.

I'm sure you can imagine how frustrating this situation was for me. There I was at the threshold, ready to re-enter the world of living, breathing, feeling creatures such as yerself. I was ready to slough off my feeling of terminal burnout as though 'twere moltin' season n' I was a big ol' crawlin' kingsnake. But I couldn't do it becuzza my goddamn computer!!!!!!! How absurd is that????

Don't even get me started on Big Bizness's commitment to the principle of built-in obsolescence!!! I'm from Flint, Michigan!!! Still, you can't fight city hall, nor esp. the home computin' industry. I couldn't afford a new machine, so I was gonna have to trundle over to the Apple store on Mich. Ave. & buy me a stick o' RAM. (As one might’ve sought a stick o’ butter from his/her grocer inna good ol’ days.)


I hate walking up Mich. Ave. Nike Town and Nieman Marcus & all that other hackshit gets really pretty old really pretty fast if you live here. Plus I've never been much of a shopper in the first place, and the whole idea of shopping as entertainment gives me the creeps, which I'm sure is atavistic, paranoid and or superior, depending on how you look at it, but it's the way I feel. I know, who am I to judge someone else's empty materialism when my own is so undeniably present? But it all seems so dehumanizing to me somehow. Esp. down there where you're part of this hundred-headed mass—toe to toe & shoulder to shoulder w/ alla the tourists. Including yourself. Everyone’s a tourist along the Magnificent Mile, even the Chicagoans.

So. I arrived at the Apple Store, which is done all up in slick whites and silvers and glass. 'Tis 'tho you were frolicking around the surface of a gargantuan Apple issued mouse. The double doors—glass w/ shiny silver handles, natch, and embedded in a solid glass storefront that stretches for half a city block. (Upon which cavort those shadowy iPod-humpin' specters we've all come to be really bored and annoyed with.)

You walk into a wide open square room, which is bleepin' n' bloopin' n' mosta all piping an ear-rending selection of the hippest music to be conglomersumated. (I must be hip! They were playin’ Ladytron once!) In the middle of the room, an enormous set of stairs ascends to the 2nd floor. So these stairs, right, are formed of translucent glass strips, which not only makes 'em eye-poppingly spectacular, but leads to some pretty goddamn funny scenes in which various customers succumb to vertigo and go bouncin' back down toward the first floor--one chunk of glass at a time. Alla which lead me to think that the Apple Store must have liability insurance that is hewn from stone, like the 10 Commandments.

I cannot begin to list the many other peculiarities of this place. (E.g., given the innumerable display areas, the place feels a lot more like a convention center trade show than it does like a store.) For the most part, it's a tourist attraction--a place where all the outta town rubes can go to gawk at lotsa techno-fetishistic snake oil whilst the minions of latter day Barnum Steve Jobs make clear to them how cool alla it is and how they (the rubes like me) gotta have it. Like Niketown.


Another one of the Apple store’s peculiarities is the Genius Bar™. I mentioned the Geniuses themselves above. You are maybe, (very astutely, I might add,) picturing a place where everyone knows these poor souls’ names & is always glad they came, and at which they seek dipsomaniacal oblivion due to the fact that they hafta work in such a godawful place being assaulted by the understandably irate and/or deeply confused owners of various iPods, PowerBooks & C.

But no. The nominal area is shaped like a bar, down to the stools that begirdle it. The customers park themselves here, while behind the bar, one finds not yr. friendly neighborhood tavern keeper, but rather these poor Genius slobs. (Sadly underpaid, I was to discover.)

And while I did feel sorry for them, I felt even sorrier for myself—as usual. It’s a rotten system, and it served me badly: When you show up, you gotta sign in—at a handy Powerbook, of course. And then after a wait that, in my experience ranged from about 20 min. to 2 hours, depending on customer volume, the time of day, the number of Geniuses at hand, possibly, the weather or economic trends or a butterfly flappin' its wings upon the downy-haired nose of Lindsey Lohan, and certainly upon the alignment of the stars vis-vis the Great Old Ones and other affiliated dark gods n' spirits n' demons.

