Since Acidman has decided that broken metabolisms are worthy of derision this week, Bacchus figured it was only fair to post a poster girl just for him!

Acidman, this cutiepie is waiting eagerly for you in your bedroom!

Acidman, of course, cannot offend…for he is Acidman. But it’s amusing to catch him in a moment of pure ignorant fucktard bloviation, for which Bacchus has gently excoriated him in his (Acidman’s) own blog comments.

UPDATE: A little bird told me the lady pictured might be The Supreme Bitch. But I don’t think so — she tops Acidman (now there’s a thought experiment worthy of a sex blog) with her claim that the problem with fat people (or “fatties” as she so charmingly calls them) is “sloth and laziness and a worthless, sedentary lifestyle.” Of course, she is The Supreme Bitch. A pity she didn’t get the memo about the difference between bitchy and ignorant.

Cornell University may soon take to selling vibrators in the student infirmary, according to the Cornell Daily Sun. Apparently they will come with some suggested uses students might not have thought of without help:

As with anything else they sell, the dispensary will give out educational materials explaining how to properly clean a vibrator that two women are going to share and what exactly vibrators can be used for.

Bacchus would not have thought that your typical horny college girl would need such suggestions, but apparently Cornell girls are a little slow — so much so that they don’t even know how to order stuff over the Internet:

I’m sure there are people who are dying to find vibrators and they don’t know where to go, so Gannett, go ahead,” Keith Hermanstyne ’04 said.

Others took a more practical approach.

“I think one of the most important things is for women to be able to get themselves off. It’s better than going to the sketchy shop downtown where they have to check the batteries for you,” Sara Jacobs ’05 said.

Thanks Instapundit for the story.

Those damned lawyers mess up everything:

MBABANE, Swaziland – For centuries in this tiny African nation, the king of Swaziland, the supreme political leader and spiritual guide of the Swazi people, has taken his pick of young women each year to be his new wife.
…
The royal marriage practices are as old as the steep green mountains that ring this secluded country of sugar cane fields and cow pastures. Each year, the king has been allowed to choose one or more wives from thousands of young women who, naked from the waist up, parade before him during an annual springtime reed dance.

But now there is trouble in paradise. The king has chosen, the maid in question allegedly says “I’m going to make him the happiest man on Earth” — but she’s a year too young and her mom is pissed.

The king will be violating his own ban on sexual relations with female subjects younger than 19 if he marries Mahlangu. But it may not matter. When Mswati married another 18-year-old this year, he fined himself one cow for the violation – a small price for a monarch with hundreds of cattle to his name.

Oh yes, and speaking of the Group Captain, he is inviting all of the loveliest ladies in blogdom to, and I am not making this up, “cantabulate” his “gruntfuttocks”.

Now, Bacchus is not sure, but he suspects this is an invitation to participate in some odd variation of the infamous “English Vice.”

Or perhaps not. At any rate, it sounds very much like something that warrants this mention on a sex blog.

Shocking Shell leads us on with news of a lovely secret. Then, in abject refusal to conform to stereotypes of feminine illogic, she declines to share it with us.

The Group Captain comments at Shell’s blog, and accuses her of teasing. I think he’s right.

She’ll talk, though. Because we have just the thing for, ah, encouraging her:

Imagine, readers, the sound of booming villainous laughter as we set this evil bondage tickling scheme in motion!

Those rough boys at The Exile explain just one of the many inventive ways sex is marketed in Russia:

First, I’ll explain how it was that I ended up with the hottest teenage provincial model at the playground of a mega-rich friend of Moe’s. There’s a simple explanation. We still owed the modeling pimp — Alla’s boss, Slava, the guy who brought her out from Belgorod along with about 25 other models from various depressed provincial towns — a couple thousand more dollars. That was part of the deal. If any of the revelers succeeded in “seducing” the models, Alla’s boss got a 100% bonus. Which meant, of course, that the models would be given a handy beating and blackballing back to their shitty provincial towns if they didn’t allow one of Snideman’s invitees to “seduce” them. Slava wanted his bonus. He kept all the money for himself. He barely paid the models, shipping them in and out of Moscow on third class platzkart, feeding them little more than soup.

Ah, Rossiya. Bacchus has visited…

The same article later brings up an eternal mystery:

Why, why, why do women under the age of 30 cut their hair short? Why? Has any woman, ever, in the history of mankind, ever looked better with short hair? Huh? Has any man ever said to a young woman with beautiful long hair, “You know honey, I really wish you’d look like my mother after she underwent intensive chemotherapy for ovarian cancer I have a hospice fetish that I can’t quench. So why don’t you go and cut all your hair off. Please, oh pretty please?! I really want to fuck a cancer patient!”

An answer is provided.