Yes, ebony porn. Not tawny port, ebony porn.
Why ebony porn, you ask? Well, it appears that since the last time I made a post several years ago, some kind souls in an S&M dungeon deep within the bowels of Missouri, Russia or a similar shining light of internet freedom, porn-spammed the living bejeezus out of my blog.
Why you may ask?
Because they can.
And I’m sure that my friends, family, housepets and other close relations — who, I believe, are the only ones patronizing this dreck — will no doubt react like this:
“Hmmm, what’s Mark up to these days? I see he and his girlfriend are going to Montreal. Oh, and he just got a new bicycle. That’s so nice! And viagra will stiffen my member into a swollen, thrusting oak of a gland that I can ram into the soft, pudendal honeypots of unsuspecting wh….”
Seriously. Even in the Wonderful World of the Intarweb®, where it costs virtually nothing to zombify scores of computers and send out literally millions of unsolicited emails, putting ads for porn sites in comments on my blog is a money-losing proposition. Your conversion rate isn’t 1%. It’s not 1% of 1%. It isn’t even 1% of 1% of 1%. It’s 0.1% of 0% of F**k-all%. That’s it.
So why do it?
Because they can.
So, interpid pornspamulators, I salute you and your salacious, bored, onanistic ilk. I salute you in the only way I know how: expanding on what you’ve already done. Thus, I’ve erased all but one of your ‘comments’ (found here) and run with it.
DANGER – DANGER – DANGER – THE FOLLOWING IS GRAPHIC, NOT FOR CHILDREN, THE ELDERLY, OR CHILDREN WITH PACEMAKERS.
Your comment, Mr. ebony porn of 55 ebony porn boulevard, porntown USA:
“She stood ebony porn and looked at herself in the full-length within easy reach the bed.”
We can do better than that, even ignoring the bleeding, aborted grammar. I give you
Night of the Living Ebony Porn.
She stood ebony porn and looked at herself in the full-length within easy reach the bed. “Maurice,” she whispered, lovingly stroking the ebinosity or her pornhood. “Maurice, bring me a decanter of spirits.” The midget dachsund-pekingese cross shuffled over with the lead-crystal flagon of Château Onan on its back. And by dachsund-pekingese I don’t mean a dog breed — rather, I mean the misbegotten progeny of a dachsund and a small woman from Peking who had willingly and lusfully submitted herself to the tender yet urgent ministrations of a wiener dog on that sweltering Saturday night in 1946. What a weekend.
“Ahh,” sighed Ms. Porn as she refreshed herself with that delicate elixir of Bacchus, a refreshing blend of Cabernet-Sauvignon and Concorde grapes with just a hint of formaldehyde to take the edge off. Carressing the edge of the glass with the sixth finger of her left hand, a curious genetic coincidence that made her an inept touch-typist but a startling masseuse, she remembered…. She remembered and remembered and remembered until she could remember no more and the remembery gland deep within her body, nestled between her spleen and pancreas, screamed for solace as her relentless remembering overtaxed it and it wept bitterly in the small pocket dedicated to it just above the liver.
Oh, Jean-Louis MacManhood. Would he ever come back? He had left her broken and alone with nothing to console her but her pornhood and the full-length mirror in front of her bed. She gazed into it, and left herself to flounder in its depths, wondering if perhaps indeed it wasn’t her reflection looking back, but another Ebony Porn in another ebony world, with hopes dreams and social diseases not unlike her own. Achingly, hesitatingly she extended one hand, godlike, towards its still surface, hoping, wondering, longing, porning for her doppleganger, until it encountered the cold, uncaring glass of the mirror’s surface.
“DAMN you, MacManhood! Damn you to hell!” Cocking one impudent fist, she hurled her anger and sexual frustration towards the twin Porn in the looking glass and with a resounding “ftang!” broken it into slivers of hope and denial. Shock washed over her like water, or perhaps the world’s largest golden shower.
Hesitatingly, she turned the hand that was already beginning to leak blood all over her rare angora rabbit carpeting. She brought it to her mouth. It tasted like… passion. And alcohol. And passion.
With a sly grin, she cocked one ebony eye towards Maurice, as undulations of longing filled her being. “Come. Come and be my helpmate,” she whispered, advancing on Maurice with a predatory gaze normally reserved for the 13″ black rubber dildo named “Rudy” hanging from the mantelpiece.
Maurice stopped ministering to his gonads long enough to see the look in his mistress’s eyes and sense a sea-change in his fortunes. Oh yes, it would be filet mignon for dinner each night this week. Oh yes….