Hitler Fumes Over Zug 15

Make sure to select German as the language to see the subtitles. Yes another way the Germans are fucking with the Jews.

Enjoy!

Severe Earthquake Warning For California

Telephone poles may fall down.

You have been warned.

Cooking with Merrill

Merrill Howard Kalin - Cooking with Retards - Click here for more home videos

R.I.P.

Hitler Fumes Over ZuG Changes

The Adventure of Flat Stanley - Part 1

The innocence of children, as illustrated in the black markets of Cambodia Flat Stanley Project, tells the story of a cardboard cutout that travels around the world and is documented through photography. My niece took a moment out of her busy day (i.e. eating glue) to create a manila folder mongoloid and asked me to document the adventures for her class. I was honored that she would put her faith in me and I promised that Stanley would see things that no other child could possibly imagine. My only task was to report on the adventure and send the final pictures and a written adventure log to her 1st grade teacher.

As luck would have it, I was poised for a trip to Austin for business. I packed up my bag, buckled the little guy into his seat and we were off on our first adventure.

Stanley was very well behaved on the plane and enjoyed the
Bat Bridge and getting the lay of the land when we first arrived. But, as the night started to progress, Stanley started to change.

After I got out of the shower I noticed that something was not right.


Stanley had cleaned up his C.H.U.D look and dressed in suave business attire. I also caught him ordering some adult feature films, but decided to look the other way and get ready for the night ahead.


We hit the town and went bar hopping on our first night, but I lost track of him. The last I remember, we were taking shots of Patron and dancing with some fine bitches at "Maggie Mae's" . I had a little too much to drink myself and blacked out back in the hotel room.

I awoke the next morning frantically looking for Stanley when I stumbled upon him in the bathroom. The only thing I could do was look in horror as I reviewed the pictures he had taken with my digital camera.



I couldn't believe what I had seen and before I had time to berate him for his behavior he did the unthinkable. I was shocked he had finished the 8-ball and didn't even save me a little. He then let me know I should call him Crack Stanley,as that was his preferred party persona, and he winked at me.

I panicked, folded him up, and let him detox in my suitcase until the conference was over and we headed back to New York. I had several trips scheduled for this adventure and I crossed my fingers that he would straighten up, even if it meant an intervention.

Little did I know that this was the beginning of the end for poor Crack Stanley.

Stay tuned...

5 Things The Single Guy Takes For Granted

Let’s face it: If I weren’t married I would be all over that shit!

Seriously, like a disgruntled immigrant in Binghamton, I would set my sights on some bitches, block them in and just unload all over the place.

So, for all the jealous singles, here are a few things to keep in mind the next time you are bitching about being lonely.

1) Insomnia – I haven’t had a full night sleep since my wife annexed the bed. This has less to do with the twelve inches of fetal-ball space I am allowed, as much as the subtle waft of fecal matter that forms over the course of the evening. I am not really sure how that smell of morning breath manages to travel through thirteen throw pillows. But the two of us wake up every morning and pass each other toilet paper as a sign of communal disgust.

Ever wonder what it is like to live in New Jersey? Just get married and you can say, with all honesty, that you travel through Newark every night. If your soul mate happens to snore or have Restless Leg Syndrome, you should just kill yourself now.

2) Same pussy

or worse, same cock.

Marriage is like having a television with only one channel, and it’s the Bass Fishing Network.

The single person can wake up to every morning to a different face (and different genitalia). Hell, you can find someone with both sets of genitals and really make it a Blockbuster night.

Enjoy the 1000 channels of satellite television while you can, we will just sit back and pray for a violent lure accident or Bass Fishing after dark (NSFW).

3) Fitness - When you’re married, there is no reason to even try and be fit. What was once a beautiful dance of love, turns into a Manatee wrestling match. The sex might be hotter when you are hitched, but it's mainly due to suffocation.

4) The Private Party - Let’s face it, sometimes the best party is a party of one. I know Chris Rock did a great bit on this, but there is nothing like closing the door and knowing that no one is going to walk in on you during the best part of the tranny-midget-amputee porn. It is also a real buzz kill to cut down the noose before you have adequately stained the drapes.

When you are single, you can enjoy deviance without the messy clean-up. You can actually just let the load sit there and save the ShamWow for those tough to clean hooker blood stains. Now that is freedom!

