Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.

The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:

As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”

I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.

Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.

I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.

Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.

Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.

And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…

Certifiable Princess! Congrats, CP. Here’s her story:

So there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”

Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.

“SHIT!” I exclaim.

“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”

“I’m in the shower,” I call back.

“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Tonight at 10pm Eastern, it’s SecondHand Radio with my guest Father Muskrat, who you can find on Twitter here. I met the man at BlogHer ‘09 and enjoyed his company a lot. Course, that was before I learned he has a giant tallywhacker. Now I feel slightly threatened. Nevertheless, the show must go on.

Sadly, I just learned BlogHer is sold out, so it’s pretty much a given me and my offensive t-shirts won’t be there this year. Damn unemployment.

Showtime: 10:00 PM EST, 9PM Central, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific. Chatroom opens 15 minutes before showtime.

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738

Show Link: http://www.talkshoe.com/tc/23738

List of future guests can be found here.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: To avoid browser problems (which some people tend to have with Talkshoe), you should do the following:

1. REGISTER AT TALKSHOE BEFORE THE SHOW.

2. DOWNLOAD THE TALKSHOE CLIENT.

3. If you have trouble logging in, feel free to call in and I’ll leave you on mute. You can listen to the show live that way.

The Talkshoe Live client works great and (for my money, though it’s free) offers a better chatroom experience.

Look forward to seeing you all there tonight. You’re all welcome to call in and chat.

CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. I may own some things myself. What? A boy likes a hot pink vibrator. Don’t judge.

You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Had a scare yesterday where I didn’t completely read a letter I got from the VA. Thought they were cutting me out of the VA system, but actually, they were denying my emergency room claim from January. Y’know, where I did the faceplant on my kitchen floor?

Paying $170 for the damn E.R. visit is much better than having to switch all of my doctors, I have to say. Lesson learned…read EVERYTHING. Then panic.

Doctor visit this morning. My blood sugar readings are highest in the mornings, generally always above 200. So we’re moving back to an evening dose of long-acting insulin. Just a small dose, so I don’t feel all that panicked. Not too worried about crashing – my sugars are fairly under control. I haven’t had a low-sugar event in a couple of months or so.

I go back in a couple of weeks for another follow-up. New lab tests in a month, right after Shannon gets here.

The YOR exercising? Going well. I’m doing the 5-days-a-week thing. And though I haven’t yet found something that trips my trigger, I’m still sticking with it.  This week, the Zumba class starts, and even though I’m told it will kick my ass, I’m going to try it. I figure if I can get in on the ground floor, maybe I have a shot. Then again, if it kicks my ass the very first class?

There’s other stuff I haven’t yet tried, but am already convinced it’ll be too hard. A Pilates/Yoga class. Belly dancing. Hatha yoga. So far, most of my activity at the Y is treadmill (still). I tried a stationery bike thing yesterday, and that was cool. May go with that one some more. If it weren’t for my iPod, I’d be bored out of my skull. I’m still bored, but at least I have tunes. And sometimes Adam Carolla’s podcast.

Tomorrow, I go to see Ben Folds in concert. Woo hoo! Never seen him live before, and I can’t wait. Tickets were a reasonable $34. Now, if I could just cough up $70 or so to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (with Joe Cocker as an opener!), that’d rock even more.

Poppy recently wrote about filling up the self-worth tank. Good post, great idea, but no surprise, considering the source.

Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.

I’m gonna start today with the hardest part…saying nice things about ME. That shit gives me the heebie jeebies, but bear with me. I’m not well-versed at this stuff.

I’m smart. I mentioned this briefly in my 100 Things list, but my I.Q. only rarely manifests in obvious ways. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I don’t make plenty of bonehead moves. Oh, right…NICE things. See? Told you I’m not so great at this.

On occasion, my brilliance does shine. Case in point:

When I was a little kid, around 9 or so, my parents were both working. I had a babysitter, of course, who was a teenager and more interested in boys and cranking Queen records than keeping up with my sister and I.

My father had this amazing smutty magazine collection, which I’d recently been perusing whenever I had the chance. There were a handful of neighborhood kids over at my house and I told them I had something to show them.

We go into my parents’ bedroom and close the door. I slide open the closet door and point to the shelf up top. STACKS and STACKS of mags, each complete with naked women in lots of odd positions with naked men.

Ages of the kids ranged from 14 down to around 6 or 7. Johnny, the teen, pulled down a couple of stacks for us to look through. We all got on my folks’ bed and started paging through the mags.

Oh my God. GROSS! She has his thing in her mouth!

Why would anyone want a thing in their mouth?

Look at this! His thing is in HER thing!

She looks like she’s in a LOT of pain!

Do you think that’s what ALL policemen do with women?

Our burgeoning education of naked things came to a sudden halt, however, when I heard my father’s car pull up in front of the house.

“Oh no! It’s my DAD!”

And five boys started freaking the fuck out, gathering all the dirty magazines in a heartbeat. Most of them ran from my parents’ bedroom, not heeding my pleas for help to restore the bedroom to its proper working order.

My life was flashing before my eyes. I stacked the mags, and shoved them back up onto the closet shelf.

It was then that God decided to have me killed.

The shelf came toppling down inside the closet. And approximately 847,000 porn mags crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaah!

I was dead meat. My father would be coming in at any moment. All my friends had run out the back door, retreating to leave me to my execution.

Then…a flash of brilliance. Little Karl saw what had to be done.

I shoved all the magazines back inside the confines of the closet, grabbed Midnight (my black cat), tossed her inside the closet, and closed the door. And I ran from the bedroom, just in time to greet my father at the front entryway. I was damn proud of that maneuver, proof that I could think fast on my feet and avoid certain death.

I finally admitted to my father that Midnight wasn’t the culprit…y’know, around 20 years later. Naturally, he and my stepmother both laughed and acknowledged what a smart move I’d made.

Perhaps I’m just a porn-savant, I don’t know. But either way, I’m smart.

I even understand why it’s not such a bad experience to have my thing in her mouth. And that the reason why she looks like she’s in such pain when my thing is in HER thing is because I forgot to pack my lubed shoehorn.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36498826@N02/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Summer of Love.  Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?  Yes, yes it does.  I’m Karl’s last guest poster for his summer lovin’ thing and I’d like to think he saved the best for last.  However, that $100 bill he asked me for to save this spot, is sort of a dead give away that it may not be the case at all.  Jerk.  Love ya, though.

Let me properly introduce myself since I’m all about the proper and stuff.  I’m Sassy Smith, and surprisingly (or not) that is not my real name.  Yes, a lot of people do call me Sassy and I, of course, will answer to it (I’ll answer to almost anything except Edna.  That’s just not a pretty name.  No offense to anyone actually named Edna) and it matches my personality.  Serious and conservative *cough*.  If you follow me on Twitter (and if you don’t, what the hell are you waiting for?  This could be YOUR lucky day), you’ll see just how proper, conservative and serious I truly am. Flirt with a big F.  Anyway, when I joined teh internetz back in 2002, I was told by my paranoid mother to never use your real name online, because?  there are weirdos out there.  Which, yes, true, but Karl is totally harmless.

Let me tell you a little story.  No, it won’t be about that time in the hotel room playing naked poker with one of my best girlfriends (Karl asked me to send the draft to him first, you know, so he could check it out and point out my spelling errors), and maybe I’ll be asked to never come back and guest post again, and I’ll enthrall you with that little bit of porn gem or not.

This is about shirts.  Offensive shirts.  Allegedly offensive.  Are they really offensive?  I mean, what if you don’t know the whole story behind the shirt?  Right?  Remember Karl’s Blogher tees?  A handful of people didn’t like them (bitch please, you had better send me that pink one!  You hear me Karl?!).  I’ve experienced similar discrimination.  And from men, too!  Usually I don’t offend men, but this one dude walked up to me and said my shirt was disgusting and that I was a dirty girl (so disgusting in fact, he licked his lips as he said it).  And he did give me his home number, his cell number, his pager number, his email address and keys to his apartment.  Maybe when he said disgusting and dirty girl, he meant something else?  Whatevs.

So, tell me what you think?  I mean, these shirts are cute, right?  And they are super high-quality.  Had them specially made as you can totally tell hand printed with grape-scented kid markers.  Nothin’ but the best for my chest.

“My pussy is awesome!”

Sure, I can sort of see how it might be offensive, but seriously, my pussy is awesome.  It’s just that I can’t take her every place I go.  She sheds.

See?  She’s adorable, right?!  Told you!  My pussy is totally awesome.  So, to that dude who said I was dirty and disgusting, I’m totally returning your apartment keys after I sleep with you just once.  I mean you were totally hot.

“I have a dirty box.”

