The BSD Approves: Installment 5

Good evening. Welcome to The BSD After Dark. Fix yourself a drink. Get comfortable. Take off those shoes. I know, you've had a really long day. Work sucked again? Sorry to hear that. Let me rub your feet for you. Just kidding, the BSD isn't a peasant. But I will fondle you and pound the pudding until you can't see straight. It's up to you.

No it's not. And it ain't rape if you yell "SURPRISE!" first.

Alas, the BSD has missed this. I want to take a bath in whatever is in these barrels, because I am sure, absolutely decidedly sure! that there is a bit of the Creature in there. Daddy likes. The BSD would get so rip-roaringly drunk compliments would cascade upon you like a waterfall deep in the darkest bowels of the jungle, natural, pure, unrelenting, raw, cold and wet, incessantly splashing you about the head and neck, slapping against the smooth, preternatural, post-pubescent nape of your neck, like a hurricane of pleasure, deeply touching you. Approved.

This dude, doing this, BEARDED. Approved. (Although he looks like he just realized that he pooped himself, in which case, Not Approved.)

Oh yeah. Approved. What range this young lady has!

As much as Suzie, Rachel, Michelle, Sandy, and Bree would probably annoy the shit out of me, talking about make-up and exchanging funny sexual anecdotes, this actually looks like a good time. The BSD wouldn't mind being the ham in this sandwich. Hell, its a veritable poonundrum. Approved.

This chick, taking the bus, reading what I can only assume is Faust. The BSD would like her to read the look on his face in the mirror as he assaults her rear quarters. Approved.

Just yes. PDE (Public Displays of Eroticism). The BSD Approves.

Rad editorial. Approved.

Pilati, smoking on the rooftop, morning, NYC, high-waisted shit!!! Gimme dem pants! yell the kids on the stoop. Approved.

Backyards with rope lights. Approved.

Kate. Shoulder pads. Approved.

Look at this shit. A cruise ship in the sky. Helium supports 2/3 of its 400 ton weight. The rest of the lift is provided by the thrust from beneath. Takes off like a helicopter. No shit. Bet you learned something new today from the BSD. Take that, Establishment! Approved.

Shiny balls. Approved.

Alexa Chung. Oh my hairless balls what I would do to this girl. I'd teach her things she didn't even know that she wanted to know. I'd make her walk funny. I bet if I saw her from behind it would look like two glorious balloons kissing. Her ass is so tight you could park your bicycle between those cheeks. Her ass is so tight she needs a can-opener to defecate. Her ass is so tight she could eat a pound of hydrogen and poop out a pound of Element 118. Her ass is so tight, only dogs can hear her flatulate. That ass is so tight she could swallow nails and fart tacks. I'd like to pick her up like a bowling ball and throw her onto my bed. Approved.

All I can say is if this isn't me in about 2 months, I'm going to just end it. This is how I strive, each and every day, to be. This is the reason I wake up. Its the reason I work out. This is why I applied to the University of Phoenix and ITT Tech simultaneously. Because I want to be this good. Its the reason I try to live like there's no tomorrow- because there is a tomorrow, and its full of cars, mullets, and wide-eyed optimism. And a fucking white beaded necklace. Because that's how the BSD rolls. And that's how your mom likes it. A-fucking-pproved.

Eat a dick. In fact, eat a bag of dicks.

The BSD Does Not Understand

Dating Montage
by smithy00101

Oh my, ladies. If you don't go for that, the BSD doesn't know what you're smoking, but he would very much like some.

London Fashion Week SS10 Party & Backstage Photos: Part 1

Hi. I'm the BSD. Nice to meet you. The pleasure is all yours. Come inside, have some wine, grab a bottle of gin, a crack rock- whatever makes you happy. Would you like me to light the fireplace? No? Are you cold? Can I grab you a comforter? Perhaps an ambien? Oh, you want uppers. Let me see here.... I've got some blow and some Xenadrine. Something stronger? Good luck, bitch! Here we go.... drink it in.

With all the hot ladies at the Mulberry party riding the horse, I took the opportunity to hop on myself. The Claridge's hotel has seen its fair amount of mounting and holding on for dear life (trust me), but this was an whole other animal. And by animal, I mean beautiful opportunity for the BSD to show the ladies, in person, how great he is at mounting and riding. Balloons everywhere, Kaya Scodelario, my future girlfriend*, Daisy Lowe, and that crazy Sarah Harding person from that band with the girls in it, looking like she was drunk off her ass. She smelled like my hotel room.

Yes, occasionally the BSD will wear sunglasses at night, but only because Frank Sinatra suggested it was better to keep oneself distanced from the public; if they saw your eyes, they could see your soul and you thereby left yourself vulnerable. Although one of the BSD's greatest attributes is his sensual vulnerability, when I hung out with Oswald, it seemed appropriate. We talked about the old times, when we'd galavant around London, hop on a midnight train to Paris, arrive, drunken and disorderly, finished bottle of Absinthe in hand, ladies on each arm, ready to head to Le Baron to dance the night away. Maybe drop some sausage in the corner, maybe Old Bay it a little bit. The BSD needs a drink, a smoke, and some more episodes of Absolutely Fabulous. The flash really brings out the blue tint in my fro.

So happy to see Olivier again, I nearly pissed myself with excitement. But, as we all know, the BSD doesn't lose his cool, he just temporarily misplaces it.

Again, sunglasses inside. Kemp demanded I keep them on, both during the photo opp and the sex. She's a tiger. Raawwwrrr, baby! The BSD approves. What a piece.

Julia and I walked the Red Carpet for something...

...and so did Bee and I.

As you can see, London is going swimmingly, and the BSD is off again on another adventure, perhaps to the Green Man off Oxford Street, perhaps to the old stomping grounds in Greenwich, perhaps to the Bricklayer's Arms at 74 Charlotte Street. Because the BSD is a man of the world. A man for all times. A man for the ages. A man for the Ladies. A man who desperately needs a drink. Bartleby!! You fucking louse! Where's the gin?

Ah. That's better. Let's all raise our collective glasses to love, not the love you read about in storybooks or see in movies, but the love that takes place on staircases at 4 in the morning in public.

* You can apply the "my future girlfriend" remark to either of the ladies whose names surround it.

Ask Propecia

The BSD Approves: Fashion Week Party Edition

Fuck yes. Approved. [Note: Double Beard, hot blondes (The BSD sees you, Lily. Please bring back the Maxwell cd you stole from me. [[accusatory glance]]), "FUCK OFF" hat, and is that a Modelo to the bottom left?]

Georgia, Georgia, The whole night through. Approved. IM me.

Haircut awesomeness. Approved. Awesome pea-type trench. Excellent.

Anna Selezneva. Privet, kak dela? Prostite za neudobstva. Ya znau chto vce budet horosho. Vce bilo chet znaet kak. Approved.

Oh my god, this wins on so many levels. 1) First of all- Erin Wasson. Approved. I'd rob you of the ability to walk. Honestly, Erin, and let's talk here, 'cause it's been a while coming. Yeah, yeah, it's just us. No, don't worry, this part is totally private. Yeah, like a private chat. Yes I remember AOL and the chatting shi---- Yeah, I promise no one will see this. What? Erin! Would I do that to you?!? What do you think I am? Of course, baby, just you and me... Will you just stop asking questions!?! Fuck. OK. Sorry about losing my cool there. Back to us... How bout you, me, a bottle of gin? You be you, I'll be me, and we'll see where this thing goes. 2) Dude, yes. There is a piece of the BSD in you. Just like there will soon be a piece of the BSD in Erin Wasson. Approved. Bonus points for the "Fuck Off" hat.

Its hard making my romantic appeals online via an hysterically funny and massively popular online high menswear fashion blog. Its clear I have the looks, the overwhelming I know not what that brings women to their knees, the sculpturally defined body, the intellect of a MENSA-worthy candidate, the tongue of Joyce, the sensibility of Wilde, the charm of Flynn, the louche style of Brummel, the appetite of the Earl of Rochester, the avarice of Howard Hughes, the musical tastes of Wagner, the artistic abilities of Matisse, the advanced free thinking of Jacques Vache, the ability to throw a sexy party like Sir Francis Dashwood (look it up), the sexual prowess of Caligula--- You know what, Leigh, just call me already. It scares me to see such exquisite comeliness. Some would say pulchritude, but not me. I'd be too busy fixing a G&T, lounging on my round, turning bed, begging you not with my words but with my eyes, fixed tenderly and enduringly on the Shangri-la which is your body, Dionysus' own altar of bacchanalian worship, inspiration to the artist who creates with every breath, every move, every word, every lascivious thought, the inner BSD.

Snarls and stank. Up in this club. This party looks funky. Approved.

