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Hails from: Japan
Occupation: World’s oldest porn star
Known for: At 74, being the oldest cock on the adult film block. A former travel agent, Tokuda got into the jizz bizz fourteen years ago because he liked watching porn but was too embarrassed to go to the video store in order to get his rocks off, so he wound up going to the production company that made the films he liked instead and befriending a director who convinced him to turn pro. And thus, a star–in equal parts awe-inspiring and eww-inducing–was born.
Click here for NSFW stills from Tokuda’s film, Tit-lover Old Man Kameichi and His Horny Pranks.
Are venereal diseases like integers?
I only ask cuz like, rumor has it that Tila Tequila and Brody Jenner recently sucked face. I just figure that if one celebutard shoves their tongue inside another celebutard, their respective
cooties germs STDs then cancel each other out (like, a negative times a negative equaling a positive), and everybody can just call it a night and go home.
Since they’ve already conducted the experiment, maybe I should ask them! I’m soooo curious!
Filed under: Burning Privates, Burning Questions, Burning Sores, Celebutards, Eww, Integers, Math Is Cool, Morbid Curiosity, This Is Enough Jenner News For A Lifetime Huh?, Tila Tequila, Venereal Diseases
We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming…so that I can talk about my period. Guys, don’t be candy asses and go “eww.” Only gays are exempt from this conversation. The thing about periods is…they fuckin’ suck. (And no, I’m not on-the-rag at the moment, but just writing about my menstrual flow makes me furious, hateful, and in desperate need of spaghetti and chocolate.) It’s hard to imagine that once upon a time, like Judy Blume’s Margaret, I actually wished for the thing. Oh please Lord, make bloody chunks of my uterus fall out once a month so that I can wear a diaper or a tiny cotton penis with a string all day long like a real woman! Periods are messy. Periods are smelly (except to dogs, who think bloody tampons are filet mignon). Periods prevent you from getting a perfect score on your computer science exam because they max out your so-called maxi-pad after an hour and make you spend the rest of your exam time in the girls’ bathroom scrubbing the blood out of your acid-washed jeans with those brown paper towels that disintegrate into tiny granules the moment they get wet and yes, I’m still bitter about it.
Uh, where was I? Oh right, periods suck. So when I read this morning that Japanese comedienne Naomi Matsushima has designed pads printed with stars and camo so that “women could pass their menstrual period more happily,” I very nearly booked a flight to Japan just so I could find Naomi and punch her in the boob.
Naomi, you and I both know that there is no way to pass your menstrual period “more happily.” You can pass your menstrual period without ramming your Volvo into that douchebag’s Escalade who stole your parking spot at the mall. You can pass your menstrual period without bitch-slapping a stranger who looks at you sideways in a bar. You can pass your menstrual period without totally kicking in your boyfriend’s balls so that he’s unable to father children in the future. Is that the definition of happiness? If so, then we are in agreement. If not, I can only conclude that you’ve never gotten your period nor do you have a uterus and you are, in fact, an incredibly life-like robot that sad pervs looking for artificial companionship would gladly throw their money at because, among other things, they’ll never have to deal with the “eww” of your unhappy menstrual period.
Hmm. That’s not making things any better. Cuz any way you slice it–sex with a 15 year-old, “friendship” with a 15 year-old–still doesn’t explain why a grown man is hanging with a 15 year-old.
Oh, and another thing…
Eww. Eww Eww Eww. Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.
here’s to your sinking ballz,
(Roger Clemens pictured with wife Debbie, from the 2003 Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, before which she was allegedly injected with HGH at his request)
I once spent the better part of two years–during the furious shift out of my late teens–working through an epic collection of poetry. It spanned early observations of the incremental breakdown of my mother’s side of the family to the detritus of my first love, from guilt about sex to a love affair with drunken sunrises. Needless to say, it was a pile of self-indulgent shit, but it was my shit, sincere shit from my young heart and achy-breaky-burning soul.
I had the entire thing enclosed in a romantically battered leather file folder, which tied closed with a leather string and made the documents inside feel precious and ancient. My older sister stumbled upon it one day and asked if she could see what was inside, to which I acquiesced, half-hoping that she would be so moved that she would cry all over the leather file (adding even more salt-water character to its mahogany-colored exterior). I was exposing my insides; but in the presentational, on-paper way, my private thoughts for public display. I wanted her to tell me that the volume should be published, that I belonged in the Canon of writers, that my young age truly belied my incredible wisdom and cadence.