Seriously, it’s not been cleaned, in like, days.  I get how some might react badly to that shirt caption – it’s not like I take my dirty box with me wherever I go, so people understand what I mean.  So they can see my dirty box.  It’s dirty.  Like, for real, who wants to cart around a dirty box?  Not me!

See?  Dirty box.  To the lady at the grocery store, you know what?  Fuck you.  I didn’t judge you on your poor fashion choice of leggings, crop top and $3 bargin-bin flip-flops.  I applaud you on your courage to show the world your back fat and ugly feet.  You could have shown me the same courtesy instead of huffing away in a jiggly mass after reading my shirt.  Don’t judge my fucking dirty box or my dirty box shirt.

“I heart big breasts.”

Who doesn’t love big ones?  Big, juicy breasts.  Smeared with sauce.  Yum.

I mean look at those big breasts!  When they thaw and get tossed on the BBQ and smeared with sauce…yum, gonna be so juicy.  See?  How is that offensive?  Sheesh.

Hey, grandma at the doctor’s office, loosen up, will ya?  There was no need to point your cane at me and cluck your tongue in disgust.  I’m sure back in the day you liked big juicy breasts but were afraid to admit it.  You’re 92.  Time to live a little.  Nothing wrong with BIG, JUICY BREASTS.  I think the crowd agrees with me, right?  Stand up and cheer!

“My milk jugs R full.”

Love me some full milk jugs.  All filled up.  Best way to enjoy milk jugs.  Full.  I like the milk in bags, too.  Fun bags, I call them.  Milky fun bags.  Ooh.

Look at those jugs.  Full.  Milky.  Dreamy.

Sure, it may not have been THE best shirt to wear to church, but my friend didn’t give me much time to prepare.  She was all, let’s go to church and confess and shit and I just grabbed the closest thing to me.  The nuns, I’m pretty sure, were not pleased with my tank top, but the priest?  I think he sort of dug me.  I asked him after the service if he like full milk jugs and he nodded his agreement.  He was kind of tongue-tied.  Not sure why?  Hi, is that your robe or are you just glad to see me?  The nuns didn’t like my joking nature.  I’m probably going to hell anyway, so no big.

I like my shirts.  I think they’re cute (and remember, super high quality).  But…

…after much consideration, I think I might give up the shirts.  And not just my specially hand-crafted tees, but all shirts.  I mean people are so damn judgy.  Say the hell with shirts!  Take them off!  Be free of the shirts and the judgment!

So…

…hopefully, my bikini top doesn’t offend you.  Because?  Next step would be to go around topless and I know that shit would really offend people.

Don’t judge me.  Or my shirts.  Or me taking off my shirt.  Let’s all love one another like in a big orgy. I mean, group hug.  Yeah, group hug.

Karl, thank you so much for letting me guest post.  You’re calling security, right?  Now, give me back my hundred bucks.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Hi! So, I’ve been asked and am honored to be a guest poster here in the summer of LOOOOOOVVE.

Is this the part where we all make out now? I shaved my legs just in case.

I had planned on writing a rap about legalizing Marajana Marijana Marjhiana Marijuana but I couldn’t spell it. So I was all “fuck that shit, they probably have their own raps about legalizing Marijuana” so I decided to write about my virgin sex toy experience. Or, future experience.

I don’t know if you know mah 704 beeshes? Maybe you saw us at BlogHer?

That should ring a bell.

We have this website where we are sponsored by Eden Fantasies. Which, you know, is great and all. Except that the actual WORDS “sex toys” makes me blush. I KNOW. Right? I cuss like a fucking trucker but I can’t say Vibrator without turning ten shades of red.

My own grandmother told me once, “You’ve GOT to have a Penis cake at a bachelorette party, Leslie. It’s imperative.” My sweet little 75 year old Grandmother could tell me to get a Penis Cake and I just about had my neck swallow up my head whole.

I’ve been, um, encouraged to just give it a bit of a try. I mean, if a cute little Mormon girl can, why can’t an agnostic trucker-mouth me?

There is no answer to this. Well, maybe there is but it a long, boring background involving being raised by people who think Priests are the moral compass of the world. Cough.

So, lemme as this audience here of dynamic and fun individuals: What would you try first if it was your first… “time”? ‘Cause I’m just about to start clicking things blindly and pick one like the old, “Where to travel to” on a globe. Which just might get me to somewhere like Dubai. Or something lame.

(This post brought to you by Mrs. Flinger and her jacked up multiple personality part-whore-part-OCD-part-shy-part-alcoholic self.)

