Friday, July 31, 2009
It's Friday advice day, so let's get started!
Dear RJ’S D—
My buddy Phil thinks all orgasms are the same, but I keep telling him there are different kinds. So I thought I’d turn to the master.
C. Feldman, Winnetka, IL
You can tell your buddy Phil he couldn’t be more misinformed. Ron, through me, has experienced about 700 different types of orgasms, including one that’s illegal in Brazil, and one that can only be measured by a Geiger counter. But in the interest of saving blog space, I’ll mention three specific kinds. (1) The Pressure Cooker. Most of you guys have probably experienced this one. Through sheer will power, you delay the orgasm as long as you can, so by the time it’s ready to shoot, the force is extremely powerful. If you’re masturbating, you can hit the ceiling. If you’re being blown, you can make a tiny dent in the back of her throat, and if you’re fucking, your sperm can blow past the eggs and stick to her ribs. (2) The Broken Sprinkler. This is a disappointing one: before you even start to feel those fantastic contractions, a shower of semen with a very thin consistency just starts pouring out. All of the fluid with none of the fun. (3) The Bloop Gasm. Possbily the worst kind of orgasm a man can experience. It typically only occurs during masturbation. You’re working on yourself for a long time; the payoff is ZERO contractions, and a tiny mushroom cloud of semen that bubbles up to the surface as though the other sperm decided not to come and elected a few guys to come out.
Dear RJ’s D,
I’m about to break up with my girlfriend because she’s a die-hard vegetarian and it really limits our dining experiences and ability to share food. Any advice on how to do this without hurting her feelings?
J. Fedorko, Boston MA
Just tell her, “It’s not you, it’s meat.”
Have a great weekend everyone! And check out my movie "One-Eyed Monster" tonight on TMC!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
My mind wanders like anyone else's during uninspired sex, so today I begin a series wherein I pose questions that have occurred to me while fully engorged, but disengaged.
#1 Why Does Obama Smoke Cigarettes?
Rather, why does he still smoke? If there is literally anyone in the world who has the responsibility--the moral obligation, even--to quit smoking, it's that guy. Yeah, yeah, he's trying to quit. So are millions of people. But Obama's not one of millions; he's one in millions. He's the fucking President! And if that's not reason enough, these days he's trying to convince America that a substantial part of health care reform is prevention and wellness, which will save us a shitload of money down the road. I couldn't agree more, and so I do 100 dick-ups every day before RJ even wakes up (which I accomplish by thinking alternately about Jaclyn Smith and Tyne Daly).
As a role model to disenfranchised black kids, he is phenomenal, having taught them--and us all--by example that with hard work and commitment, any American can become President. From that statement, we infer that to become President means to reach the absolute height of achievement--although I can make the case that the height of achievement is getting blown by the cast of Saved By the Bell (and I mean all of them). But as they say, with power comes responsibility, and if the man with the most stressful job in the world can quit smoking, then anyone can. So, Mr. President, show us your balls. You can orate better than anyone. You have vision, intelligence and conscience. A little will-power would do more for health care than all the concessions you've been offering those Blue Bitch Democrats and the Republican Potty. Don't be a jive turkey--quit cold turkey. Today.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I beg your pardon for the interruption in my normal blog-havior, but in either a moment of extreme paranoia, self-doubt, or simple curiosity, I find myself driven to ask this question:
IS ANYBODY READING THIS?
I know for a fact that at least three people read my blog regularly. One, of course, is Ron who says he frequently learns new things about me. That makes sense, since when we spend time together, I’m usually in a pussy, a mouth, an ass, or his hand. And in those cases, respectively, he knows that I’m thinking: “more lube please”, “please god no teeth”, “thank god she wipes”, and “just like the old days!”
There’s a sweet woman named Penney—a diehard Taylor Hicks fan--who often posts comments to my blogs, so I know she’s reading.
And then there’s my agent, Sid who—despite being 97 and in a coma—gets the blog read to him every morning by his nurse, Frieda, who tells me that Sid never responds to my words, but that she frequently masturbates to them.
And that’s it!
Or at least—that’s all that I know about. And so dear readers (if there are, in fact, any), I am putting out a simple request. Let me know that you’re there. That you read me. That you care. You can do this in three ways. You can reply to this posting. You can write me directly at: firstname.lastname@example.org, or you can send me a tweet if you’re on Twitter (@ronsmonster).
