My Angel is a Centerfold

I've been a Playboy subscriber for 5 years now, and while the wife doesn't give me shit for most of my vices, she has hinted that it's time for me to give up my best porno mag. And by hinted, I mean she said "You're a Dad now, put that shit away". Now I must decide if I want to be the creepy old guy who reads Playboy on the shitter much to the chagrin of the Mrs. and the horror of his daughter, or do I want to give up the only magazine I actually read cover to cover. Being a selfish prick, I'll probably hold out for a few more years before acquiescing.

But let's face it, Playboy is hardly pornography. On the list of approved spank material, Playboy is somewhere between the Victoria Secret catalog and watching a Lady Ga Ga video. Warning! Old man about to give the famous "When I was a kid..." speech.

When I was a kid you had to work to see the goods. I would stay up until 4:00 in the morning if the movie on Skinemax advertised even the slightest hint of nudity. I wouldn't go to the bathroom for fear I would miss the three seconds of nipple-vision, and if the movie was rated Strong Sexual Content, forget it, I wasn't leaving the couch unless Richard Simmons was standing there trying to stick his bloody dick in my ear.

Today kids are spoiled when it comes to porn. They don't have to sit through hours of shitty movies to see some boobies. They can watch German circus clowns fuck chickens while quoting Knight Rider with just two mouse clicks. Two Girls One Cup is practically soft-core to today's youth, but something like that wasn't even on the fucking radar when I was in school. Jealous you say? You bet. If I had access to the internet when I was 14 my forearm would have had a tattoo of an anchor on it.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to throw on the 1984 classic "Hot Dog" and give Shannon Tweed the standing ovation she deserves.

Guess Who's Back, Back Again...

Craw is back, tell a friend. I know I've been blogging as often as Daniel Day-Lewis makes movies. What no good? Sorry, I'm a little rusty, I know I've been blogging as often as Harper Lee releases novels. Still no good? Let's try this one last time, I know I've been blogging as often as my Grandmother gets laid. There it is, octogenarian penetration humor, now that feels right! It's like riding a goddamn bike people...

I feel like an alcoholic who's been sober for a few months, but is ready to go on a bender. I'm not saying I'll be the post whore of 2008, that guy would have gone down on an AIDS patient if it meant he could get a good blog post out of it, but hopefully I'll get the word to the page at least once a week this year. So you can stop by, read my shit and say to yourself "My life may not be a bowl of cherries but at least I'm not this ass-tard." As a side note adding 'tard' to the end of any curse word instantly makes me smile like a gold medal winner at the Special Olympics.

So there you have it, my Martin Luther King Jr.'s Day resolution, blog once a week and try to have a dream, not about racial equality, but about Jersey Shore chicks getting punched in the face, because that shit is much funnier.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to replace the lube I borrowed from my Grandma, before she gets home from Red Lobster.