The BSD's Halloween: Who Wants to be My Jackie O?

Happy Halloween, Motherfuckers!

The BSD After Hours: An Exorcism of The Sexy

The BSD is boss, motherfucker.

In consideration of his magnanimous essence and his cacophonous dichotomy of sound sexual aggressiveness and general social acquiescence (The BSD does without doing), we present here a cornucopia of images, a veritable symphony of sexy, an epic of erogeny.

Let's exorcise this obscenity.

Unable to contain herself any longer, this young woman, entranced by the exotic aura of the BSD, began publicly removing her clothing, chanting in tongues, and miming lecherous activities in the BSD's general direction.

She was summarily plundered by the long sword of the BSD's gentleman pirate.

Bite my knee, bitch! That's BSDomination.

Drink up, darling. Your startling innocence has in no way turned off the BSD. You are like a blank page upon which the BSD can scribe his great narrative, an amorous tale woven of the threads begotten by sin and lasciviousness, culminating in a throaty, guttural apogee.

Isabelle McNally, seen here on right. Just about the polar opposite of the young woman above, which, in no way, turns off the BSD.

Sometimes, cool kids are so cool they become angry and violent. Or maybe they just like to dance.

Great fucking t-shirt. Rock.

Digging the 'stache, bro. Keepin' it gangsta in camel.

I see two things I like: Gin & Tonic, leather jacket.

Don't look at me that way, you sexy minx. Don't make the BSD take you to the nearest restroom and turn your hair back to it's original color.

After all, lightning strikes will do that.

DIQG in Valli.

Later, BSD in DIQG and eventually, DIQG in ecstasy.

Oh my fuck, yes please. Yes, yes, yes.

Yes. Yes. Issues, yes.

Yes.

Isabelle, smoking indoors darling?

Frida, yes, in all kinds of ways.

Rad tats, tee, hat, hair, stache.

Despite the Fonzy-type Hey face, rad tee, rad jeans, sippin' the Creature. Can't knock it.

What? you are saying. Did the BSD just put a picture of classy lady on the site? WTF?

Yes, yes I did. Because she looks immaculate.

And is probably hiding some considerable ass-pear in there.

Strong legs, good breeding stock, lovely fashion sense. Sign me up.

Not to mention the tousled just-got-roughed-up hair.

Tuesday, 3:20 pm, The BSD's Loft, Downtown NYC.

Frida, waving goodbye to the BSD from her chauffeured Vespa in Paris.

She returned 20 minutes later, unable to exist in a BSD-less universe.

She left again 50 minutes after that, slightly crippled, exhausted, and wrestling with the new techniques, barrier shattering honesty, forthright beauty, inconsolable superciliousness, rampant hauteur, polished handsomeness, and measured bohemianism that is The BSD.

The BSD's Assorted Musings: Internet Finds and Tasteful Sensuality

Occasionally when the BSD happens upon certain photos, they strike a deep and often disturbing chord within him, mostly in his nethers, and infrequently, in his blackened heart.

It is in these instances that the BSD, against his better judgment, chooses to share these pictures and his musings with you, the educated, intelligent, gorgeous, and glamourous readers of "the most sophisticated, mondaine, and highly evolved blog of it's (or any) type." (The Atlantic Monthly, February, 2010).

Now that I've got the whole world hanging from my nuts, it's time to take a journey into the fathomless unknown, a place where esoteric and recondite lust meets frivolous and trivial conjecture: The Mind of the BSD.

Come inside. Embrace that subtle curiosity and loose your inhibitions.

It's getting hot in here.

This "Sophisticated Gents" jacket is similar to the one which the BSD is going to produce in an attempt at blatant self-promotion and glorious conceitedness, burrowed amongst pompous brass and pretentious cheek.

However, on the back of the BSD's jacket (which should be available for purchase through the BSD directly sometime before the holidays- grab one for your mom! They make great gifts for people you hate!), it will read:

Damn It Feels Good to be The BSD.

After all, there is a little BSD in all of you. And hopefully, quite soon, there will be a lot more of the BSD in you, ladies.

We all know women are no good at math.

Jokes!

This is just adorable. The BSD was caught unawares that there exist, in reality, special cats. It appears he's trying to figure out an escape and can't be bothered with paying any attention to the camera, and the BSD is quite amused.

I took this picture from the driver's side doorway to my new Mercedes. DIQG refused to leave the car until I had provided her an ample pummeling.

Giving herself fully and completely to the BSD, Jenny peered hopefully and with great longing through her tousled fringe and into the BSD's musty soul, allowing him access to her austere and chaste nave.

The BSD wears his sunglasses at night, so he can, so he can. But he would also rock this jacket and consummately contend with the multitude of cold, misanthropic, distant, drop-dead and sumptuous fawns drawn to his every silky-smooth move.

You're going to have to do better than that, sweetie.

If the BSD gave it up to every harlot who approached him in this manner, he'd be a very tired, very sexy boy.

Her haircut is simply amazing. It also reeks of Daddy Issues.

She looks cool as fuck. I bet, just out of frame, bottom, she's rolling a spliff.

Sharon K, new face at IMG.

OMG. Opulent as fuck.

Well, not as opulent as this. Hot Ass.

If someone would like to photograph the BSD artistically in a manner very similar to this and present it to him as a Shanemas present or to the Louvre for permanent collection status, he is willing to hear proposals and negotiate a rate through his agent.

For all pertinent requests or comments, please contact thebsdisinyourmouth@yahoo.com.

Huh?

It's about that time to break forth the rhythm and the rhyme.

