Death

… You bastard!

Another One Bites the Dust

I post this with great sadness.

Well, sorta…

I regret to inform you that Julius “Ray” Hoffman, keeper of this esteemed porn blog, walked out onto the beach in Oceanside, California and kicked the bucket.

Actually, it was more of a “pail” than a “bucket”. One of those plastic sand toys, left behind by some negligent vacationers. Probably a family from Wisconsin– all Wisconsinites are assholes, you know.

Ray kicked the little plastic shovel too, for good measure…

Like Sherman McCoy before him, Julius “Ray” Hoffman is DEAD. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead fucking dead. Dead like Steve Jobs. Dead like Michael Jackson. Dead like freedom and liberty in America.

Death in the Modern World

Back in 2009, when Sherman met his demise, it seemed okay to record his undoing in somewhat flowery detail.

But no more. Those days are gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone fucking gone.

Now is the time of austerity, the era of the trim and lean, the epoch of thrift. Brevity!

All I’ll say is…

It Was the Vodka That Did It

Ray had just finished the last post, in which he vowed to forge ahead Bigger, Faster, Stronger with this neglected publication. He stepped out of his Pacific Street home to survey the lovely afternoon panorama of sand, sea, sun, and sky that stretched out before him.

As he gazed away into the distance, something flying overhead caught his attention.

What was it? A bird? A plane? Newt Gingrich?

It came closer. It glimmered in the sunlight. Ray could see that it was partly clear, partly golden… Was it an angel?

Thump. It landed in the sand, right in front of him.

He picked it up. It was a 1.75L bottle jug of Tito’s Handmade Vodka. Sent from God, apparently.

A Jug of Vodka A Day Keeps The Doctor Away

Ray carried the divine vodka inside.

Begotten, not made, he thought. One in being with the father. Through him all things are made. Like this here jug o’ vodka.

He wasn’t a fan of alcohol. Marijuana yes… booze no.

But Ray figured that if God had sent it, then he ought to drink it.

So, doing his best Amy Winehouse impersonation, Ray drank it up– all one point seven five liters of it. The whole fucking thing. In ten minutes.

And it killed him. He won’t be needing any doctor ever again. (Therefore the doctor is officially “away”? Get it? Do I really need to spell these things out for you? If you’re gonna go along with this esteemed porn blog henceforth, then you should bring your A-level reading game to it! I ain’t gonna coddle you for long!)

A Cautionary Tale

If you’ve ever tasted Tito’s Handmade Vodka, you know how exceptionally pure and smooth it is. Therefore, no gag reflex or anything like that got between Ray and his appointment with Doom.

There should be a moral to this story, don’t you think? It would be a shame if Ray expired without leaving something– besides porn– behind for humanity.

I guess the moral is this:

Tito’s Vodka is killer, dude…

Or perhaps:

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

You can take y’er pick, I guess.

The Bad News

Hello, you dearly neglected Money Shot Blog readers. I am not your usual host. My name is Julius Hoffman. But you can call me “Ray”.

I come to this here esteemed porn blog with terrible news. Your esteemed porn-blogger, and my dear friend and business partner, is dead.

Sherman McCoy is dead.

Continue Reading »

The Story Begins

…at Søren Kierkegaard’s grave.

Those are my iPod earpuds laying there on his final resting place.

I wanted to give him the chance to hear some good modern music. He was listening to Silversun Pickups when I took the snap. Growing Old is Getting Old. Somehow that seemed appropriate…

The Sex Life of Dead Spirits

When I got to his grave, there were two touristy-looking young women staring down at his old dead existentialist bawawa…

I took a little stroll around the old part of Assistens Kirkegård, waiting for some time along with him.

I wonder if Søren’s spirit haunts this place.

Does he, in the night, wander around?

Is he… perhaps… looking for a drink?

Does he ever get horny?

These are important questions.

As I’m pondering this, I come across the grave of one Miss Ellen Margrethe Seknner.

She died back in 1871. Was 22 years old.

Does the statue look like she does?

I mean… it’s angelic and graceful and all that… but still…

She’s sorta hot. In an angelic-dead-marble sort of way.

Betcha Søren’s spirit is fucking her.

Every night he probably strolls over to her, looks down at her sweet angelic face, and…

What’s it gonna be, baby? Either we’ll make love together in a wonderful sensual merging of our long-dead spirits… Or I can just slam you round and do it rough in your heavenly ass.