And lastly…

5) Silence is golden - Sure, silence might be maddening…but it’s not deafening. There is something to be said for some peace and fucking quiet. A lifetime of marriage is a lifetime of idle chatter.

Having a companion does have benefits, but too much of anything, including constant questions like "Did you take out the garbage?" or "Can you untie me now?" can make a person insane.

Single people, the grass is greener on the other side.

And by grass I mean vagina.

And by greener I mean full of STD's.

So go out there, have lots of sex and wear those diseases like a badge of honor! Be happy that you are not married and insane, because if I were single I would be all over that shit.

Secret Santa MacGyver <-- Best Ever!!!

I just got home from my yearly holiday in Illinois and found a rather large package waiting for me at the doorstep. Since I had been gone for many days, I was nervous that my SS had sent me something alive which I would have to dispose of and deny ever receiving. However I was delighted when I found this:

I was so excited that my SS got me a Santa of my own that I actually felt all the coupons fall out of my pocket and the conversion take place right on the spot.

I quickly plugged in the Santa and pressed play, disregarding the 30-page operations manual and CD (instructions are for pussies) Here is what happened:

Notice my cat even is transfixed with the gift at about 2 minutes in.

And then the Pièce de résistance.

After I erased the permagrin from my face, I decided to press further to see what all the additional content was.

I thumbed through the 30-page operations manual, which had hilarious instructions, a few disclaimers and many in depth diagrams and schematics. I started to think that my Santa actually put this thing together from scratch. I thought it was a joke, but then I popped in the CD to find the following video files in the dungeon of my Santa testing and explaining the inner working of my gift.

I was in shock at the level of effort put forth and opted to write this thank you note, rather than turn him in as the Unibomber.

For the SS reveal please check out ZUG and click on the title link. I don't want to give away who it was (cough, cough, Manhole & Straw)

THE JEW THAT RUINED CHRISTMAS

My first Christmas was nearly a decade ago, but it is a trip worth reliving as part of the healing process. I was still courting my then girlfriend, now wife, and was going to her house for Christmas after only two months of dating. This would be my first encounter with her family and friends, and I wanted to make a good impression.

We spent the majority of Christmas Eve eating, drinking and watching a burning Yule Log on the TV. I was used to eating Chinese food and recounting the nailing of Jesus to the cross with my fellow Zionists, so this was a nice change. I was trying my best to keep up with the family binge drinking that included eggnog, gin martinis and Busch Light using her grandmother as the pace car. I significantly underestimated the voracity with which small town folk consume alcohol, but I wanted to be accepted at any cost. I was getting very drunk, very quick. As I started to take a family poll to see if everyone thought Jesus was black, my girl stepped in to save me and took me out for a night on the town.

My wife’s home is a small town called Nelson located in northern Illinois, population: 163. Not to be confused with Nelson:

or Nelson:



...both of whom you could probably find in town, which consists of one bar next to a set of railroad tracks, appropriately named "The Railside". After a quick lesson in drunk driving I made it through the vast cornfields to the bar and stumbled in gracefully.

As soon as I entered the bar, it became clear that this was the first time anyone had seen a Jew in Nelson. The bar went from clamor to silence, as all eyes were on me. I felt like the Sheriff from Blazing Saddles strolling into town. My temulency was at a 20, and I walked up to the bar to order a round of drinks when the bartender snickered “Hey, looks like an EYEtalian just rolled into town, heh!” I couldn't help but giggle and decided to play along. I replied “due Peroni' s, per favore”. The bartender stared me down. I am certain this was the same look the SS gave my people just before escorting us to the showers. I gave a nervous laugh and corrected myself, “Two beers please.” The bartender replied, “$3, señor” and I threw down an Alexander Hamilton and told him to keep the change.

As high school friends started to pour in the bar, I was introduced around and the group quickly started to take to me. They were offering me the spoils of Nelson (Kodiak chewing tobacco and duck jerky -- yes, there is such a thing) and even took me out for a roll in the pickup truck to smoke pot in the cornfields. Who knew pickup trucks have a backseat? I was winning over the crowd, but I was belligerent.




Duck jerky.

I openly admitted Christmas was the best holiday ever and that I wished I had grown up in Nelson, IL! The bar raised their beers and got rowdy at the east coast props. In my mind, they were all chanting "Gooble Gobble we accept him!” The rest of the night, the details were hazy, but by 5:00 am we had stumbled home. I was very pleased with myself that I had made it through the night alive and was ready for some much needed shuteye.

At 7:30 am my girlfriend started to shake me frantically saying, “It’s time, it’s time, get up, get up!” I didn't know what that meant, but knew I was still drunk, high and swaying like Mohammed Ali in the 12th round. This was not going to end well.


Breakfast.

The family sat gathered around the tree with presents scattered around the living room floor. Her mother placed a hot plate of ham, eggs and venison sausage on my lap and handed me a Mimosa. My two-year-old nephew sat with the huge grin on his face and looked adorable in his Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer hooded onesie.

As I looked around at the beautiful family with all the presents, glowing tree and bountiful meal, I began to panic. I felt a rumble in my stomach and was overwhelmed with the smell of venison, egg and the constant burping of gin, eggnog, dip and Busch Light. I had a look on my face like I had something to say, and everyone watched intently as I took in my first Christmas morning. What the family didn’t know was that the look on my face was the inevitability of me ruining the holiday.

I couldn't contain myself. I projectile vomited right then and there, all over the nice carpet and the gifts on the floor in front of me. My nephew began to cry hysterically and the entire family looked as if I had killed Santa himself. Grandma sat on the couch in the back and laughed uncontrollably. I was mortified. My girlfriend started crying, and I just sat there with my head in my hands in shame as her mother ran to get paper towels and help clean up the mess. True story.


Vomiting. (As shown in the movie Stand By Me, which itself makes some people want to puke.)

Yes, I could have told the story about the Chanukah of 1989 when my father’s hairpiece fell onto the Menorah. Or the Chanukah of 86’ where my racist lush of an uncle proclaimed he was Judah Macccabee and chased the housekeeper around saying he would never bow to the will of Antiochus, but let's face it, Christmas is the cooler of the two holidays. I now look forward to my annual mecca to Nelson and the Railside tavern.

Mung Does Peru!

Mung Goes To Peru!

Stay tuned for the adventures, including:

1) The quest for the Sacred Rock

2) Hookers and Pizza

3) Keistering for dummies. The perfect hiding spot.

Satan's Little Helper

Yesterday I found hell. And much to my surprise, it wasn’t located in New Jersey. It was located at 609 Fifth Avenue, between Saks and the Shwarma King. I am referring, of course, to *American Girl (*Made in China), the place where little girls go to worship Satan and ritually stampede one another, while raping their parents pockets. The premise is similar to the Cabbage Patch Kids craze of the 80’s, except the doll looks like an actual child and the hair is made from real Taiwanese day laborers.

I decided to take my niece shopping for her 6th birthday and this was the place she wanted to go. As the doors open, I saw an army of rabid children, So, like any responsible adult, I started to toss kids left and right (kicking them while they were down) and made a B-line to the “Personal Shopper” area. The “Personal Shopper” aka.devil’s helper, on this particular day, was Robin and her eyes burned like fire from the River Styx.

Robin walked us through the entire catalogue of merchandise and after an hour of indecision, my niece picked out an idol that looked just like her (if she were a Stepford child or a Scientologist). She then proceeded to accessories the tits out of this doll with everything she could get her hands on. You can purchase everything from matching outfits, automobiles, wire hair brushes and gynecological stirrups. Sky is the limit!

There were many additional options, including tea time, group photos and a dual haircut for child and doll, but we had to take out a second mortgage on my wife’s ovaries just to clear the initial shopping spree, so we had to pass. As Robin exited back into her Hellraiser box, she came back with doll in hand and gave us the special instructions, which sounded strangely like the rules to a UFC cage match.

Rule 1: No eye gouging.
Rule 2: No hair pulling.
Rule 3: No hitting in the back of the head, or in this case…Do not cut the string behind the neck!

Apparently, if this string is severed, the head of the doll will fall off, not immediately, but over a few days.

My mind raced, and I secretly thought of all the great jokes to play on the kids wandering around store. Or better yet, if my niece was ever bad, Uncle Mung might just cut the cord and wear Mrs. Honey Bunny around his neck as punishment. But, I just reinforced the rules and she seemed to understand. Of course, her three year old brother will not adhere to such rules and will eventually kill this American (Chinese) Girl.

So as I get the credit card slip, and die a little on the inside, there is only one thing left to do… pick a name. If my manliness hadn’t already been stripped at the door, I was given the death blow when she solved the final piece of the puzzle. “I think I will call her Trixie**!”, she said.

I let out an audible gasp, bit my lip and welcomed Trixie Belle into the Mung family. Now I get to hear all the zany adventures of Trixie and my niece, from bathing together to exploring the black holes of distant galaxies. The good news is that I have pre-ordered the doorknob accessories kit for Christmas, and I am fairly confident that Trixie will be a very happy doll.

Joy!

**Inside joke alert. Trixie is gay and enjoys doorknobs up the arse.

"Plan B" - Hotel Pron

I recently stayed at the Marriott in Philadelphia and wanted to unwind from a long business conference by wreaking havoc on my body (and my hotel room). The goal was simple, spread as much DNA all over the walls, furniture and duvet covers as humanly possible. If I was successful, room 1721 would look like a CSI investigation and I would be left a broken, hobbled man. However, I made a fatal flaw in execution: I left the laptop at home! In a panic, I was forced to go to ”Plan B”….“OnDemand” hotel porn.

At first glance, I was delighted that the days of Skin-a-Max and the fast-forward-less OnDemand were a thing of the past. My biggest concern would be if these movies would show the money shot and avoid the prolonged male orgasm face (instant wood killer). Armed with a bottle of Jergens, I was ready to get the party started – cue the lights.

To reach my goal, I went all out and purchased the $39.99 “Adults unlimited package” (on the corporate Amex since my cock was on the clock). I started to select each movie, in the order they appeared, and proceeded to fast forward to the money shots, which were all pleasantly accounted for. The movies were par for the course: straight sex, amateur, older woman, blowjob, handjob, lesbian etc. Yawn! Maybe when I was 13 could these give me any movement in the pants, but years of internet desensitization have ruined any possibility of completion. I would need to see something more.

I scrolled further down the menu: Fat Girls, Dyke Lesbians, Japanese Crying Porn, Strap-on Female-Female Domination, Hairy Bush, Big Butts, Chocolate Mamas, Tiny Tits-Monster Cock’s and the always friendly Gaping Anal. Jaaackpot! It looks like this throw pillow is about to get its fair share of throat yogurt!

Three hot, steamy loads later, I was happy with the progress I had made on room destruction. The curtains were dripping, the ottoman looked like a scene from Caligula and the throw pillow was ready to be incinerated. However, I had exhausted almost every title on the list.

Tucked away at the very bottom, as if no one ever makes it to the end of the list, lay a hidden gem. The selection stood before me like a big red button you always want to push, but were afraid, “Ugly Girls Need Loving Too”. What? Ugly Girls? No fucking way!

I pressed play, nervous and excited. There it she was in all her glory. She was an octogenarian with a mug that looked like Eric Stoltz from MASK . She was sporting nice, thick grandma panties, which she removed to show her pierced labia. Each vaginal lip had what looked like a fishing weight on each side to create the longest beef drapes these eyes have ever seen.

There were three boys waiting to pleasure this Golem, each looked 15 years old and of the same gene pool as granny; however, they looked like C.H.U.D.S.. One of cannibals went down on her, to which I let out an audible gasp. The bile crawled up my throat and distracted me from further details. At least two girls, one cup had some hot chicks eating each other’s feces; this was just gross. Ugly granny incest porn is not what I signed up for! (I canceled my subscription to that site at least three months ago).

The two remaining troglodytes start drilling her toothless mouth. She starts speaking German (although I guess any time you have two cocks in your mouth you probably sound like your speaking German). I was disgusted with myself. And more to the point, I was disgusted with the Marriott.

I couldn’t go on any further with this experiment. I had been beaten by the ghastly granny and never got off a forth shot. I wrote a comment card to Marriott to explain my displeasure in ruining what should have been a beautiful evening. The text read as follows:

“You fucking people have some nerve. I like my porn like I like my coffee...amputated with two midgets tickling my stump. Ugly Girl's Gone Wild did not live up to its name. How dare you pass off granny incest porn as ugly chick porn. I am glad I came all over your heavenly bed. Please credit me for the adults unlimited.”

So here is the moral of the story for those traveling and planning to engage the auto erotic asphyxiation behavior. Hotel porn still has a long way to go before you leave the laptop home. Conspicuously absent were the fisting, scatting, impossible penetrations and midget-amputee porn we have all come to rely on to get off. But, nonetheless, if ugly, incest, granny porn are what get you off, then OnDemand will be a fine “Plan B” for your next hotel visit.

Love at first sight?

Originally referenced on GAB, This was a Missed Encounter I posted on CL.

Below is the reprint or here for the original:

I was thinking about you at Subway today - m4w - 29 (Midtown West)

Dear Hot Blond Chick With The Nice Rack,

I saw you at "Subway" this afternoon ("Eat Fresh", not the shit hole underground) on 35th and 7th. As you sat there ordering the 6’ inch Tuna with all the veggies, I couldn't help think what life would be like with you.

As I stood next to you (Me with the popped collared, white, Lacoste shirt: You with the Louie Vuitton purse and scoop neck Red top) I wondered what our relationship would be like. I imagine it would go something like this…

Our first few dates would be bliss! We would venture around the city, chuckle at the homeless and bask in the olfactory goodness that emanates from the hot garbage on the pavement. Hell, we might even stop back at Subway to rekindle the spark, we obviously work close to one another.

As years passed eventually we would marry and you would pop out twins. The family fights at Passover would be unbearable and our friends would hate us collectively. Your aging face and body would start to droop and you would no longer look like that bang-able girl I once met online at the sandwich repository. Your hormones would rage and eventually we would divorce bitterly, as you publicize every heinous secret of our relationship and take me for every dollar and cent.

I would sit in isolation in my apartment for a while as the filth piled and I stewed in anger. Thinking about my aberration for you would lead me towards a hired gun to end your misery and end this nightmare of a relationship.
After a short standoff with the police, I would get hauled off to prison and spend my remaining years being brutalized by inmates thinking about how I wish I never craved that fucking 6 inch sub low those many years ago.

So, as I walked away from you today, with my sandwich in hand as you were bird pecking away at your Tuna, I hope you weren’t taken aback when I muttered “fucking cunt” under my breath. I will not be shit on by anyone (unless of course, I have paid good money and she stands on a fine German table).

If you want to grab a bite to eat some time to talk about the past and try to bury the hatchet, you’ll know where to find me. We once had something special and we should try to get that back if possible.

Hope to see you tomorrow!

M.C. "

WII F-A-T

I decided to take a break from the police killing, carjacking and prostitute fucking of Grand Theft Auto (and my everyday life) to look into the healthier, less murderous, Wii Fitness. My wife had pre-ordered the game to try and add some movement into my day to day catatonia and I figured I would humor her.

I opened the box yesterday, setup the balance board, and placed myself delicately on the scale. The Wii asked for my height, weight etc.. and after a few moments of calculating, the Wii said I was obese. I was delighted! All had gone according to plan. And as I looked down at my cock sitting atop the scale I realized that I have an abnormally out of shape member.

My wife walked in from work and gasped at the site of me on my knees working the balance board and demanded I stand up. I was shocked to learn this game was not just about phallic weighing. As a man, the first thing to do with any purchased object is to 1) throw out the instructions b) Put your penis into, onto or around said object.

So, after some confusion and a thirty minute tutorial from my wife, I actually stood on the scale and put in real body measurements to see what would happen (not nearly as fun as the original plan). The Wii started calculating and then became judge, jury and executioner. I am overweight!

My world was shattered, bitch tits and all, and I feel like every little porker that stepped on the scale and came off with an eating disorder. I ran into the kitchen for some comfort ice-cream and resumed murdering and raping. I also continued to play Grand Theft Auto IV and flipped my wife the bird for ruining my evening.

Side Effects May Include...

"Originally posted on GAB"

In an effort to save the three hairs left on my head I have been taking Propecia for almost two years. And while the three hairs are still perfectly combed over (ala Homer J Simpson), and the coat of hair on my neck, back and body are thicker than ever, I still have to deal with the daily side effects of the drug.

Now I know that many of you have seen the commercials for prescription drugs. You know, the ones that read like side effects for Chernobyl fallout victims? But I really didn't give a quality read of the bottle when I signed up for this drug.

Here are the "potential side effects" listed on the bottle

1) Decreased libido
2) Decreased volume of ejaculate
3) Impotence
4) Breast tenderness or enlargement

The ironic thing here is that I am and have been taking this drug to make me feel like more of a man and less like an eagle.

So there you have it! I am a product of my drugs and if I cared enough to be sexual, I guess I would just shoot a thin load all over my tender, meaty man boobs from my unerect penis.

But thanks Propecia for allowing me to keep my hair, it covers my five-head well! I am sure all the ladies will line up to be non pleasured. Maybe we can just rub breasts and be friends?

I put this out there for any of you who may be delving in the prescription world to share your side effects and pain.

The Search for a Happy Ending!

Featured article on ZUG. The first of a three part adventure

Part IV: A New Hope

After much curiosity and excitement, I wanted to see what the Asian Massage Parlor (AMP) scene was like here in NYC. So I kissed my wife, had her sign a permission slip, and took this experiment to the street to see what the lore and legend of the Happy Ending service is all about. I have cataloged my experience, similar to the Dateline investigations with Chris Hanson, except I come armed with $150, a photographic memory, and a childish giggle. My quest is for the holy grail: A Happy Ending!

There are many Asian Massage Parlors in New York, which run the gamut in terms of service and experience; the Rub-N-Tug, Mouthful of the Orient, or the Eliot Spitzer (with and without socks), to name a few. But, for the purposes of this experiment (and to maintain my marriage), I headed to a place known for specializing in the legitimate Kung Fu-Grip (Rub-N-Tug), which I prefer not to mention in an effort to maintain the integrity of this hidden gem (cough, cough, cough, West Garden Spa).

My journey begins at the doorway of a building. Double-frosted glass doors, dragon sign and an unmarked buzzer. I am buzzed into what appears to be a legitimate spa, with the fragrant smell of lavender and broken dreams. As I approach the front desk, I am greeted by the Mamasan, who immediately looks like she knows me and quickly calls out, “Nannnnaaaa”. My confusion begins, as I look all around, not sure if this is a typical Korean greeting and if I am supposed to reply to her.

My initial thought is to scream back “Haaaannnd Jooooobbb?”, but tact and a little bit of patience quickly clear up the miscommunication. As luck would have it, the answer comes quickly in the form of a short skirted, tube topped Korean who appears almost out of thin air. I start to see that the mythology and lore of these places, which must be based on the fact that Asian possess magical powers.

The Mamasan smiles and says to the woman “This A numba one customer, you take care of he. A#1, A1! She take gooood care of you.” Now I realize they have me confused with every other young, white, business guy coming into this establishment after work, but I take this as a good sign, since repeat customers usually get the royal treatment, as far as I know. And, at the very least, I know I am getting treatment befitting of the steak sauce which bears the same name. I fucking love A-1!

I hand mamma the $100 and the masseuse grabs my hand and walks me down a long hallway, saying, “It been so long, I miss you, Nana Miss you. Why you no come long time.” I mentally freeze up. Not because of the situation, or the fact that she is speaking broken English, but more importantly that this woman shares the same name as my 97 year old grandma in Boca Raton (instant wood killer). This is going to be a very awkward exchange if she continually addresses herself in the third person and as my grandmother, but I shake it off and follow her into the locker room.

She sits me down and asks me, “Shower”? I realize this broken English exchange is going to be the norm for the session, so try and follow along, but I have to pretend like I have done this before, else I may jeopardize the ending. She hands me a towel and walks out of the locker room. Instinct tells me to get naked, as a regular would be confident and comfortable to be out there and loving it, so I figured let’s see how this plays out. I drop trou, hang up my clothes and dangle my manliness for all to see.

She comes back to the room and to her shock she mutters something in Korean. Now I am not sure what the word for bigfoot or hairy beast is in Korean, but I don’t need an interpreter to know when she is talking about my hairy bitch tits. Still, she had a big kimchi-eating grin on her face, gave me the friendly wax on wax off of my man boobs (tweaked them a little), giggled to herself and playfully grabbed my hand to escort me to the shower room.

I should take a moment to caveat the body hair. I have tassels around the nips, and a happy trail that could launch an invasion on Mordor. King Kong ain’t got shit on me! But I digress. It was time to begin the journey…

Stay tuned for Part V: Nana Strikes Back.

The Search for a Happy Ending Part 2

Featured article on ZUG

Part V: Nana Strikes Back

I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My quest was to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In the first part of my report, I was led to a "shower room" by a Korean woman named Nana, who asked me to take off all my clothes.

Now naked, I walk into the shower room, but oddly enough there isn’t a shower at all! I see a padded table with a drain on the floor and a water hose which empties into a large bucket. The Jew inside me is telling me to run. Jews, shower, Nana, this is getting to be too much! I know how this story ended in 1945, but if I can just get past the insecurity embedded into my Shylock people, I might be able to join the Happy Ending Club.

I get back to thinking rationally, and by rationally I mean wondering in which orifice that hose will end up. A quick grab of my towel, some giggling, and she tells me “face-a down”, which I gladly oblige as I lay down on the bed. Nana pulls a loofah out of the pail and starts to suds me up from neck to feet. She makes it a point to spend extra time cleaning my jellyring, for which I am appreciative, but apprehensive. Then I heard the sweet sound I was waiting for: “Turnna Ovveerrr.”

I got a little excited here, partly because I didn’t know what to expect, and partly because someone who couldn’t string together a sentence was inches away from my pee-pee. She started at the chest, and the suds were immediately soaked up into the forest, to which she giggled and I let out a girly “tee-hee.” Then she got lower, avoiding the obvious glaring member, limp but impressive, staring her right in the face. She navigated up through the thick vegetation from my leg hair to my inner thigh.

Then, without hesitation: Jackpot! Nana gets to work cleaning the money spot, giggling and repeating the ever-important conversation which would be a staple of the rest of the afternoon: “Ohhhhhhh Nana like, ooooooohhh Nana like, iss soo nice, Nana liike.” Although in my head, I am thinking of my own grandmother, who was also called Nana, I realize this particular Nana enjoys cleaning my wang, and is taking to it as if polishing a Jaguar for the Javitz Center Auto Show. I remember fondly when I was young, Nana yelling at me for diving off the two-foot deep rail at the Century Village community pool. I think I will replace that memory with this Nana hobbing my nob.

If I weren’t so nervous, I probably could have had a happy ending right then and there, but cooler heads prevailed and she sprinkled me with some water and rinsed me off, figuring, even if we part company now this was pretty sweet. She towels me down, robes me up, grabs my hand and takes me back down the hall further to one of the massage rooms.

Stay tuned for Part VI: The Return of Mung.

The Search for a Happy Ending Part 3

Featured article on Zug.

"Finding Hap-penis"

Part VI: The Return of Mung

I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My mission: to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In Part 1 and Part 2 of my report, I was lathered up and hosed down by a Korean masseuse named Nana.

Now the lights are low and I am told to get on the table, face down, into an open ended pillow. And by told I mean pointed to the table with an utterance that sounded like, “Berry down.” Religious, church-like music is playing in the background, which I find odd. Not because I am Jewish and naked, but rather because I might actually see Jesus if this thing ends up the way the legend goes.

She whispers into my ear, “So you lika strong o media.” I say “softa.” I think by this time I am actually starting to get the hang of this Engrish and can probably get by with making shit up. She giggles uncontrollably and starts talking as if there are others in the room. “He saya softa, ahahahah, softa you no likey harda. He so silly. OK Nana go real softaaa.” I was partly waiting for her to say “My precious, nasty Hobbits wants to take my precious,” but luckily the third person rhetoric was only for a few seconds.

As I sit blindly staring at through the open pillow of the massage table, I feel a strange feeling by my feet. Nana lifts each leg and puts wooden blocks to prop each foot up and open. Oh boy, this went from a WW2 shower scene to a Kathy Bates Misery scene real quick. I am truly exposed, and if Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out and punk me, the least he can do is give me a reacharound from this position.

These thoughts fade. She uses light fingertips all over my body, starting at the neck, gently running down my back. I had pictured exotic oils, but my guess is with my amount of body hair, I would require 6-7 bottles per minute with the absorption factored in. So I was not at all surprised this session was dry ... for now.

She continues down my body, lightly to the top of my crack and then “whooooaaaa.” What the fuck? Did she just graze my ass? Oh wait she’s there! I perk up in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anything in the furpatch, and to tell you the truth, the trouble with my Tribble was the Barbacoa black bean burrito from Chipotle one hour prior. A new wave of panic hits me! As assplay ensues, all I can think about is how I asked for extra cheese and guac on the burrito bowl and that Nana may get 2-girl, 1-cupped if she proceeds any further with her grazing.

She senses my unease (or maybe it was the rumbling from my sphincter), and continues all around, but I can see these blocks leave me completely open and vulnerable to assault. Light tapping and her constant whisper set the mood and she uses her long jet black hair to tickle my body forest. ”Oooooohhhhooooohh” is repeated with upward and downward inflection for the next 20 minutes as I am relaxed with feather touches and the music continues its hymn-like trance. Then, those magical words, the ones I had been waiting for, but now fill me with anxiety, excitement and gas: “Turnna Ovvvvvaaa.”

I turn over. I realize to this point I hadn’t even looked at Nana, partly because I didn’t have my glasses, but more so because I am blind without my glasses and my astigmatism makes the room seem more like the moonwalk than a massage parlor. Nana looked about 30 years old in the dim lit room, long black hair, petite frame, clothes were all on and I then I realized I could do much better than her. So I stopped looking directly into the sun and focused my eyes on the ceiling. I tried to picture something hotter, like Molly Ray Cyrus ... I mean, uh, Elizabeth Hurley, yeah, Hurley. That covers hot, international and age appropriate.

As Nana “Ohhh’s,” she lightly glides her nails down and she starts the chant “Nana like, ooooohhh, Nana like.” I hear a familiar sound, and recognize it as lube hitting the hands (a sound I am all too familiar with) as she wastes no time and goes right for the pole standing before her. After all this, I can’t look at her. Thoughts of my wife, Jesus music, my 97 year old grandma, Chipotle and Molly Ray are running through my head like wild. I have arrived at the end of this journey that started 55 minutes earlier, and I am doubting if I can go through. I am sweating, thinking of work, life, Hitler, anything but the moment. If I weren’t a man, I swear I wouldn’t be able to finish here.

After what seems like an eternity, but is actually 45 seconds later, I let out a pathetic girly moan and release a volcano of molten hot white magma all over my hairy chest. Nana laughs, leaves, gets me a hot towel to mop up the mess, and I am left empty, in both the wallet and the pants. The Death Star has been destroyed, the Emperor is no longer, and Ewoks rejoice far away on the planet Endor.

I have found the Happy Ending!

Jammy's 2008 Pics

As I spend the rest of the day trying to even out my Serotonin level, please enjoy the one mega pixel quality that only a camera phone can deliver from last night's show at MSG from the floor.

(Originally posted on GAB)

Before all the anti-hippie rhetoric starts, let me share some excitement with those who enjoy the occasional Ramen Noodle and Green Vegetation.

Last night was the Jammy Awards at Madison Square Garden, honoring the lifetime achievement of Phish and brought together some of the sickest bands in the Jam Band scene.

Phish has been broken up since 2004, but we all hoped and prayed they would get together again and break out some crunchy riffs (not to be confused with Crunchy Tacos…mmm Crunchy Tacos!).

All four band members were in attendance and played with separate bands throughout the evening (except Gordon who came down with a horrible case of Vaginitis). However, the four came together to accept the lifetime achievement award and sent chills down our poorly postured spines, as each approached the podium to thank the fans and everyone involved in their success.

Trey had an ankle bracelet neatly tucked beneath his Khakis and had his Parole Officer was within eyesight. Page looked exactly the same thanks to Propecia. Fishman sported pants for the first time ever. And Mike looked as shaggy as ever.

After the four accepted the award, they left the stage and the fans waited for a reunion show that would never happen.

However, as an bonus to the night, members of The Disco Biscuits and Umphrey McGhee teamed up to finish the night with some a set of Phish covers, including: Wilson-->Run like an Antelope-->2001-->Maze.

What does this have to do with comedy? cuddle off, it’s the greatest live Improvisational band ever to hit the stage and they deserve some love.

Cue the Hippie beating in 3 – 2 – 1.