I'm a get mine, so get yours.

Seriously, the BSD is going to make some of those jackets.

Great Moments in Beard: Installment 8

With the red headband cutting off the blood flow to his brain, Peter laughed off the hobo rumors citing his tuxedo shirt and jaunty suit coat. Later that night, Peter was arrested streetside, nude and crying, choking himself while masturbating.

The BSD Approves: Installment 10

The BSD is ornery!

It's Thirsty Thursday and the BSD is quenching his as he writes, sipping champagne elegantly from his crystal flute, denizens of his perverse macrocosm splayed louchely across his shag rugs, coolly hearing (but not listening to) Saint Tropez Cote Plage as it echoes through the cavernous corridors of his insolent abode.

"Sure," he says confidently to his closest courtesan, a succubus of Homeric proportions, "I can accept that we're going nowhere, but one last time just go there, lay down beside me...."

And the mutting begins.

Prepare to have your dome pieces mutted, rigidly and benevolently, in the Tenth Installment of The BSD Approves (which Time Magazine calls "extremely disturbing and earth-shatteringly insipid")*.

Philip Crangi- jewelry maker, scenester, antagonist, and Bearded Wonder. It's frightening how through sheer willpower the BSD is slowly but surely transforming into a Philip Crangi doppelganger. Approved.

Dividing by zero. Like hearing that tree in the forest or trying to explain to a libidinous young DIQG-look-alike model why Hugh Everett's Many Worlds Interpretation differs so succinctly from the Copenhagen Theory. It can, but shouldn't be done.

Approved (on account of the effort. The BSD has already divided by zero. The answer is yes).

When the BSD was roundly derided and critically repudiated for his paper entitled The Loud Wooing and Supple Conquest of Ms. X, his emotionally-abiotic tome chronicling the prodigious effort and mathematical unravelling of DIQG's soft, black Agent Provocateur panties, he escaped criticism and opprobrium here, at his lighthouse off the coast of Ireland. He left years later, well-toned, defined, and masterfully gorgeous, his radiance permeating the dense obscurity of dark matter, emitting what he himself would one day call his "Ardent Conflagration".

Approved.

This is a bag similar to the one in which the BSD stowed his collection of rare Medieval adult reading, ample gin, bags of pure Bolivian nose candy, and considerable paperwork on his sojourn to Turkey, where he published a missive under an assumed name to mass critical acceptance.

Approved. The bag, that is, it's a really gnarly bag.

Rod Stewart, in his sexual prime. Approved.

(This post was made on account of the BSD's inability to get the song Maggie out of his head. Also, If You Think I'm Sexy is up for BSD Theme Song [though ideally to be the theme song of the BSD, we would have to remove "If" from the title and the song], to be voted on by this blog's very own audience. Send suggestions in the comments section. That's right bitch ass! THE BSD has gone interactive! Suck it!)

Right? Not Approved.

Rooftop parties, especially in NYC. Approved.

Perhaps the Greatest Moment in Beard, all-time, no question, no debate.

Later that night, Bernardus did his devious best to dazzle this young harlot with his decades of experimentation and innovative maneuvering. He succeeded, though not without the loss of movement in his lower extremities and a severely broken hip.

Approved.

Yes. The BSD's hair is coming along, it's going to look like this, and the ladies are going to love it.

Approved.

Recycling. This is a great idea and the BSD is going to use this aboard the houseboat.

Approved.

* Time Magazine did not say those things, though, if they were to become aware of the BSD Approves, they probably would.

Update!

Just when you thought it couldn't get better, it went and got better.

Be sure to have the sound turned on. The BSD Approves.

The BSD After Hours

Good evening, welcome to The BSD After Hours.

Go on, fix yourself a cocktail, mosey on over near the fireplace, relax the belt on your bathrobe, feel the terry-cloth molest your shoulder blades, writhe in impetuous alacrity, and prepare your loins for some random ass thoughts, straight from the winsome grandeur and melodic symphony which is the BSD.

Occupy yourself while I put on this Paolo Nutini record and stretch.

Niiiiice, Dad. Class it up a bit.

Seriously, though, this is hot ass.

Person 1: Where chu sleepin' tonite?

Person 2: I gots my Louis Futon, motherfucka! I'm so high class. Suck a dick!

Person 1: No, you suck a dick you fucking crack whore.

Person 2: I swear to God bitch I will decapitate you and blow my stank shit down your headless throat like a muthafuckin' snow blower!

Person 1: Oh no chu didn't!!

Person 2: Ah chess I did hooker! Muthafucka, I will cut a bitch!

BSD: Whores!! WHORES!! Y'all know you're my bottom bitches, so stop arguing and get back on that fuckin' corner! These dudes are not going to suck themselves! And Daddy needs to eat! Fuck! Don't make me have to fucking tell you again. Next time, Ima kill a bitch.

For the BSD, this haircut is now within reach. Watch this space.

For when the BSD sets his mind to something, he rarely is denied what he wants. Also, if you ever happen to acquire this issue of NO Magazine, notice the article on page 34 which summarily paints the BSD as advertised on the cover: A poet, an illusionist, a wanderer, a romantic- but above all else, a Dreamer.

When the models backstage heard that the BSD was somewhere in Bryant Park, fear, suspiciousness, capricious cynicism, misplaced skepticism, fabricated animosity, and nervous breakdowns ran rampant, creating a tension in the tents made vivid through the emotive faces of the young beauties. Hurriedly, they applied their make-up, did their hair, and took off their panties.

Come dream with me.