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

They say the internet is a big space. I disagree.

If it was such a wide open wonder how in Gawd’s name would a Canadian mommy blogger trip over a video of some dude prancing around with his nuts hanging out singing to one of the most annoying songs ever find his way onto my laptop screen?

Besides the fact I spend hours online searching for amusing and interesting links that are slightly pornographic to fill the gaping void that is my soul?

Hence a friendship was born. So when Karl asked me to guest post for him this summer, I couldn’t really say no. Doing so would only show the world I’m a classless bitch who refuses to expand her national and cultural borders within the internet.

I may be a bitch, but I like to think of myself as KLASSEE. The box of dollar store red wine in my fridge proves this.

Besides, Karl has a thing for mommy bloggers and it’s no big secret he has a crush on me and I aim to please boys who like me. Of course Karl likes me for my stimulating intellect and not because I’m a natural blonde:

The reality is, (and huge blow to my ego when I realized it) Karl only likes me because I have these:

I know this because the dude keeps sending me email and twitter requests to show him my boobs. Or to do a naked video post. Or simply call him and talk dirty with him while fondling myself. Karl. What part of KLASSEE did you not understand?

I mean sure I may tweet topless during the summer and talk about beaver fever and the blue thunder but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to up and show you my guns.

You’re no Avitable dude.

Still, Karl persisted. And persisted. Aaaand persisted.

At first I was flattered. But then he started sending me naked photos of himself. Then I was amused. And slightly horrified:

I mean any dude who would looks like this obviously needed a little tittay pick me up. (And you are all so very welcome. I figure if my retinas had been burned, I should pass along images of nature’s finest.)

So I decided to oblige him. I’m a giver like that. So here you go Karl, here’s my boobs. At long last yours to ogle and do with what you will.

Okay fine. Those may or may not be mine. Mine may or may not resemble something a little more like this after breast feeding three angry rabid badgers babies:

Okay, I don’t have eight boobs or more. But think of the possibilities if I did!! I suppose my breasts may or may not look more like this:  (After all, I did publicly admit to having nipple hair.)

That may or may not be a dead on accurate reprentation of my boobs down to the sparkly nipple rings.

Only thing is, I like to shave my belly hair and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a necklace that ugly. I’m much KLASSIER than that.

So Karl, when you think of me and see pictures of me online, just know that I only look half decent from the neck up.

The reality is, I may or may not wander around town looking something strikingly similar to this:

In fact, that may or may not be an actual photo of what I wore to the town fair this year.

I suppose the real reason Karl and I are friends is because we both are like boobs.

And we both wish I looked like this:

Life would be one giant boob fest every damn day.

Which would suit this KLASSEE redneck to the T.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

So there’s Black Belt Mama’s Summer Serenade Contest going on. Someone you know (cough cough hint hint) might be participating with a video. Go vote. I think it’ll very clear WHO you should be voting FOR.

So my mom left this morning before I awoke. She’s outta here for a week, off in Daytona Beach doing arsty craftsy drunky retreaty things with some of her lady friends.

Yeah.

I have the whole house to myself. (This is the part where you say, “Karl is the only fucking nearly 43-year-old in the world that can pull off living with his mother and make it look cool.”)

There will be hookers, drinking, smoking, narcotics, copious amounts of Brittinis, Rastafarianism, orgies that make Caligula look like a virgin, rocking music, lambs and lions getting it on together, breaking of windows, flatulent pyrotechnics, bongs made of Mountain Dew Code Red cans. All for the next. four. days.

You know, till Thursday morning when I leave for Birmingham for KimBerday. That’s gonna be a whole OTHER orgy. My mother may come home to a smoldering crater in the ground. But what a way to go.

PS: You HAVE submitted some dares for my annual Birthday Dares, right? Go. Now. Prizes. Crazy videos. Probable need for me to display my balls for the 4th (?) time. Tell your friends. PLEASE. I need LOTS of dares to choose from!

PPS: This Thursday on SecondHand Radio my guest is the infamous Danny Evans of Dad Gone Mad. Author. Humorist. Swell guy. If you have any questions for Danny, you can submit them here in the comments. Or better yet, show up live Thursday night at 10 EST and ask him yourself.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Heya.  This is Wayne from the blog of whall.  All I’m going to say is… there are more than a few inside jokes in this.

Summer of Love Guest Post by whall for Karl from whall on Vimeo.

Karl asked me to guest post. This is what he gets.