My sister scanned through three or four pieces and then smiled, saying, “They’re really good, Di. I like the one about the tree, you used really charming words. I don’t know if Mom would want to read that one about her sisters, though.” Then she closed the whole thing up and handed it back to me–a girl seething both with disappointment and rage. I threw my leather file in a drawer and didn’t find it again until last year, when I moved and was forced to rifle through 35 boxes of storage. And whenever she asked to read my writing after that day, I would only send her graded essays from college or my weekly music column, so that when she called them “good” I wouldn’t care one way or the other.
I guess, in some way, I can identify with what I call Rivers Cuomo’s interminable disappointment, a cloud that landed over him after he vomited up his deepest, darkest secrets and set them to cacophonous pop for his band Weezer’s 1996 sophomore effort, Pinkerton. Even though critics by and large found the album brilliant, the rest of the world was like, “Dude, this shit about asian chicks doesn’t sound anything like ‘Buddy Holly’” and refused to buy. Instead of giving everyone the finger and recording more weird Cuomo brianarrhea after that, he simply recoiled, spending years as a crazy hermit with a dark soul. It really didn’t seem like he would ever write again, how could he? He was probably too old to dream up surf hits, and no one dug his love of Madame Butterfly.
But Rivers did emerge in 2001, this time with a big fuck-you finger that came in the shape of this:
And it looks like, over 12 years after The Pinkerton Incident, he wants to do it yet again:
Note to Rivers Cuomo:
RIVERS, I UNDERSTAND YOUR RAGE. NOBODY WANTS THEIR INNERMOSTS POO-POO’D ON. BUT DUDE, WE’VE ALL (ESPECIALLY THOSE OF US WITH HARDASS ASIAN FAMILIES) BEEN THROUGH IT, AND EVENTUALLY WE ALL JUST HAD TO REALIZE THAT NOT EVERYONE IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND EVERY PART OF US, AND WE CAN’T JUST GO AROUND PUNISHING THE WORLD TO MAKE OURSELVES FEEL BETTER. SOMEBODY DOES LOVE YOU–THAT SWEET LITTLE JAPANESE (SURPRISE) GIRL THAT YOU MARRIED A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO–SO LET HER BE THE ONE TO “GET” THE COMPLEX BLARGHITY-FOO OF YOUR BRAIN AND STOP HAMMERING AT US WITH THESE STUPID, SEMI-IRONIC, TERRIBLY-TUNED, FUCK ALL Y’ALL RECORDS. I CAN’T HANDLE IT ANYMORE. IT’S BEEN OVER A DECADE. GET A THERAPIST. OR AS MY FORMER INTERN USED TO TYPE IN EMAILS, “THERAPITS.”
Filed under: =W=, Disappointment, Enough Already, Eww, Frustrasian, Fuck All Y'all, Hardass Asian Families, Innermost Feelings, Irony is for Hipsters, Rivers Cuomo, Shameful Album Covers, The Canon, The Finger
Happy birthday to Dallas Cowboys quarterback, Tony Romo!
Playoff wins instead of playoff collapses!
Clutch plays instead of curses!
Trips to the Super Bowl instead of trips to Cabo!
Bringing the Lombardi Trophy back to Dallas and…
Aww, fuckit. Who am I kidding? Pfffffffffffft.
Page Six reported today that Brett Fat and Maggie Q are dating. The new couple attended a dinner together honoring documentary cinematographer Albert Maysles last week, where they reportedly got “very cozy” despite the fact that Mags did not understand the words coming out of Brett Fat’s mouth.
Homegirl, you know we love you, cuz you’re so gorge you can’t be human, and we like to think that the 25% of you that is Han Chinese has a little something to do with that (we’re gonna take credit whether you like it or not). And, for the most part, we’re willing to look past your lunacy, because above and beyond you are FIERCE and FABULOUS, and sometimes cuckoo-ness just goes with the territory. And hell, you’re a SUPERMODEL, and supermodels can get away with doing just about anything–like wrapping themselves in clear synthetic wrap and calling it post-modern.
