Showing posts with label amish porn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amish porn. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Amish porn & word counts (from '12)

(719 words)

Astute readers will notice I’m introducing a new parenthetical feature. It’s not code. It’s not enigma. It’s another reader service designed to make your visit more efficient.

And let me be clear, I think anyone who stops by to read my stuff is very astute -- and that includes all of you who mistakenly stumble here based on search terms like “amish porn,” “amish breasts,” and “do amish can bacon?”

This happens on a near-hourly basis. Someone will land feet first and, I guess, pants down at www.EightDaysToAmish.com because some fraudulent search engine indicated this is a clearinghouse for things like Amish porn and lifestyle news.

It’s becoming frequent enough to at least have me considering trying my hand at Amish porn. Here’s a sample:

“Miriam arose from the stool beside her butter churn and approached Jacob with lusty intentions. She seized his stiff wick in her rough, able hands and gave it a good long dip.”

Needs some work, I know. But I thought I’d leave it up to sensitive readers to decide if Miriam and Jacob were engaged in Amish sex or merely making a supper table candle.

Back to the new feature.

It’s this post’s word count. From now on I plan to include right at the very top in parenthesis the total word count of that day’s offering.

Even though I’m unshackled by any artificial space constraints, I still try not to exceed about 750 words per post. That’s traditionally the length of one column up and down a broadsheet newspaper.

It’s a format still favored by the majority of newspapers. And that column includes enough space for just about 750 words.

Ideally, I think my blog posts should be about 600 words, but I can’t help myself.

That nonsense about the Amish sex? It consumed 92 words. I should probably cut it but it seemed like a good idea when it came to me, and I don’t have an editor to shout at me it’s too stupid to include.

That’s key.

I was raised in newspapers and remember deadline tyrants screaming at me about spacial concerns.

I remember the time I had a page one story about a major cocaine bust that required 1,000 words of crisp copy, a challenge because I only had about 600 words of facts and quotes.

I told him that was impossible. I’d exhausted the topic.

“Then write 400 more words on the chemical composition of cocaine, if it has any household applications -- some damn thing! Just give me 400 words -- and I need it in 90 seconds!”

It was very stressful.

So today I write as long or as short as I please with the understanding the internet’s not going to run out of room.

Sometimes, just for the playful spite of it, I’ll even write the very same sentence twice.

Sometimes, just for the playful spite of it, I’ll even write the very same sentence twice.

But I worry about you. I know how busy you are. You have work to do. You have kids to chase. You’re impatient to resume your search for authentic Amish porn.

The word count will let decide if you want to invest in that day’s offering.

I thought about putting something like “2 mins, 40 seconds,” that being the average time it should take to read it.

But someone might feel boneheaded and sad realizing it’s taken them three minutes. Other hyper-competitive sorts might post comments bragging they read the thing in, say, 89 seconds.

And the idea of me encouraging anyone to engage in speed reading is as unappealing as encouraging my wife to engage in speed sex.

The two activities should be savored.

I understand adding a word count will present me with temptations to deceive.

If I see a trend of more readers checking out posts that are about 600 words, there’s nothing to stop me from putting (599 words) atop a post that’s 1,232 words long.

Or if I write something that seems particularly pointless to even me, I might type “4,430” in hopes it’ll discourage readers from investing the time.

I’ll try not to do that.

I’ll try, instead, to be honest, to keep my wick trim, my candle bright and to continue ever onward on my relentless quest to make every single word count.


Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Love toys in ol' Latrobe


Our 6-year-old is at the precocious age where reading aloud is a joyful affirmation of her growing intelligence. She blurts out storefront signs and asks questions.

So any day now I’m sure I’ll have to explain what they sell inside the new store on Rt. 30 with the big “Love Toys” sign outside.

Being an indulgent parent, my instinct will be to pull right into the parking lot, march inside with a fistful of twenties and say, “This is my precious daughter. I love her. She loves toys. Show us all ya got!”

Geez, it’s probably been 20 years since I’ve been in what are routinely referred to as an adult book store.

The designation always struck me as a misnomer. I’d expect to find Leo Tolstoy in an adult book store. And I’m referring to dense books by the late Russian, not the actual author, although I’m unfamiliar with his recreations so who knows?

I was there to buy gag gifts for a buddy’s bachelor party. I remember buying an inflatable self-lubricating sheep.

He was an Ohio farm boy.

The marriage ended in acrimony about 10 years ago, but I’ll bet he still has that sheep. The poor thing’s probably covered in duct tape by now.

I marveled when the Love Toys store sprang up in the exact foot print of the old adult book store that burned down under suspicious circumstances.

I’ve always regretted I wasn’t there to watch it burn. In my mind I imagine a hole opening in the roof and a dozens of inflatable dates and various blow-up farm animals escaping into the sky.

That one had signs promoting “Live Girls!” As I said, I’ve not been a regular patron so I’m guessing there must be some nuance to the declaration.

I wonder about the people who work there.

I have to say I think it would be a pretty cool job. I can’t imagine it’s all that busy. 

I know my wife would be thrilled if I worked there. Heck, she’d be thrilled if I worked anywhere.

Only for a wife whose husband blogs would the answer to the question, “So what does your husband do?” be a step up the social ladder if she answered, “He clerks midnight at the porn shop across the street from the Arnold Palmer airport.”

And I might be able for the purposes of salesmanship be able to persuade the boss to let me take some of the stuff home for test drives.

We said “I do” in 1996, but we’d been doing it for four years prior. I’m sure my routine is as predictable to her as the next pitch to a batter who’s adept at stealing signs.

Yep, here comes another fast ball, right down the middle.

My popularity at the bar would surge, too. Instead of my usual $1.25 tip, I could just slam a foot-long love toy on the bar. It would be very funny and maybe even welcome.

The first time.

The gag might grow tedious quickly.

Or would it? Maybe Keith or Bill are interested in building a backyard shed and aren’t too picky about construction materials.

My friend Bill Hudgins forwarded me this clip about a new gambling sensation sweeping Las Vegas: vibrator racing!

That would be great fun on the bar and I could auction off the racers. Of course, you wouldn’t want to do that on a night when the special is kielbasa and pierogi. Many of the bar customers eat without averting their gaze from the TV and I wouldn’t want the gang in the kitchen getting angry over too many complaints that the sausage was way too chewy.

I’m amazed in a world awash in easily accessible cheap internet porn, there’s still a place for brick ‘n’ mortar stores run by what I guess are Mom ‘n’ Pop porn purveyors.

It almost seems kind of quaint.

Really, it’s exactly the kind of business we should all be interested in supporting. It’s locally owned, non-polluting and makes people happy.

Well, at least parts of people.

The one thing it lacks that would ensure a progressive guy like me going in and spending his money is that none of the products are organic.

Note: That’s organic, not orgasmic.

The words may look alike but, trust me, there’s a big difference

One involves a little dirt, the other a little dirty.



Monday, August 15, 2011

200 nations have read this blog!


The blog’s notoriously unreliable “stats” page says today there is reason to celebrate: someone from the 200th different nation stopped by to check out my blog.
Two hundred seems large enough to host a decent Olympics so I should be pleased.
But stats, the biggest time suck of a life that’s chock full of them, can’t be trusted so I won’t be getting drunk today.
Well, I might get drunk today, but news from stats won’t be the inspiration.
Here’s the problem: Right now, 7:30 a.m., stats is showing there are five page views for my home blog.
But when I click into the audience section, it shows there are 11 readers in the U.S., two in France, one in Brazil (hello Bob McCarthy!).
Even a math moron like me can see that number adds up to 14.
So which section of stats is telling the truth?
Just last week I awoke to read that 94 people from Slovenia stormed the joint and had one hell of a party.
They read more than a dozen distinct posts from across the three years I’ve been blogging.
I saw that and rushed out to get a haircut and shop for a new shirt then spent the whole rest of the day reading about Slovenia.
I wanted to make a nice impression in case some friendly Slovenians called to say they wanted to declare me king.
(Fact: there is no Fastvenia to give timely balance to Slovenia).
Clearly, someone started reading the blog, began sharing it with friends and soon Slovenia came to a grinding halt as the entire nation began immersing itself in my blog -- and that’s assuming Slovenia is populated by just 94 folks.
Then Slovenia started acting like so many of the girls I used to date. We went out one time, seemed to have fun -- and then they just vanished.
I half expect to see Slovenia driving by with a dude in a nicer car.
So what happened? Did stats err? Did it miscalculate? Did Slovenia wake up groggy and ashamed at having spent the night with me?
That’s not without precedent either.
It seems like stats is once again messin’ with Sasquatch.
It’s incredibly frustrating for someone who’s trying to build a readership.
But until someone suggests a more trustworthy option, I’m stuck with stats.
Here are the 199th through 200th nations who’ve registered at least one reader over the past six months.
191. Netherland Antilles
192. Macau
193. Lebanon
194. Macedonia
195. Qatar
196. Uruguay
197. Nepal
198. Sudan
199. Botswana
Clues to how at least some of this disparate group found its way to my blog can be found in the “traffic sources” section of stats.
It’s clear by some of the search terms that a niche group of deviants troll the internet for Amish porn and to their consternation, I’m sure, wind up here.
Search terms include “amish lingerie,” “amish threesomes,” and “amish boobs.”
It has me thinking I ought to inaugurate a “Search Term of the Day” feature.
Pity mingles with hilarity when I realize my blog’s responsible for this confusion.
So who secures the milestone no. 100? Envelope please . . .
It’s Trinidad!
And it’s Tobago!
It’s Trinidad and Tobago, one of the few nations on earth I can call “Sonny.”
The Republic of Trinidad and Tobago is a multi-island nation off the coast of Venezuela formed in 1976.
“Together We Aspire, Together We Achieve” is the nation’s charming motto.
In a divisive era in America when Republicans and Democrats can’t get together on anything, here is a Caribbean nation where two major islands figure they can do better as one than they could if they fended for themselves.
It sounds perfectly harmonious.
Stats tallies just one lone reader, but the optimist in me likes to think the entire 1.3 million carnival mix of Africans, Indians, Creoles, Portuguese, Venezuelans, Spaniards, Caribs, et al, are right now in the big capital library in San Fernando crowded around one warm computer screen.
Well, welcome to the nation of readers who’ve found their way to a blog whose name pays subtle tribute to how long it’ll be before economic considerations force me to give up things like electricity and store-bought butter.
Stick around a while and you’ll see there’s nothing truly Amish about my blog.
And, alas, the only real boob you’ll find here is me.