The Genius who services you ranges in general eptitude from dewy -eyed greenhorn to hoary (and perhaps whory, hyuk hyuk) grandam at play w/ his or her wispy beard. (Shot through w/ tendrils of yellow--like ivory, or well-worn boxer shorts. Where's my goddamn video camera and Vaseline? But then this hankerin' after withered flesh is what got me into this sitch inna 1st place, am I right???)

What’s more, your attendant Genius's attitude ranges from two-year-old-pissy to beatific saintly. And that there is just dumb luck, I think. ('Tho 1 should never downplay larger Lovecraftian or Lohaninan influences.)


I gotta give it to the Apple Store!!! I know I've been hard (haha) on 'em—and all just becuz they thoroughly busted my balls when my $2k machine melted down. But they embody ethnic diversity like Little League World Series. I met Geniuses of all races, classes, creeds and colors. (Well, I'm not sure about classes and creeds, and you can be pretty sure none of 'em were white supremacists—nor rich.) Oh yeah, of various apparent sexualities too. I saw head scarves n' dredlocks n' tattoos n' braids n' goatees n' various examples of body piercing.

One thing I did not see 'tho was anyone over the apparent age of 29, which, whilst it might keep the 60s counter cultural ideal of trusting no one over 30 alive, is a situation that also kinda qualifies all that open mindedness in hiring shit.

Cuz when I spoke of the Genius’s epitude or lack thereof, please understand that I was not speaking of their actual age. Even with the ever-widening technological gulf between youth and experience, I find it hard to believe that there is no one out there who is available and competent enuff to man (or woman) the Genius bar. Nope. I just think that a pre-op transsexual of Mayan descent who practices druidism and has a cleft palate is way more hip n' interesting than some 51 year old white gentile agnostic guy named Bert who is geek enuff to know what a kernel panic is (and therefore also geek enuff to still live over his mom's garage). That's what I think. I mean, when was the last time you saw an iPod-hawkin' silhouette that looked like, if you turned the lights on, it might've been cast by Michael McDonald?


And y'know what??? I know alla this because I prob. met every single Genius at the cockknocking Apple store on Mich. Ave. Twice!

And y'know why??? Chicken thigh! No really cuz everytime I left the store—including the first Genius-free visit I’d made when I bought the RAM, I’d go home, and insteada my computer surging forth like it had a Tiger in its tank, (haha sorry--now that's clever,) it would putter like a toy train with a bad transformer. And it would be like, slower than ever and keep crashing, and after a while, the disk wouldn't even, uh, mount.


When things are really hopeless for your Macintosh computer, a rather funerary black n' gray message (not at all like the silver and white and translucent stuff that coats its flesh) flashes on the screen which sez something along the lines of: "You must restart yr. computer. A critical something other has something somethinged, etc. HAHAHAHAHA! You paid a lotta money for this thing & now yer fuckt!!!" Or something like that. I may not have the words exactly right.

I later learned that this less than subtle panic signal was a manifestation of something called a "kernel panic." (As mentioned above.) At first I thought it was "Colonel Panic," a sinister feller, whom I paradoxically pictured as a Capt. Crunchesque cartoon figure, complete w/ handlebar mustache, knee high jackboots and Luftwaffe helmet. (My imagination being obviously circumscribed by all those Hogan's Hero's episodes I ingested as a child. And a teen. And an adult. In reality, he’d prob. look like smelly old novelist Gunther Grass dressed up in military drag.) But obviously it's spelled like one of those fragments of popcorn you eat, unless they didn't pop right. (Which is always a real pisser, isn't it?)

And maybe that's appropriate phrasing, cuz as I understand it, yr. computer's operating system is apparently exploding like Jiffy Pop in a blast furnace.



Anyway, to make a long story short again... I do not recall how many times I went to the Apple store, was relieved of my computer for a few days so that it might be inspected and theoretically repaired, only to be greeted by that asswipe Cnl. Panic. Then after many, many weeks, the sadists at top of the Apple store chain deigned to give me a new machine. And then only becuz it was determined that my old one was utterly irreparable and, fortunately, still under warranty. The good news is they gave me the new MacBook Pro, which is an update and maybe a slight upgrade of my Power Book. The bad news is that a year was shaved off my Apple Care protection thingy, endless hours were lost, work was set back and worst of all, my blog updates were put on hold!!! Oh the horror! Oh the humanity!

The last time I took it in, they assured me that I’d hear from them once they’d looked the thing over. By this time it appeared that both the RAM slots and the processor had been fucked up since Day 1 and that my machine had been performing significantly below par w/o my knowledge. (I had no idea what I was missing.) After several replacements ‘tho, the parts still didn’t work and so they decided it’d be cheaper and easier to just replace the fucking thing.


Not, BTW, that I woulda known, Apple was gonna replace my fucking computer. I hadda call the store to find that out. Since this whole thing started, I’d had to call them more than once, so I knew that a robotic operator would answer my call and tell me it was transferring me to the “next available Apple representative.”

“Apple representative.” Kinda a weird way to put things, being as I was just calling my local store, right? Ha! Well get this brilliant trick: Everytime I called, some squeaky clean youngster w/ a prim Canadian accent—sounding so cute that I just wanted to pinch their cherubic little Maple leaf cheeks. I pictured ingenuous virginal glee club members. (When the person on the other end of the phone was prob. just a hairy-moled 50-year-old American voice actor name Frieda or Gus. Which would mean that Apple actually does hire older people after all! Whatta bastard I’ve been…)

So friendly. So eager to please. No matter how enraged I was, I just never could bring myself to yell at ‘em.

And here’s the funny part: These fey little teddy bears apparently operate outta some conglomerated telemarketing hell that is decidedly not on Michigan Avenue. What’s more, they don’t even have immediate access to information about your repair. Nope. Anytime you have a specific question, they very politely ask you if you’d mind waiting on hold whilst they confer with the technician who is repairing your machine. On Michigan Avenue.

You’re never allowed to speak to this fucker. One lil’ Canuck tole me he didn’t even have the equipment necessary to connect us. He was so sincere that I didn’t even question how an enormous corporation like Apple couldn’t even supply him with the hardware needed to make a freakin’ conference call!

So you can see how it’s a great system, designed by a real genius—and I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Val Kilmer…

And I know what you’re thinking. You would’ve cursed ‘em up n’ down like a truck driver mainlining human adrenaline. They would’ve dribbled away from the phone in a liquescent pool of flesh n’ tears. Bullshit! Email me after you’ve performed such a feat of prickishness and then we’ll talk…


Anyway, in the end they replaced my computer w/ a slightly better one, as I said. I have almost undone the damage that this meltdown caused. (I lost at least one good missing persons deal in this shit.) I have not yet had a chance to restore all my pornographic bookmarks, and so I am still aching for some creased geriatric skin here, but that anticipation will just make the eventual release that much sweeter.


To anyone reading this, I hope everything is OK where you are. I've had at least one or two pains in the ass while all this is going on that I may or may not get around to writing about. I'm sure you've had your own pains as well.

Next come the Floggers(tm) a.k.a. the Forceman Blog Awards, celebrating two years (now actually pushing 2 1/2, but who's counting?) of well, um, something or other. Memories? Mammaries? Ida know. Sorry for the delays on that one--aside from the technological issues already mentioned, I've had to count and recount the votes, because Harold Washington insists that he must've won Best Guest Star even though it looks like maintenance guy Titus won by a long shot. Whatever. As in every other such situation in life, you voted. Or you didn't. Either way we've gotta live w/ the results. And we'll see what those are next time.


See ya!


(P.S. I have not forgotten about Hawaii/Thing-Fish I even have some stuff on paper—well, in my hard drive anyway—but it’s a damn mess and prob. incomprehensible to anyone but me. But it’ll be up pretty quick here. Really.)

Bloggy Mountin' Breakdown, Part 1

Ever have one of those days? Or weeks? Or months? Or summers?

To whit:

A coupla months ago, I was watching a Cubs game at a friend's apartment. We were playing this drinking game where every time one of our guys gets left stranded at third base, you have to do a shot, chase it with three swigs of beer, and then throw a dart at this life size cardboard cutout of Dusty Baker that he keeps nailed to his living room wall. If you sink a dart into Dusty's face, it's worth ten points and if you nail his crotch, it's worth 25. Whoever gets the lowest number of points has to buy the beer the next time around.

Being as we've been doing this since the 2003 NLCS, you'd think that Dusty would be unrecognizable, but our aim is usually so lousy that we're lucky if we even hit Dusty. My friend's wall is honeycombed with gouges and holes and he has to move a bookcase in front of it every time his landlord stops by to fix something. But that's not important right now.

What is important right now is that we were watching the game, and I wasn't even cursing the Cubs for all their various gaffes and pratfalls. I was just staring disjointedly at a spot of varnish on my friend's coffee table that looks exactly like the head of comedian Louie Anderson and my friend kept having to hit me on the shoulder to remind me to take my shots--both of liquor and at Dusty--and it must've really been getting on his nerves because finally he said, "Hey Steve, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

I was puzzled. I said "Ennhh??"

He said, "You're half-assing his whole thing. Whereza fun in that?"

I said, "Oh."

"You're getting to be sorta lame to hang around with."

"Probably."

"Keep it up and I'm not even gonna call ya when the next game's on."

"OK." There was a spot next to Louie Anderson that looked sorta like 80s comedienne Elaine Boozler. Weird that I'd never noticed it.

"You're starting to piss me off."

"Do ya ever wonder what happened to Elaine Boozler?"

"Who?"

"Elaine Boozler."

"Who's Elaine Boozler?"

"80s. Standup. Mensturation."

"Oh. Who cares?"

"Ida know. Just curious."

I was vaguely aware of the fact that I was pissing him off. He didn't even bother to curse at Aramis Ramirez for swinging at the third straight bad pitch. Out number 3.

So my friend started trying to get some sorta emotional response out of me:

"Hey Steve, I think Comedy Central was right for pulling that South Park episode because Isaac Hayes and Tom Cruise didn't like it."

"Yeah?"

On screen Michael Barrett was beating the shit out of one of the bat boys. With his face mask.

"Hey Steve, John Kerry lost the '04 election 'cuz he was too liberal. The Democrats shoulda run Joe Lieberman."

"Cool."

"Hey Steve, Elizabeth Elmore is a flat-chested skank whore who gives handjobs to crackhead White Sox fans in an alley under the L tracks. For free."

"What the fuck did you just say?!"

"Notice how there are never any guitar solos on her records? (Or at her live shows?) That's cuz while the band is playing the instrumental break after the 2nd chorus of every song , she's busy lapping at the flaccid, hairy asshole of that guy who used to sing in the Spin Doctors. And she hums the melody to 'Little Miss Can't Be Wrong' while she does it."

“I hate that song!”

I swung the bottle of Jack Daniels at him and came close to splintering his jaw, but he brandished the cardboard figure like a shield. Its head folded over like a a Monopoly game board, and splinters of Dusty’s face flew into the air like cardboard toothpicks, and for one timeless moment, it occurred to me that the real Dusty might’ve been happy to chaw on ‘em, as is his wont.

Then I chased my friend around his apartment for about ten minutes before the cops showed up. His landlord had called 'em because of the noise.

The cops lectured us for a while, and we promised to calm things down. By that time, my rage had cooled, and ‘tho my friend was kinda pissed, he explained how he was just trying to induce me to get my head outta my ass.

“No wonder life stinksso much!” said. But I couldn’t raise even a lame, fake laugh.

Nor could he.

Still, I knew he was right. My head was up my ass, and it had been for some time.

(I don’t mean that literally, which is prob. good, cuz I'm not sure how the hell my whole digestive cycle would work.) (More Midgard Serpent imagery! Rad!)

I'd been wandering around, dispatching my duties in the most rudimentary way, consuming and excreting the materials necessary to keep my carcass in an operational state, but I wasn't tasting my food, and I wasn't hearing the music I was listening to. I was feeding my dog cat food and my cat dog food. I'd called up my mother and made lewd suggestions to her and then telephoned this chick I've been trying to get into bed and asked her to sing me that old lullaby because I was having trouble getting to sleep.

Something was wrong, and I hadn't even noticed it till my friend snapped me out of it. (I later thanked him by the way.) I started reviewing my life, looking for changes in the way I'd been doing things. My diet was more or less the same. My health was OK. I was keeping weird hours, but I always keep weird hours. No one had died. I was facing no financial crises. My social life was more or less the same as it had been for the last coupla years, which is to say it's not great, but not bad.

Everything was normal.

Then it hit me. It was the internet porn.

Now, usually I'm content to jerk off to the same sorta stuff as any other guy, be it hetero; homo; lesbo; inter-sizal; (including vertically--dwarves can be pretty hot--and horizontally--fat chicks were a fun place to start, but I'd eventually gotten as far as sumo wretlers, who, in turn, had led me into this regressive diaper fetish thing, but I don't wanna talk about that;) interracial; oral, genital,digital and anal; incestual--'tho never pedophiliac in anyway, 'cuz that's just wrong; feco-philial and/or phagial; necro; (but only in cases where the deceased has specified that he/she wants his or her remains to be utilized in this manner, like those cannibal-lover German freaks from the news;) sado; masochisto; w/ or w/o pierced tongues, nipples, anuses or genitals; utilizing (or not) devices like dildoes, vibrators, gloryhole implements, fruits n' veggies, newspapers, electro-shock devices, nipple clamps, chips n’ dips, chains or whips; using costumes like sports mascot uniforms, diapers, (as mentioned above,) vestal garments; etc in groups numbering from 1-23. ('Tho once the number of participants exceeded 18 I found it hard to stay focused.)

I had an active and fulfilling relationship w/ my pornography. Somehow ‘tho, I was becoming kinda jaded. I'd gotten back into this bestiality groove. Hadn’t looked at that shit in a while, and for a second there, it almost felt new again. But I've seen it all, it seems. I've seen people do it with pet dogs. I'd watched one bold soul try to make it w/ a cat. I'd seen all kindsa stuff involving reptiles, arachnids, insects, etc. (The unicellular animals get really, uh, screwed in this area. Some guy really oughta like stick his dick into a bacterial culture or something. Or maybe some chick could mount a paremicium.Just to be fair.)

I'd seen 'em screw aquatic animals--esp. and predictably, eels, but also other sortsa fish--fresh water fish, shellfish, whitefish, one fish two fish red fish blue fish. I'd seen 'em screw 'em on a train, I'd seen 'em screw 'em on a plane, but I wasn't aroused by it, Sam I am.

Like the Verve once said, the porn don't work, it just makes me worse, etc. No wonder I felt so numb & dead.

But then it occured to me: there was one area I hadn't looked into in a while--one of the best ones of all: Grey Porn!

It was the bestiality that put the idea in my head. See, I was introduced to animal and senior porn at exactly the same moment. It's kinda a funny story that goes a little somethin' like this:

Back in my hoary film school daze, I had this work study job assisting the film department's technician. We'd perform maintenance and repairs on the cameras and other equipment. It kept us fairly busy, but his pay was for shit, and mine was even worse.

Fortunately, he ran this other business outta his home. He transferred people's old home movies to video tape. (This was just before the rise of DVD.) They'd drop 'em at a local drugstore or camera shop, which'd then relay 'em to my boss, and he'd thread 'em up in crappy old Super 8 and 16mm projectors--sometimes w/ 4 or 5 of the things going at once like the underground machinery in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. The money was good, but it got a little hectic here and there--with strands of brittle old film jamming and breaking and threatening to ignite, spectacularly, like gonorrhea in Joey Lawrence's shorts.

So he offered me a very part time job. All I hadda do was keep an eye on all these fucking machines, start and end the reels and tapes, label things, etc. It was boring, but we listened to some decent music and passed around the occasional joint or can of beer.

One night when we were more fucked up than we usual, he felt that it would be judicious to close things down before we destroyed somebody's wedding footage or something. Earlier, I'd run across these old stag films from the 1940s that someone had included w/ his/her old home movies—presumably by accident. In ‘em, a lady assumed the missionary position, and a Charles Atlas type climbed on top of her and as Sheena Easton once said, they got ta rammin'. All in grainy black and white.

So I said, "Hey! Look at this shit!"

"Hmm?" I remember he had some unamalgamated American cheese in his beard--from a sandwich he'd been eating earlier. "Oh. That's nothin'! You get that kinda shit alla time."

With the kinda smugness that is reserved for those who torpedo someone else's naivete, he explained that people were always sending their old porn in, usually buried within a slew of bar or bat mitzvah parties, Xmas morning gift exchanges and family vacation memories.

(Incidentally, it was in one of these family trip reels that I found the most obscene image I saw while I worked there. By far. Shot in the fifties or early sixties, this Estman color strip chronicled the adventures of an archetypal mom, pop, bro and sis as they travelled across the American west. One stop was apparently at the the site of some nuclear explosive tests, as visible beyond mom's shoulder, a distant mushroom cloud did flash against the desert sky. Now that was fucked up.)

He told me about this scholarly thesis he’d formed whereby these inclusions of porn were not generally accidental, but instead were an effort at preserving some beloved stroke material of yonder days. (Sorta like you do w/ an old pair of slippers.) Of course anyone of these nostalgic types whom you approached would still insist that the whole thing was accidental—or worse that they’d never seen it before in their lives, but in the end, I mean, who gives a shit?

Anyhoo, my boss'd told me to remind him to show me something really fucked up when we had a chance. So trying to sober up before I headed home, I mentioned it to him. He smiled evilly, produced a video tape, and set the fucker rolling.

On the screen unfolded a complex montage. Eisenstein woulda been proud of its elaborate but brutally effective construction. Shot on various stocks--color, black and white, reversal and negative, grainy and clear--pornographic images flashed, with an insistant rhythm. 'Twas an even 4/4 sorta beat, timed exactly to New Order's "Strange Love Triangle," the extended dance mix of which did thump thump thump thump from the television speakers.

Clearly this was the work of a man w/ too much time—not to mention maybe too much other stuff—on his hands. My boss had assembled the more bizarre stuff that had crossed his lenses, and a surprising amount of it was oriented toward bestiality. (Usually involving horses, dogs or eels.) I had seen virtually no animal porn, as I said, but I can't claim that the stuff was too shocking. If you have the slightest bit of imagination and haven't seen the stuff before, what you're picturing in yr. head is prob. quite accurate. Sure it's weird, it's fucked up, but it's not exactly unimaginable in and of itself.

The tape was effectively cut, but even so, it quickly got boring. I mean, there are only so many variations on human/canine couplings that you can come up with, and I suspected that would extend to any sort of animal you might come up w/.

But then, in the gloriously saturated color people used to dig, there was this pig. In a barn. And there was this pale, busty naked brunette, walking around behind it, as it trotted away from her. She was attempting to jerk the pig off w/ one hand and carrying a wooden stool in the other. Again, weird and fucked up but what was really striking about it was that it the film stock was of higher quality than most, that the shots were carefully composed, and the editing within the scene was very well done. Somebody had gone to a lotta trouble w/ this one.

And it got even worse/profound/profane. While this chick was chasin' the pig, (weird, the thing had a hard-on, why was it running away? outta some sense of decency?) this old codger, equally naked, appeared nearby. He was distinguished by a wild, unevenly distributed mass of dirty gray hair; a gleeful, semi-toothless leer; and a gargantuan dick. I mean, he was hung like a horse, y'know, which was almost sort of appropriate in a barnyard sorta way, 'cuz now Granpaw was joinin' the chase, all the while yankin' at his endowment w/ the apparent purpose of keepin' it fully endowed.

Whilst the chick pursued her hapless porcine quarry, Grandpaw took to toddlin' along, tryin' to pilot his fleshy vessel into the pig's less-than-wide-open harbor.

He made a few almost-dockings, at whichtimes the woman would slide the stool under his bony ass, w/ the apparent purpose of givin' Gramps some support to aid in his couplin' w/ the pig. And while, true to the well-known nature of a greased member of his species, the pig kept slippin' away, the connection twixt human and animal kinds was inevitably established, leading to an extreme closeup of the oldster's bestubbled cackling face. And this shot was, believe it or not, the most disturbing image found in the entire program.

Buuuuutttttt.... To make a long story short... That's how I discovered porn both zoological and geriatric.

Now. To bring us back to the present, I was lost in this grey ennui. And I'd come to understand that alla that greyness was located at the bottom of the big ol' rut I'd fallen into, pornographically speaking. But then it came to me that the best way outta a grey rut is through grey rutting! So off in search of internet oldster porn did I go.