If you need it, here’s a direct link to the youtube video.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I hope you packed a lunch.

Right, so I’m home, and I’m backdating this post to yesterday, since Marty wrote a fine guest post for me today and I hate posting more than one post a day. Gotta love the Summer of Love.

So I was going to write my usual BlogHer recap post, complete with bullet points and photos and tons of links to bloggers I met and silly stories. And I will. I may be committing blogging Sepuku by not getting to the funny recap NOW because the days immediately following BlogHer are when you get the most hits from new faces. We’re all just meeting each other, sifting through the truckloads of business cards we were given, and establishing new relationships…some that will last a lifetime. So yeah, by the time I get my recap post written, you’ll all likely be sick of reading recaps.

But this whole t-shirt thing has gotten way out of hand, at least as far as I’m concerned, so in a rare moment I’m going to (perhaps stupidly) get serious for a bit. I think it’s important, mostly because a large number of you are probably new to me and my blog, so you don’t know me that well at all, aside from me being the ass who wears sexist t-shirts at a mostly-female conference.

One question I am asked over and over again by women at BlogHer every year – and I’ve been going since San Jose, so BlogHer 2009 is my fourth conference – is “Why are YOU at BlogHER?”

My most frequent response to that inquiry is, “Because this is where my friends are.” And that’s the truth. And next year? In New York City for BlogHer 2010? I’ll have even more friends because I met the best people in Chicago.

For the record, believe it or not, I am incredibly pro-woman and I adore BlogHer with the intensity of a thousand suns. I first went to BlogHer in 2006 in San Jose, and only to meet a handful of my favorite bloggers that I knew were going. When I discovered they would be there, I joked that I was going, too…because who knew that a female blogging conference was actually so progressive as to actually invite men into that world?

Well, as it turns out, BlogHer DOES want men there. And yes, there have been many posts written about how vaginally-challenged people do not belong there, how men are just trying to invade and take over yet another space, how it’s not fair that women can’t have even THREE fucking days to themselves without our presence. Right, I’ve heard all the arguments and complaints many times, and I’ve had many conversations with ladies about it.

In 2006, there may have been perhaps 30 or 40 men at BlogHer, tops. And not everyone was happy about it. A LOT of anti-men sentiment surrounded that conference, which was daunting for me, to say the least.

Me, a dude with social anxiety like you wouldn’t believe, who freaks out at ANY conference, let alone an “all female” conference where some people were less than welcoming. I’m happy to say that I’m good friends with most every woman who didn’t like the prospect of a male presence in 2006. What can I say? To know me is to love me (or not), and all that happy horseshit. I’m very fortunate, in that the women who wrote anti-men posts prior to BlogHer 2006 are all incredibly intelligent, accessible, and gracious women. We clicked nearly instantly, they realized that I was NOT there to spoil their experience or invade. I just merely wanted to be included. And hang with my friends. And that while I may play a pervert on TV, I’m not one in real life. OK, maybe that last part isn’t ENTIRELY true…heh.

Most of my friends have always been women, and that’s not likely to change. I don’t follow sports, I don’t know shit about cars, and that eliminates about 70% of male conversation for me. On top of that, I’ve been through a shitton of therapy since the mid 90’s so I am far better-versed at emoting and expressing myself than the average man. (Broad Sweeping Generalization, but tough shit.)

Basically, I’m very in touch with my feminine side and am only angry that I don’t have my own set of breasts to play with all day. Oops, ok, so yeah, when I am anxious I tend to crack jokes at inappropriate moments. Again, tough shit.

Don’t get me wrong, had BlogHer.com said that the BlogHer conference was a woman-only conference? I would never have gone. But the Leading Ladies at BlogHer made it very clear that men were welcome to come. I was broke and out of work at the time, so I volunteered to live-blog the San Jose conference, and my conference cost was comped. I think that’s an amazing thing that Lisa, Jory, and Elisa established, the volunteer program. It allows women (and men) to afford something they might not be able to attend otherwise. And yeah, I took advantage of it.

The live-blogging thing actually served me with an unexpected bonus effect: it legitimized my being there a little more. I had an additional reason to give women about why I was there…oh, I’m live-blogging three of the sessions. It forced me out of my comfort zone into social situations that I might not have experienced otherwise, and it brought me into SESSIONS I might not have experienced otherwise, too. Met a ton more people, subsequently felt more comfortable because I knew more people, etc. ad nauseum.

And those three leading ladies, by the way? Incredibly sweet women, who all went out of their way that first year to talk to me, make me feel welcome, and actually THANKED me for being there. Elisa in particular spent a good half hour with me that first year, when she and Jory and Lisa – and the other BlogHer staffers – were running around the hotel like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to do their jobs and take care of the myriad of logistical problems that must take place during something as big as BlogHer. And that was when the number of attendees were HALF what they were at BlogHer 2009. It can only be worse now.

Sure, I skipped a couple of sessions when I wasn’t live-blogging, retreated off to my room to curl up in a fetal position and try to regroup. I glommed onto the few women I knew before I arrived in San Jose, too, because that’s part of my coping mechanism, sticking with as much comfort zone as I can get my hands on when I’m in the midst of panic attacks.

But when I left San Jose, I had a ton of new friends, including those that were miffed at me for writing a post just 2 weeks before BlogHer about how I couldn’t wait to see all those chicks in lusty pirate wench outfits. And many of these women are some of my dearest friends now.

Clearly, I am not someone who is bound by political correctness. I think the world is far too fucking serious and sensitive these days. That isn’t too say there isn’t a reason for the sensitivity, but I’m pretty glad I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s when people were made of sturdier stuff and got offended far less often. It made me stronger.

I was a bully’s wet dream throughout school. I was short, small for my age, wore glasses, sucked at sports because I had asthma and a severe lack of coordination, wore braces and even the freaking headgear IN SCHOOL, and the list goes on and on. I was beaten up regularly, called “four-eyes” and “beaver tooth” and “faggot” and every other name in the book.

Because of this, I had to rely on my intelligence, and my wit and sense of humor. I talked my way out of many beatings (not enough of them, mind you, but still) and sometimes even made friends with the very people whose bootprints were on my ass. Over the years, I developed my wit a lot more and became more known for my humor than anything, really. Often, this humor was (and is) inappropriate, but it got me laughs from the majority of people, so you better believe I ran with it.

Laughter is my Weapon Of Choice when it comes to meeting new people. I know there is no better way to get MY attention than to make me spit soda through my nose, and so I count on making people laugh to get THEIR attention. This, by the way, is my primary reason for wearing such ridiculous t-shirts to a female blogging conference every year.

I started wearing such shirts in Chicago for BlogHer 2007. Designing most of them myself, of course. Wearing a shirt that says “Tell your boobs to quit staring at my eyes” made a lot of people laugh that year and I discovered just how much power there is in a smart-ass t-shirt.

See, I’m mostly a hermit. I work from home, I never have to leave the house if I don’t want to, and social networking – whether it be blogs or Twitter or Facebook – is where the bulk of my socializing takes place. I’m one of those people who freaks out at the notion of going to a social gathering, and will often place my back against a wall and pray that someone will come talk to me.

The t-shirts I wore in 2007? Immediate icebreaker. I didn’t have to initiate many conversations because people were coming to ME and engaging ME. Sure, there were dirty looks…there are every year, but the vast majority of the ladies are laughing their asses off, and I dig that. My shirts are often the start to amazing friendships.

Now I custom-design three shirts every year for BlogHer. One for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. If you think the ones I wore this year were offensive, you should see the 27 slogans that I wrote but DIDN’T DARE WEAR. Because, believe it or not, there are many things I would NOT wear at BlogHer. I enjoy straddling the line between inappropriate and offensive…I spend a lot of time atop that fence and yes, there are times I step OVER it. But I’m pretty good at owning up to my bullshit. I am accountable for my actions. I apologize and hopefully move on.

I’d never wear a shirt with the word FUCK on it at BlogHer, though I have seen plenty of women who do. I’d never wear a shirt with the word CUNT on it, either, because in my eyes that is as offensive a word as the “N” word, which I never utter. Hell, I don’t care how much you and I may fight, I’d never CALL you a cunt. I’d probably never even call you a bitch in that context, though I frequently use it in a humorous way, as in “Where my bitches at?”

My point being – and yeah, I’m probably the most long-winded fucker on the planet – I do NOT wear those shirts to offend anyone. I wear them for a laugh, I wear them as an icebreaker, I wear them because they work. I haven’t yet had time to look at any recap posts, let alone the Flickr sets, but I dare say that if you search Flickr in the BlogHer sets, you’re bound to find me posing for a lot of women, and WITH a lot of women.

THAT is why I wear those shirts.

I said this over at Grace’s blog, but anyone who truly believes that Adam and I went into a conference with 1,300 women wearing THOSE shirts so we could OFFEND those women? Yeah, you’re a moron.

Liz and I were discussing the shirt controversy on Sunday, while we cavorted around Chicago’s subways and found the Threadless T-Shirt Store (cuz yeah, I don’t have enough t-shirts). She and I have been friends since San Jose and she described the situation perfectly.

To wear a shirt that says “I am having very deep spiritual thoughts about your boobs” walking in downtown Detroit just before Thanksgiving…that is sexist. But to wear the same shirt at BlogHer, where 90% of the attendees are female? That’s comedy gold right there. It’s so ridiculously over-the-top that it borders on the absurd, and that’s why it’s funny. Damn fucking funny, if you ask me. Irony? Ever heard of it? Look it up.

True, I don’t offend easily. But I’ve seen a lot of women wearing some really funny shirts over the years that could easily be construed as offensive to women, and some that could be offensive to men. Again, I think we are far too easily offended these days, so none of those shirts offends ME, but there is a (small) contingent of ladies offended every year by shirts that women are wearing.

I joke often on my blog and on Twitter with many, many, many inappropriate remarks. I flirt heavily, mostly because it’s online and I feel safer doing it that way. In person? No. I’d love to hear from any of you BlogHer babes that I met and hung out with that felt I was offensive or hitting on them or anything like that. I’d be surprised (and hurt) if any one of them came forward and said otherwise.

One of the nasty commenters on Grace’s blog says that they know me and that my primary goal for BlogHer is to get laid. That’s bullshit, and that person (though I don’t know them) KNOWS it’s bullshit because otherwise they would have left a link and their real name so I could take it offline and CALL them on their bullshit one-on-one.

I haven’t had sex in TWO FUCKING YEARS, people. It’s no secret. And I have NEVER had sex at BlogHer, period. There were more than a handful of guys in Chicago over the weekend who were shocked to hear that because, well, shouldn’t getting laid for a man at BlogHer be like shooting fish in a barrel? Yeah, not so much.

It is true that I use inappropriate jokes and flirting as a means to attract women, but only because it’s women I mostly enjoy hanging out with, and bawdy women at that. So when I find a gal with a similar sense of humor (and there are many, believe you me), we hit it off like gangbusters. Am I doing all this so I can get them in bed? Hell no. Would I sleep with any of them if the opportunity arose? Hell yes. The single gals, anyway.

But logistically, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever get laid at BlogHer. Most of these women are rooming with 3 or more other women. And I always have roommates, too. Hell, two years ago in Chicago, I stayed at a hostel with FIVE other dudes.

That said, I’m not an idiot (for purpose of this point, anyway). If I met a lady at BlogHer (or anywhere, really) and we clicked really well, and she made me laugh, and made me think, and there was chemistry…sure, I’d be all over it. But that is NOT why I go to BlogHer.

I am a feminist. I believe firmly in equality for women. (I’m more a humanist, really, but you get what I’m saying.) I have twin daughters who just graduated college and are such amazing women (they’re 22) that I would be honored to hang out with them even if they weren’t related to me by blood. I cried harder watching “Beaches” than I did watching “Brian’s Song.” One of my favorite books is “The Time Traveler’s Wife” and I pray you’ll read that incredible book before going to see it in theaters next month.

I am one of the biggest BlogHer ambassadors there is. I have encouraged many a friend of mine to go to BlogHer, no matter how afraid they may be. I have assured them that no matter how “small” a blogger they may be, even the “biggest” bloggers at the conference are gracious and accessible and go out of their way to make newbies feel welcome. (And yes, there are always exceptions, but aren’t there always?)

If I see a woman at BlogHer sitting at a table by herself with that deer-in-the-headlights glazed look in their eyes, I make a beeline for them and try my best to comfort them. Why? Because I know very well what it feels like to be on the side of the dance floor, wishing desperately that you were included in the fun.

I can’t count how many times a newbie has said to me, “I don’t know a single person here,” to which I reply, “Well, you know me now, and stick with me – I’m going to introduce you to some of the most amazing women on the planet.” That’s not easy for me to do, socially, but I hate seeing anyone feeling excluded.

I am one of very few men that are part of the BlogHer Ads Network. I open doors for women, I always let them enter or exit the elevator before me. (And if you find THAT chauvinistic, tough shit. That’s how I roll.) I support many a charity or fundraising project, whether it be for breast cancer research or (sadly) one of the far-too-many women I know that has lost a child or any other cause that raises women up. I am incessantly ReTweeting ladies with links to help raise money for a Susan G. Komen walk or a lady suffering from cancer (or who has a child with cancer). And I am a Survivor.

I’m not deliberately trying to brag here, and mentioning this shit makes me uncomfortable, but I say these things to show you – my new friends and readers – that I am not a dick, contrary to popular belief. I’m not a sexist pig who goes out of his way to objectify the people he loves most. In a very rare moment of non-insecurity, I can truthfully say that I fucking rock. And I’m cringing at that statement and desperately want to delete it, but won’t.

I was raised to be a gentleman, and I like to believe that I’m pretty successful at it most of the time. And I say these non-humble things because all you ladies who didn’t know me in Chicago, but judged me by my cover, probably have no way of knowing these things since you didn’t come and talk to me.

And I’m not angry that you didn’t talk to me, I get it. Makes sense. I just wish you had. While I was initially irked reading Grace’s post, I quickly got over it and appreciate that she took the time to vent about it on her own space. And comment here on my blog, that took some lady balls. I do wish that everyone was as graceful (pun intended) in their remarks as Grace herself, but hey, to each his/her own.

I adore the friends who came running to defend my (and Adam’s) honor on that post. Some of the comments made me tear up, and that’s not easy for me. What I do NOT want to see is any vicious name-calling, whether it be here or over there or anywhere else. Especially if I am somehow involved. So read her post and the comments, if you wish, but if you comment there, treat her with respect and dignity. Mean people suck.

Now, Adam is not a man that needs defending. And I know he shocks people with his over-the-top humor, just as I do. Many women will attest to this if you merely take the time to do a little digging, but Adam is one of the sweetest, kindest, gentlest people on Earth. (Sorry, Adam, if I’m outing you.) He is a total gentleman with a very large female readership, whose best friend by the way? Is a woman. I am proud to call him a friend of mine and it makes me squirm when I see some of the haters spreading evil and nasty lies about him. I’m not bashful to admit that I love him. In a totally manly way, of course. *cough cough*

Naturally, you have to work your way past the Hitler header on his blog to SEE these things about him, and to be quite frank, I DIDN’T see past the header the first time I went to his blog. Because, shocker? Even though one of the commenters on Grace’s post insinuates that I’d be happy to walk into a Jewish conference in an “I LOVE HITLER” shirt, that’s incorrect. (And no, I don’t see me wearing the shirts I wore last weekend at BlogHer as akin to wearing a swastika shirt at a Jewish conference.)

I hope that all of you who were not at the Vaginally Challenged menblogger panel will seek it out when the audio recording from the session is released. Adam and Matthew and Jim were incredible panelists. They all made me tear up and I was proud to have them speaking for me as a man. And they rocked it. I personally know of at least four women who were nastily tweeting things about men being in Chicago, who sat in on the panel, and walked away feeling very differently about the male presence at BlogHer. So I owe each of those men a great deal of gratitude for being far more eloquent than I could have been.

I wish we were at a point in society when rumors didn’t abound about men and women being very close, platonic friends. Because truly, if you’re my friend you’re my friend, and I don’t give a shit that you have tits or a penis, or if you’re black or white, or if you’re straight or gay, or if you’re a Republican or a Democrat, or if you’re Christian or Buddhist or Wiccan or an atheist. I don’t SEE that shit, I just see people. Well, if you buttfuck horses, I might not like you, but otherwise I’m pretty accepting of most everyone.

Right, so the t-shirts. I consider them inappropriate, as much of my humor is. I do NOT consider them offensive, yet fully understand how you personally may have felt offended. Just please know that I hate hurting ANYONE. I hate that anyone felt unsafe at a conference I positively adore because of some stupid-ass shirts I wore.

But you can bet your sweet Spanx-covered ass that I WILL be in NYC for BlogHer 2010, and I WILL be wearing three brand new inappropriate t-shirts (actually thinking about adding a Sunday shirt to the repertoire). I will not be backed into a corner and go back to wearing mildly silly shirts, which is the bulk of what I wear.

There are far more important things to be worried about, ladies. The inequity in pay between men and women. The war in Iraq. People dropping like flies in Darfur. Homeless children living on our own streets. And who is getting kicked out of the Big Brother House this Thursday.

A dude wearing idiotic t-shirts at BlogHer shouldn’t even be a blip on your radar.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan