Girls Gone Wilde!

Tally-ho, old chums, 'tis I, your favourite avuncular lech, Great-Uncle Grambeaux, up and awake just after daybreak this jolly-good morn' to relay to you, my loyal New World acolytes, the most piping-hot contents of news-worthiness, that they may sate the ravenous appetites for raw hear-say lurking with-in your heaving bosoms: I bring you isolated tid-bits of un-verified information from all reaches of the Empire, scandalous tittle-tattle about midnight rendezvous and ultra-martial trysts, the likes of which are only whispered in dulcet tones in dreadfully un-lit alley-ways, and sinfully delicious photo-graphical snap-shots depicting the shriek-worthy bared flesh of pretty young things primavera. Hurrah!

Very late last eve, (thankfully, long past the bed-times of virtuous lads) the supple young starlet of flicker-pictures and phonographs, the modest Miss Mandy Moore, exhibited a flash of moral turpitude, transforming a gentrified tele-vision interview into loathsome ribaldry broadcast across the people's free air-waves! Hurrah! How tawdry! How frightful! Betwixt mostly innocent queries from probing inquisitor Craig Kilborn, the demure songstress fiddled with her too-snug bodice, and “accidentally” bared a fleshy expanse of ample cleavage that quickly drove the beastly ruffians of the studio audience positively deranged with desire. Zounds!

To what do we attribute the shockingly sudden risqué display of shameful lust-mongering by this playful and perky princess of popular music? Could it be that the sylphlike starlet is currently swapping knickers with her dashing badminton-player beau Mister Andy Roddick that's got demure Miss Mandy behaving so bawdily? Or perchance the divine lass has got something slightly more sinister on the mind? Bloody fo reals, yo!

The faith-ful whatfore true-believers, of course, are shamingly well-acquainted and awkwardly tolerant of your Great-Uncle Grambeaux's lascivious loin-lust for comely lasses still in the temperate throes of puberty. Dash me twice, but, by Jove, nothing sets whatfore's ventricles a-flutter as much as a glimpse of the artless Miss Amanda Bynes playing Hoop-Stick Twirl-a-Gig! Shizz! Spin that pretty plaything, Miss Amanda, spin it 'round! O, what your Great-Uncle Grambeaux wouldn't give to be either the Hoop or the Stick in that scenario, mercilessly dependant, of course, upon which euphemism for a vulgar sexual position you choose to establish your spiffy metaphor upon! Fie! Obvs!

Lesbianic Love-Tickles!

Dear readers, double check that the urchins are safely slumbering, because the following picture is so spiffingly saucy, I are say it borders on the positively indecent!

Behold: the matronly dowager Madame Madonna Richie and the sumptuous tartlet Miss Britney Spears exchanging Sapphic gropes, caresses, and tummy-tickles whilst preparing a video-graphic musical film! Mmmm, mmm, mmm! The very thought of such lusty lesbianic touching and feeling drives your Great-Uncle Grambeaux into a teetering fury of rage! Indeed, the levels of hormonal love-potion bubbling within my man-factory are rising rapidly to the brink of spillage! Are you not simply ravaged with sociopathic desire? Oh, yes! Oh. Yes. I'm simply drawn and quartered just from espying the delicate contact of an old biddy's gnarled finger-tips to a curvy young lass's bare back! Look at delicious Miss Brit-Brit's cushy, mushy, oh-so-round derrière mmmmm ass-cleavage mmm mmmm so good so tasty need to be alone now oh yeah oh yeah that's the stuff oh oh oh my! Oh my! Fie! Please sit tight just one more moment, my dearest readers, whilst your dirty old Uncle polishes his slide whistle beneath his desk-top, safe within the confines of these office-cubicle walls, as his coworkers stride idly by, blissfully oblivious of the Satanic misbehavior occurring nearby! Naughty! And... done! Huzzah! Hurrah! Two pints, courtesy Miss Britney Spears's cushy derrière. Oh my dear, child, I need to inhale the pleasantly satisfying tar-leaves of an un-filtered cigar-ette!

Debutante in Dishabille! Hurrah!

Oh, my stars and garters! The word in the streets is that a steamy boudoir flicker-picture is circulating the den-rooms of those in the know, starring none other than notoriously prim and priggish 22-year-old bed-and-breakfast heiress Miss Paris Hilton! Egads and double-zounds, I dare say! The fabulously well-informed, well-connected, and well-to-do secret spies who have had the god-sent good luck to witness the film with their own bespectacled eyes do inform me that Miss Hilton can be seen stripping to her skivvies as she prepares to retire for the evening... with a gentleman caller! Goodness gracious, snakes alive! Never in my ninety-three years on this good green Earth did I believe I'd get the chance to sneak a peek at an undressed heiress engaging in frolicsome foreplay! Has the timid Miss Hilton succumbed to depravity? Or perchance her sinister suitor has sabotaged her ginger ale with Quaaludes? By jingo, you can bet your bottom that your Great-Uncle Grambeaux will not sleep a wink until that film-strip is secured! I'm positively itchy just imagining it! Lookit! I'm twitching! How frightful! Oh, I'll be ticking off the dreadful milliseconds until I get my paws on that flicker-picture! Pass me that lotion and handkerchief, will you? Many thanks. Hurrah! Obvs!

SATURDAY-EVENING COMEDY PLAYERS' REVUE SEASON 29... REVEALED!

Once more, whatfore.org's skilled comedie & musical-revue analyzers, The Numper and H. Blaste, methodically dissect this weekend's wonderfully whimsical stylings of New York City's Saturday-Evening Comedy Players' Revue. Enjoy! .