I don't know if its the tattoos, the shit-eating "I know something you don't know" look, Idaho on her arm- it just works for the BSD. And sometimes, more often than not, especially with the BSD, some questions are better left unanswered. The BSD has begun making his Shanemas list, and this young woman is on it. Approved.

The BSD is finding all kinds of things he likes lately. This young lady can come over, have a seat in the waiting room, read from my voluminous collection of classics, knowing that the BSD will never devolve into an Orgon-like character, prudish and a bigot, but will remain always, in many ways, Tartuffe incarnated*. If Moliere doesn't strike her curiosity, she can pick up Euripides and contemplate whether Medea should have taken revenge on Jason, who has characteristically left her for another woman. Approved. Bonus points to the BSD for an Euripides reference.

YOU BETTA WORK! Approved.

Lady Oh-My-GaGod what happened to her fucking tits?? NOT Approved. Not to mention, and I don't want to get started here on some frivolous tangent, in which, from all appearances, I am about to willfully indulge myself, her face looks really thwarted. I want to say she had an off night, because much of the BSD supports her absolute inanity with blind indifference, stunned and amazed every time she peeks her head out of a car wearing something just fucking absolutely retarded, but I ran into her outside the bathroom at the Boom Boom Room, and it was a trainwreck. Gaga had yayo all over her face, smeared, rubbed, gratuitously and without remorse, into the underpinnings of her nose, resulting in an audible drip. Always immaculate from the neck down, this woman [sic] is an art gallery of the avant-garde, a veritable MoMA of pop music. She is some sort of treasure and belongs in a museum. Flapjacks.

Vespa. Approved. Yellow Vespa. Double approved.

I hated this the first time I saw it. Up close I like it a bit more. Still not approved, but up for debate.

Awesome grey sportcoat. Approved. Beard. You know it.

*As the play begins, the well-off Orgon is convinced that Tartuffe is a man of great religious zeal and fervor. In fact, Tartuffe is a scheming hypocrite. He is interesting as a character in that he gets around Orgon not by telling lies but by allowing him to use his power as the master of the household over everyone else. By the time Tartuffe is exposed and Orgon renounces him, Tartuffe has legal control of his finances and family and is about to steal all of his wealth and marry his daughter — all at Orgon's own invitation.

Great Moments in Beard: Installment 4

Jimmy had a long, slow day at home. It was Tuesday, Meatball Day. He knew that the only thing that could top off this perfect day, this day of Beardedness, this day on which his Mom made Meatballs, this day that he had proudly put on his bald eagle fuckin t-shirt, was a really tall, really cold one. This is pretty much the most rad thing ever. No jokes here. It really looks like he had an awesome day. I wish my Tuesday was like that. Oh yeah, it was. Minus the Beer and plus the Gin. Definitely had Swedish meatballs. Just need some sweet ass pear.

The BSD's Unnecessary Commentary: On Gingers, or, How the Redheads Cautiously Worked Their Way Into Fashion

I may be the only one to notice such things, but as a proud man of Irish heritage and Biblical etymology, not to mention the substantial skills of a lover 3 times his age, I noticed a trend this season during Fashion Week- there were shitloads of gingers. Seen everywhere, not only on the runways, but at afterhour parties, fashion events, dancehalls, gallery openings, exhibits, and perhaps most surprisingly, in the light of day, Gingers made a massive statement this season. I must say that I am not upset by this so much. The BSD loves a lady of any color, and would be sure to wear a flame-retardant prophylactic and a great attitude into battle with the feared (kinda hot) Firebush! (Note: For any Firebush who is desperately yearning for the fetid and obsessive attention of the BSD, please send emails [along with photos], to shaneof@yahoo.com. Only submissions with photos will be accepted. The dirtier the better.)

Great Moments in Beard: Proof Positive.

YES. Just in case there were any wavering votes on the Lifetime Achievement Award panel. She just couldn't rationalize keeping her clothes on once the Beard spoke.

The BSD Approves: Meisel Sept 09 Italian Vogue Edition

It's not often that the BSD will see something that blows his mind, seeing as his is a mentality of brutalism and paganism, of overwhelming disgust masked as "seen it all" sensibility, one with an inability to shock.

That being said, Meisel has done something in the latest Italian Vogue which has absolutely left me without words. Its pretty much the most awesome thing I've seen in a while.

Enjoy.

Hidden in there somewhere is a Great Moment in Beard. Look closely. Can you find it?