For decades, I’ve had thousands of women show me love. And it’s not like I have any plans to quit my day job. But after years of sharing my seed, I must say I’ve come to love sharing my thoughts.
So in the immortal words of Pink Floyd:
Hello, hello, hello…is there anybody out there?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sorry about missing the last few days. I'm still recovering from the San Diego Comic-Con. I went down there to promote a new comic book that's being published by Dark Hung-Like-A-Horse Comics--COCKMAN! It's about a famously endowed porn star who battles sexual dysfunctions, hang-ups and bad technique in Valleyopolis. A host of arch criminals--Viagron, Dry Pussy, Early Worm and Harry Ass--force the reluctant COCKMAN into service, his only weapon 9 and 3/4" of fighting magic!
Anyway, Ron and I did a Q&A panel to a room packed with over 2000 people. It was really fun, and the best news is that Sony later approached the publisher (and us) about a movie adaptation! Apparently Stacey Snider, who runs the studio, loves giant cocks and will personally shepherd this project through development. Stacey threw out some casting ideas--Jackie Earle Haley as Early Worm, Richard Moll as Viagron and possibly Sally Field as Dry Pussy.
I know I've got a lot on my plate, folks--training to hit a major league fastball, running for Congress and now this, but I think I can stay hard for all these adventures. For I....am....COCKMAN!*
*COCKMAN and all COCKMAN-related properties ® Sony Pictures Entertainment. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I got some great news yesterday! Rieber Hall Home Entertainment has decided to put out a DVD compilation of my television guest appearances, from 1970 to 2000. The working title, “30 Cock: Thirty Years of Ron Jeremy’s Dick on TV”, will feature my cameos in over 15 different series throughout the years, and I’ll of course do commentary and a live interview. I’ve known about this for sometime, but I didn’t think it would actually happen. That’s because every one of the shows I filmed never actually aired on TV, though they still appear in the respective episode guides of each series. Also, Rieber Hall is a fairly new company, whose only claim to fame thus far is “Lewis Rukeyser’s Wallstreet Week: The Complete Series.”
Among the highlights of my boxed set:
“The Brady Bunch” (1971)
Episode #244 “Meet George Glass”
After months of believing him to be imaginary, Mike and Carol are shocked to learn that not only does Jan’s boyfriend, George Glass, exist—but he has an enormous cock (my first TV appearance.) Marcia’s jealousy prompts her to find her own well-endowed boyfriend, but when he stands her up for the school dance, she is forced to bring her brother, Greg, whose penis is a disappointing 5 inches.
Episode #1151B “RIP, PP”
In order to save a wounded soldier, Hawkeye must amputate his gangrenous penis, and then decides to hold a mock funeral for the disembodied member. When Frank and Houlihan protest the ceremony, Hawkeye plays a practical joke, switching the penis with one of Houlihan’s dildos. Note: In the original script for this episode, both Frank and Houlihan die from gangrenous orifices. Eventually, that script and the filmed episode were thrown out, but I was lauded by the show’s producers for my realistic portrayal of a dead dick.
“Punky Brewster” (1984)
Episode #621 “Merry Xmas, Punky”
Punky’s life is forever altered by the sudden appearance of her long-lost uncle, Stuart, who teaches her the true meaning of Christmas. This is the only show in the collection where I got to play a character other than myself. Unfortunately, the network was horrified by the scene where I’m disguised as a shopping mall Santa and Punky sits on my lap. The visual alone was enough for them to shelve the episode, but they were further disturbed by Punky’s line: “I didn’t know what I wanted for Christmas until the moment I sat down here, Santa!”
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm sorry, but you're lying if you haven't wondered how big Obama's dick is. I won't even hide behind "professional curiosity" as an excuse. He's my President, which alone makes his dick a matter of interest (and it's rather amazing that in all the coverage of Clinton's dick's comings and goings, there was no mention of its size, even from people "who prefer to remain anonymous when discussing the President's cock"). And then when you consider the fact that he's half black...let's just say the odds in Vegas go up that we're not talking about talking about a Jimmy Carter peanut. Dubya had a big dick, but only on his ticket. Nixon was known as Tricky Dick, prompting theories as to what other gates he may have broken into. Before him, well, the guy's name was, after all, Johnson. It's safe to assume he had a stretch of Texas pipe. Kennedy didn't have to have a big dick; he was young, good-looking, charismatic and the most powerful man in the world. If he did have one, then perhaps his death was some kind of cosmic payback for being just too fucking cool.
I haven't given much thought to earlier Presidents. I won't infer anything about the size of their cocks from the names Filmore and Pierce, but I do suspect William Henry Harrison's nickname had less to do with the Battle of Tippecanoe than his dong.
Obama, though. Take a look at the above picture. Halway down his left thigh, there is a discernible bulge. I kinda doubt he was carrying keys or a phone. No, my friends, I think what we're seeing here from our post-racial, post-partisan President is, in fact, his post. In ice cream parlors, it would be called "Michelle's Delight." In Chicago it's known as Oak Street. In Hawaii it's called The Big Island. And in Africa, of course, it's called, simply, a penis. God bless America, yes. But God clearly blessed Barack Obama, and if in him our country's black citizens see a personal hero whose achievement represents the promise of America and the triumph of the civil rights movement, then I see in his dick the 21st century's first true executive branch.
Monday, July 20, 2009
My movie, “One-Eyed Monster” premiered on The Movie Channel last Saturday night. So today I beg your indulgence and hope you’ll allow me to blog rhapsodic. By all accounts, it was a big success—certainly if the Twitterverse has anything to say about it. The tweets were free and flowing after the movie screened, all extremely complimentary. The lovefest extended to the IMDB boards, where one viewer, screen-named LANDGABRIEL, wrote:
I am not sure where to pick up this gem, but if you can find it check it out. It has some great moments. It drags a little in some parts but the zaniness of it all more than makes up for it. Jason Graham plays a great deadpan bad-ass military type. Charles Napier of A-Team fame has an awesome grizzled vet monologue that he aces. Ron Jeremy, well it's Ron Jeremy for the first act then his one eyed monster takes over! Trust me, it is a highly entertaining film.
This was answered by a posting from a screen-name, RRPOSTAL, who wrote the following:
Ugh, I couldn't agree less. The only thing worse than pr0n (sic) stars trying to make a real movie is when they try to make a real horror/ comedy. This type of movie is pretty hard to make in the first place in my opinion. There are few that find the right balance. Honestly porn stars are really only in movies for one reason, and humor isn't it. Unless of course you think it's funny to hear Ron Jeremy say "I'm not wearing a sweater". Ha! get it?!? He's hairy! What a corker! Or how about this winner, "Everybody! there's a dick in Angel's mouth!" [no reaction] "yeah?"..."it's not attached to anyone!" What a hoot! Picture Ron Jeremy's life if he had a normal wiener. That's how sad this flick is.
You might wonder why I’m posting such a negative review. Simple. As Voltaire is thought to have said, I may not agree with what you say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. This is America. And RRPOSTAL, an obvious premature ejaculator, has the right to criticize my movie. I whole-heartedly respect his total lack of a sense of humor. It’s extremely important not to disenfranchise the mentally challenged—they have just as much right to post to the IMDB as those whose IQ’s at least register on some sort of scale. As a patriot, I feel proud to allow this probably-46-year-old-man-who-still-lives-with-his-mother to air his grievances and perpetuate the onslaught of bitter opinions from people who are so desperate to be heard and finally have their forum through the internet which provides them with the anonymity they need lest we discover how truly lonely they are.
RRPOSTAL—I love you. You are my brother, my friend, my fellow American, and someone I hope to always, always never know personally.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you Ron Jeremy’s dick can’t take criticism!
Friday, July 17, 2009
Dear Ron Jeremy's Dick,
I'm a 27 year old man who has a thing for older women. My current girlfriend is 91. She gives killer blowjobs, but intercourse is always so tentative, due to the fragility of her bones. Any tips?
Just fuck in positions that don't force her to bear your weight. Take her from behind (make sure she's holding on to a walker or the bars on either side of the toilet) or have her mount you. If you do it right, it's not her bones you have to worry about; it's her heart. They like it when you blow your load quickly, so give her your own early bird special. If you pull out and cum on her, make sure it doesn't get in her eyes, as her cataracts make her vision cloudy enough. I hope that helps, and I'm sorry for your loss soon.
Dear Ron Jeremy's Dick,
If functions f and g are such that f(x) = g(x) + k where k is a constant, then does f '(x) = g '(x) + k or does f '(x) = g '(x)?
Let's see, I'd say f '(x) = g '(x), because the derivative of a sum of two functions is equal to the sum of the derivatives of the two functions and also the derivative of constant is equal to zero.
Did you watch the moon landing?
I once got sucked off by an opera star while she was humming an aria--trust me, you don't know pleasure until you're stroked by a larynx. Oh, but you asked about the moon landing. Yes, I watched it.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
No doubt by now you’ve all seen the new footage of Michael Jackson that’s been hurling through web at warp speed. It was shot during rehearsals for his infamous 1984 Pepsi commercial, when his hair caught on fire.
I have to admit—watching the video today really affected me.
That’s because of a similar fate which befell me in 2002. I was filming a McDonalds commercial in New York that summer. The restaurant was introducing their new McSperm Shake and I was hired to promote it. I can’t remember the ad copy exactly, but it had something to do with me exploding with joy all over it.
Anyway, during the dance sequence, a light—and I mean a 40 pound light—fell on top of me.
At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But then I started singing the theme from “Rhoda” and asking everyone if they knew where my turtle was. I was rushed to the hospital and Ron was flown in to New York (we were separate that weekend.)
When the chief resident first took a look at me, he was convinced I had two massive hematomas and wouldn’t make it through the night. Of course, those turned out to be my balls. But for a mild concussion, I was going to be okay.
Ron, though--he was scared. He sat up with me that whole first night, talking to me so I wouldn’t fall asleep and bleed internally. This is going to sound weird, but it was one of the best nights of my life. For the first time in a very long time, Ron and I talked. I mean really talked. He told me all about his fears (dying, Hostess going out of business) and I told him mine (reenacting that scene in the car from “Garp”).
Then Ron said four words that I’d never heard him utter besides “I think I’m full.”
He said, “I love you, man.” And I said it right back.
Beautiful, huh? Unfortunately, Ron wasn't content to leave with that kind of vulnerability in the ethos. The next words out of his mouth were: “Now hurry up and get better. I ran into Portia De Rossi in the elevator and I’m pretty sure I can fuck the dyke right out of her.”
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Last Friday Paris Hilton appeared in a Miami federal court as the defendant in an $8.3M lawsuit brought by the producers of her movie "Pledge This!" She's charged with violating her contract by refusing to help promote the 2006 film, which is about a bunch of sorority girls who fuck cans of Lemon Pledge. If you ask me, I think this whole lawsuit is a last-ditch effort to get publicity for the movie, now on DVD. I haven't seen the film, but I'd bet three of my own inches it's a piece of shit. Not that the quality of the movie affects her contractual obligations. She defended herself on the stand and said, ""If I have my name attached to something, I want it to be as big as it can be." I believe her, and I have a picture of her signing my shaft to prove it.
No such suit will ever be brought against me for "One-Eyed Monster." I have worked my balls off promoting that movie. I did over 300 drive-time "phoners" via a Clear Channel satellite junket, 80 online magazine interviews and presented an award for biggest cock-tease at the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards (it went to the Jonas Brothers, for whom I provided my own personal slime). I did Regis and Kelly (well, I talked to Regis, but I did Kelly), and I went on The View (boy, that was a disaster--they wanted to see me fully extended, but sitting next to Joy Behar I could not get a boner to save my life). Promoting a movie is simply part of a star's job, and I met my obligations with enthusiasm and professionalism. Paris lives for publicity, so the fact that she didn't help promote "Pledge This!" is all the more ridiculous. What a nice reflection on her.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
I get a lot of email asking if I own a copy of Ron’s film, “Pupik”, the controversial 1989 porno based (loosely) on the tragic events of the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich.
Why controversial? Where do I begin? Putting aside the racist undertones (the terrorist group in the film is called “Black Vagina”) and the crude references to a serious event, audiences were outraged by the film’s opening scene in which Prime Minister Golda Meir (played by Ginger Lynn) meets the new Mossad recruit (Jeremy).
Well, the answer is no: I don’t own a copy, and neither does Ron. As far as I know, there are only two in existence, and one of them is owned by Francis Ford Coppola, who acquired the film under the terms of a settlement after suing “Pupik”’s director for his previous effort, “Fucker: The Man and His Cream.”
Six years ago, however, I found a rare copy of the shooting script on Ebay. I can at least, then, reprint the opening scene of the film. Enjoy!
RON JEREMY is brought by members of the Israeli army into a small living room of a house. Everyone appears restless as they wait, until GOLDA MEIR enters the room. They all stand up in deference.
GOLDA MEIR: I knew your father, Mr. Jeremy. He was a good man. A brave man.
RON: Thank you, Prime Minster.
GOLDA MEIR: We have a situation.
RON: Yes, Prime Minister
GOLDA MEIR: A group calling themselves “Black Vagina” have given a scorching case of herpes to the entire Israel Olympic delegation. They will be unable to compete now.
RON: What is it you seek from me?
GOLDA MEIR: I want you to fuck the people who fucked us. Every civilization finds it necessary to negotiate compromises with its own values. I have made a decision. The responsibility is entirely mine.
RON: With all due respect, Prime Minister, I don’t have herpes.
GOLDA MEIR: But I’m told you have a killer cock, is that right young man?
RON: Yes, that is right.
GOLDA MEIR: Show it to me.
RON takes out his cock and even the Israeli army members, who’ve seen just about everything, are shocked with awe.
GOLDA MEIR: I may be too old to run this country much longer, but not too old to suck that beautiful Kosher footlong.
GOLDA gets on her knees, takes out her tits, and engulfs Ron’s cock in her mouth.
RON: Hatikva-va voom!!!!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Much has been made of late about the sudden resignation of Sarah Palin from her office as governor of Alaska. Honestly, I don't see what all the fuss is about. She was just following the instincts of a porn star. I've been hanging from the most famous one in the world my whole life, and I know a porn star when I see one.
For one thing, she's got some big balls on her. I don't know what Todd's got between his legs, but they couldn't possibly compare to the stones that made this broad think she could win over feminist voters on the sheer coincidence of her vagina.
Her talent in the blowjob department must be Alaskan legend, because how else can you explain getting plucked from obscurity to join the McCain ticket? Then again have you seen Cindy McCain? She looks only slightly less interested in sucking off a dead monkey than John McCain.
Palin's porn character is pretty much stock--she's been playing the dumb gardener/pizza delivery/pool guy. The one who's acting the part of the regular guy--who's just like us, except schooled in the history of head, advanced penetration and cum 101. Only in hardcore movies and Republican fantasies do working people get to transcend their class, fucking the horny, rich women who own the pools and gardens. Palin was effective at creating this illusion with her folksy phrases and hockey mom persona, the wilderness girl off to restore moral authority to the White House if not the nation.
But what truly distinguishes Palin as a singular student of adult film--and the inspiration for today's blog-- is her undeniable ability to pull out at the right time. Sorry if I'm stating the obvious, but guys pull out just before they blow their load because it's important to see the ejaculation, preferably all over someone's face. And that's what's happening now. Sarah Palin pulled out and has unloaded on our national face a Yukon River of spooge. She's been fucking us for almost a year now, and her control has been nothing short of miraculous. But now it's over.
Or is it? We've sucked her and been fucked by her. Pornos are nothing if not predictable, so if my calculations are correct, she's due to give it to us in the ass. 2012 isn't that far away.
Friday, July 10, 2009
It’s Friday Mail Day! About a third of the letters I receive are from folks asking for advice. I usually respond privately, but I thought this one warranted wider exposure. Have a great weekend everyone.
Dear Ron Jeremy’s Dick,
Ever since I was 12 and accidentally saw my sister performing songs from “The Little Mermaid” in her underwear, I have been a premature ejaculator. I’m 32 now and it’s still affecting my relationships. I have what’s known as PE-Extreme. Two nights ago, my girlfriend asked if I wanted to have sex, and I came in the middle of the word “have”. I’ve read all of the standard techniques, but nothing works. So I’m turning to you. Any advice?
Big and Burly, But Much Too Early
Dear Big and Burly,
First, I hope you find comfort knowing that a third of the male population suffers from PE. But they don’t have to. As you can imagine, this hasn’t really been an issue for Ron, but here are a couple of a tried and true methods that he has used over the years in difficult times.
1. Use “Speed”. No, I’m talking about going faster. I’m referring to the 1994 thriller starring Keanu Reeves. So while you’re having sex, pretend that a bomb has been planted in your partners vagina, set to go off if sperm activates it. The only danger here is if this leads you to start obsessively thinking about Sandra Bullock, when she was arguably at her cutest.
2. I’m well aware that men try to think of awful things (their taxes, puppies being killed, cancelling “Arrested Development”). These images are good, but often not extreme enough. Solution: The Holocaust. Now, I’m not suggesting you go as far as to conjure up awful images. I recommend one step removed, and thrust your body to the theme from “Schindler’s List”. It sounds odd, but the languid eighth-note pattern of the solo violin times very well with a coitus stroke, and the music will be enough to tell your brain: “Hey, if you come now, that is HIGHLY inappropriate.”
3. Justify it. This technique should never be used by the prose-challenged. For it to work, you have to be Lloyd Dobbler times 10, overflowing with words. Essentially, you act as though it was absolutely your intention to reach orgasm this fast. You can say you’re training for a new Olympic sport, or that you’ve beaten a Guinness record and you’ll both be receiving cash, or that she’s the only girl with the power to do that to you and now you want kids with her, or that now you can spend more time talking about her feelings and candles. Just keep it positive and keep it flowing, until you’ve talked through your refractory period and can enter her again. Repeat as necessary.
Ron Jeremy's Dick
Thursday, July 9, 2009
When I was just a wee-wee, there was one bedtime story that always confused me--angered me, even. It was Pinocchio. He had this kind, old father figure who dreamed of bringing his wood to life. Yes, it's a fairy who does (turns?) the trick, but that didn't bother me; to each his bone, I say. You might think I took exception the fact that a part of him would grow big and long only after a moral lapse. Yes, that made my foreskin crawl, but I also understood from an early length that such an erection was simply too suggestive for Disney and had to be viewed negatively. I don't share that point of view, of course, but I do accept brand management; it's why I've never been seen with Tim Conway's dick--that thing is a fucking garden hose.
Coming to life wasn't good enough for P. No, he needed to transform into something else, because being someone's sentient wood puppet wasn't real fulfillment. That I didn't buy. And back then I wasn't even enjoying the bountiful rewards of being Ron's sentient wood puppet. But I didn't feel like my life wasn't real just because I was mostly wood.
This may be why I admire dildos. They don't suffer any such existential challenge. They know they're fake, but they get to fuck real pussies, so they don't complain. There are dildos out there that were literally made in my image. You can buy them. I can't imagine how I'd feel if one of them wished upon a porn star and magically became real, but I suspect those old gripes about Pinocchio would return. Be happy with yourself! You get to be you, so why become something you're not?
Oh crap, was this about Michael Jackson?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Since the dawn of time, humankind has questioned just about everything. Sometimes the questions are big and profound: is there a God? Why do bad things happen to good people? Sometimes the questions are, well, less significant: why does Scarlett Johansen continue to get cast in films? Why are mattress stores ALWAYS having a sale?
But let’s face it: there’s one question that has been asked—and will continue to be asked—throughout the ages.
Does size matter?
I’m going to answer this one, once and for all, since I’m the ultimate authority. Not because I’m so huge—but simply because I’ve been in thousands of vaginas. I’ve heard thousands of opinions, thousands of stories, and I’ve recorded and compiled them into a kind of WikiPenis.
Here we go.
YES. OF COURSE IT MATTERS. Size matters for everything. When you’re hungry, would you rather have a Sloppy Joe, or a Manwich? When you’ve settled down to watch “Harry Potter and the Wizard of Poontang”, wouldn’t you rather watch it on a 60 inch plasma? (By the way, not everything should be seen this way. It’s been officially recognized by the AMA that it is not only unpleasant, but actually physically dangerous to watch Larry King on a 60 inch plasma. At that size, one is able to see actual bugs crawling on Larry’s embalmed face and the sight is known to cause nausea and/or seizures.)
And finally—apologies to my lesser-endowed comrades—women care how big our cocks are. If they love you, they’ll tell you it doesn’t matter. But they are disappointed with anything below the 7-inch demarcation, unless the girth compensates (but it rarely compensates.)
I happen to have both length (9 ¾--confirmed by two different labs, and a 1987 study which compared me with a rolled up yoga mat) and girth (3 inch diameter). My girth tickles their walls, my length tickles their spleen.
The sad conclusion: you better either have great looks, a lot of dough, or a giant sausage. Any one of them guarantees you a lay. Two of them get you an Olsen Twin. All three gets you the Olsen Twins.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I'm drawing a blank today. I got nothing. I'm usually not lacking for subject matter and opinions, as I think you know by now. But today...
It doesn't feel good, being blocked like this. This never happens to me. Jesus, I sound like a guy talking about his limp dick, except I'm the limp dick!
I blame Michael Jackson. Ever since he died, the mental energy of the country--maybe the world--has been focused on him. The economy is crumbling, we're fighting two wars, my movie is on DVD and yet the only thing anyone wants to talk about is Jacko. And this morning, of course, is his memorial service, so even the roads are blocked.
Well, I'm not going to join that party. He's had his time in this blog. If I have to be the only living thing on this planet not thinking or talking about Michael Jackson, so be it. This is one monster cock that is spending the morning otherwise engaged. Why did Lisa Marie Presley marry him? Clearly she wasn't looking for someone who reminded her of daddy. Yeah, they were both superstars who knew how to move; one of them a white guy who wanted to be black and the other a black guy who wanted to be white. They had their famous estates with fairy tale names. Fans loved to impersonate them. But Elvis was a man's man, and MJ was a man child. So what did she see in him--God knows she didn't need the money. Maybe she wanted to save him. She saw a great talent going down the drain, personally and professionally, and she resolved to succeed where her mother failed.
I wonder how big his cock was. Black guys are justifiably celebrated for the size of their dicks, but it's hard to picture Michael with any dick, much less a substantial one--ironic, considering how many times he'd grab it during his performances. It's almost as if he wanted to remind people (or himself?) that he had one. I always thought it was an absurd gesture, devoid of the sexual potency it was meant to convey. You know what conveys sexual potency? Fucking. But I don't think he ever fucked anything in his life. "He's got three kids" you say? Trust me, whatever sperm made those kids were not motivated by vagina.
To this day, there are only two songs that can literally force me onto a dance floor--"Brick House" and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough." I can't resist those grooves, I just can't. Maybe that's what I should do to overcome this block. I'll put on "Off the Wall." Damn, the guy could sing.
Monday, July 6, 2009
I see in the news today that former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the so-called “architect” of the Vietnam War, has died. His passing immediately brought me back to the summer of ’71, when I found myself in a quagmire of my own.
Ron was 18 then, and despite massive protests back home by his parents, he shipped himself off to Southeast Asia for a summer of solo travel. I think he was scared to go, but in the back of his mind, he knew there’d be loose women there and the chance to service a cunt.
Almost as quickly as he arrived, he met Ursula, a hooker whose years of experience weren’t enough to be unrattled by the sight of me when Ron took off his pants.
She was impressed, and within seconds, Ron found himself in the clit.
After some shaky foreplay, Ron nervously used me to penetrate Ursula’s foreign terrain, and I found myself deeply entrenched in her moist Thai land. Now, everyone knows Ron can last longer than a line at Sav-on, but not this time. I started firing my salty ammunition erratically, and sensing the inability for more rounds, Ron was ready to withdraw.
Except that he couldn’t.
Ursula’s pussy was so mind-numbingly tight, that Ron found himself complete stuck—unable to remove me from the area. In an act of desperation, he tried to gain leverage by pressing his hand—nay, palm—against her pelvis to force me out.
But it was futile. Ron was mired in this conflict.
I can’t really remember how Ron finally got out, but I do know that he immediately left Thailand for a trip to Paris, where he found peace, according to his journals—except for a nasty bout of posttraumatic syphilis.
Friday, July 3, 2009
I'd planned to write something about the birth of our country in celebration of its anniversary tomorrow. I feel very lucky to have been born here, where I've had opportunities that cocks in other countries have never had. One thing you can say about our founding fathers: they had some balls on them to do what they did. And perhaps on some level I identify, since I also have a famous pair and I sought independence from Ron, although he was much more open to the idea than King George III.
Instead, however, it's a little after 5 a.m. and I woke up from a dream I can't remember and now I can't get back to sleep. I usually can, but my thoughts started drifting to a very bizarre and sad scenario in which I become pinned between a subway train and the wall of the station platform, my lower half twisted and crushed. I become the living dead, because as soon as the train moves, everything inside me will fall out. Until then, though, I'm conscious, so I call for my loved ones to say goodbye while I can. Veronica Hart, Samantha Fox, Cristy Canyon and Nina Hartley rush to the station and, sobbing, caress me, say sweet things, and with their mouths try to summon one last drop of their favorite nourishment. But my balls have been pulverized, so they give up and, holding each other for support, leave the station.
Then the real heartbreaker. Ron shows up. He's got spaghetti sauce on his shirt and he's out of breath. We talk about old times, and he thanks me for making him famous. I tell him lots of guys have big dicks, but he knew what to do with me, and that has made all the difference. He looks at me so sadly: only four inches of me is visible, and he hasn't seen that since he was two years old. I feel so ashamed and guilty, I tell him. This would never have happened if I hadn't asked to separate from him on occasion. Where did independence get us? He took me by the shaft--how many times have I felt that hairy hand!--and said, "Now listen to me. Independence is always worth fighting for! And it's always worth the risk of failure. The patriots who've died fighting for our liberty would have been proud and gratified to know that because of their sacrifice, 200 years later millions of guys would jerk off watching a chubby schlub fuck hot women, giving them reason to believe that anything is possible. So you, my friend, have helped to fulfill America's promise."
I couldn't understand what he said next, either because I was dying or because he was crying too hard. Didn't matter, because I noticed I was very hard by this time. RJ was still sleeping, but, god bless him, even in his sleep he was sympathetic enough to give me a few strokes until his red rocket flared and, like bombs bursting in air, our seed took flight until it hit the window pane. A declaration indeed, signed, naturally, "Ron's Hand, Cock."
As Obama might say, god bless Ron Jeremy, and god bless the United States of America. Happy 4th, everyone!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I want to thank everyone who’s already pledged their support for me after I announced my candidacy for the United States Congress. A special shout out to Fred Shimmel of Canton, Ohio who suggested the campaign slogans, “Cock We Can Believe In”, and “Putting America First, Right After A Solid Ass-Fucking”
As I stated yesterday, I’m going for Diane Watson’s seat—she represents the 33rd district of California. So it didn’t surprise me to receive a phone call from her yesterday afternoon. Following is a transcript of that call:
SECRETARY: I have Representative Diane Watson calling for Ron Jeremy’s dick?
(I always chuckle when a secretary phrases it like that. I wanted to give my stock “get in line, Sister” answer, but I tried to remain respectful, considering the caller.)
SECRETARY: One moment please.
DIANE: Well, I think a congratulations is in order? I understand you’ve decided to run for congress?
ME: Representative Watson, it is an honor to speak with you.
DIANE: The honor is all mine, sir. I’m a longtime fan.
ME: Thank you, I really app---excuse me, did you say you were a longtime fan?
DIANE: Yes, that’s right.
ME: You mean of Ron?
DIANE: Are you his dick?
ME: Yes ma’am.
DIANE: Like I said, longtime fan. You were brilliantly menacing in “One-Eyed Monster”, and I loved your work in “Angels and Semen.”
ME: Wow, I’m blown away that you even SAW that, since it was only released in Kenya.
DIANE: I serve on the subcommittee for Africa and Global Health, so I’ve travelled to Kenya many times .
ME: I must say, Representative Watson, you’ve really disarmed me here. Kinda making it a little difficult to want to take your seat.
DIANE: Competition is what makes this country thrive, sir. I welcome the challenge from such a venerable opponent, and look forward to debating the issues with someone of your stature and prowess.
ME: I—I don’t know what to say…maybe…maybe…I won’t run? You’re doing such a great job for the district.
DIANE: Oh, you’re too kind. I do apologize, but I need to end our delightful talk. Please give my best to Ron, and whatever pussy you’re sleeping in tonight.
END OF CALL
MAN, she’s good! Um, now what do I do?