But spitting on a police officer at the airport and getting arrested? Girl, that is downright F.U.B.A.R., not fabulous. And petty airport crime, to boot, kinda reminds of us a D.O.T.W. alumni that we never thought you’d be in associasian with:
What next? A book called Nipples?
The first morning after the New York Times published their dirty-digging piece on the inner workings of Client 9′s “Kristen,”–aka aspiring R&B singer Ashley Alexandra Dupré (but born Ashley Youmans)– the woman of so many average names’ two-year old MySpace page had clocked in only a few hundred thousand page views. Less than 48 hours later, we now observe that she’s currently working her way towards 8 million.
We at DISGRASIAN are taking this Internet traffic anomoly personally. 8 million hits in less than two days?!? That’s 8 million page views that could have, nay, should have been ours. What the fuzz?
Additionally, we’ve also learned that Dupré’s debut single, “What We Want,” previously available for free on the budding online music source Amie Street, has now been jacked up in download price–to the site’s highest number, 98 cents–due to its overwhelming popularity. Thank you, Eliot!
HUH? Wha?? She’s making even more money off of screwing for money? This has got to be the definition whoring yourself out! Or wait, let’s back up on the judgment a bit, is it simply entrepreneurial to turn your John’s bust into your Internet boom? It’s hard to tell–we feel kinda like Kit DeLuca in Pretty Woman when hooker newbie Vivian suddenly gets whisked out of their shitty, VD-riddled apartment in Hollywood to spend her life popping polo divets into the ground with hot, rich Edward Lewis, simply because she kissed him on the lips. Why her and not us?
All we really want to know is, do you really have to hit it to get those kinds of hits? Somebody tell us, please! We still won’t become high-class hookers, we just really, really want to understand.
There probably hasn’t been a movie release that I’ve looked forward to more than that of Pretty in Pink. In 1986, I was obsessed with the color. Love’s Baby Soft was my signature scent. All of my Merle Norman makeup that I had just been allowed to wear that year came in some shade of it. I wanted to grow up and be a Mary Kay salesperson so that I could tool around in a pink Cadillac.
When the movie came out in February of that year, I believed it was about me. I was Andie, Molly Ringwald’s character. Garrett, my crush from English class who was a foot shorter than me, was Blane. I would wear pink, dammit, to my 8th grade dance (like prom but for pipsqueaks) and kiss the boy.
Blane was played by Andrew McCarthy, and I loved him. I loved his boxy jackets, that little mouth, those twinkly eyes. For about 95 minutes. Until he kissed Andie in the rain at the end. You can see the kiss in slow motion in this video:
When I saw this in the mall movie theater, I almost regurgitated my popcorn. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but Andrew McCarthy was a gross kisser. I don’t know if it was the way he used his femme-y hands, or the fact that his face seemed to disappear when he mashed it against Molly Ringwald’s, or that he looked like he was kissing sideways, or that he kinda laps at her like a golden retriever. It was just…yick.
Much to my dismay, that scene was reenacted last night in the premiere of Lipstick Jungle, i.e. Sex and the City-on-downers. Lindsay Price’s character, Victory Ford, a clothing designer, becomes involved with a billionaire businessman played by Andrew McCarthy. After he sends his private jet to pick her up from a disastrous trip to Tokyo, they make out on the tarmac.
(Interesting fact about Lindsay Price: her mother is Korean, her father is German-Irish. Her mother was adopted by her father’s family, and they grew up as siblings. Then they later married and had kids. Again, eww.)
I don’t get shit fetishes. I really don’t. In fact, I’m not so into shit (go ahead, psychoanalyze away), period. I’m one of those people who NEVER checks mine out before I send it down cuz it’s brown. I don’t care if it floats. I don’t care if I’m getting enough fiber. I could, pardon the pun, give two shits if it has an interesting shape.
So that’s why I really don’t get this new restaurant in Taipei, called “Modern Toilet,” where the chairs are shaped like toilet seats and they serve up yummy piles of this stuff:
Goo, a Japanese survey group, recently polled people on who they thought were the hottest politicians in the world. Former Prime Minister Koizumi took first place…
…and our Governator Arnold Schwarznegger:
Now, who would like to join me in a loud chorus of “EWWWWW”?
…and our Governator Arnold Schwarznegger: