Monday, August 22, 2011

Mancandy Tuesday: Howard Wolowitz

Don't say anything. Just don't. I know already. I've even made a list of all the ways in which Howard Wolowitz from The Big Bang Theory is completely not a Mancandy. Such as:

1. He has a haircut that roughly resembles a penis. And that's not even my obvious and by now quite out of control penis obsession talking! Behold!

And just in case my utterly scientific diagram isn't clear enough, I've created a double of his haircut using the same penis and super-imposed it flawlessly on his head:

2. He has no discernable neck. I'm not even going to attempt an incredible manipulation of a picture using MS Paint, here. You can see it for yourself without me making a fool of myself with a computer, too much time on my hands, and an unhealthy hunger for penises.

Check it out:

There's no neck there, right? It's just all head, then straight on down into body. Makes me wonder where his neck went. Is his penis so huge that the weight of it has actually dragged his head down into his torso?

Or is that just my mentulomania talking?

3. His clothes. Of course, on the face of it, there isn't anything wrong with his clothes. His belts are fantastic. I love his shoes. He wears a variety of tight pants in some splendid colours.

But the problem is, he wears them all together.

And yet...and yet...I want him. He is a Mancandy. He's practically the very definition of Mancandy, because he's small and sweet and he comes in primary coloured wrappers.

I don't even care that his head looks like a penis or that he has no neck. I don't care that he says the following to a woman on the show:

"How is doable anything but a compliment?"

I just want to rip those candy wrapper clothes off his small but weirdly angular body. I want him to hop nimbly around in front of me, like he does on the show all the time. I want him to yell at his Mother to leave him alone while he has a play date with me on his ridiculous bed.

I love his Jewishness, I love his cheeky smile, I love his pathetic attempts at wooing women. I love that he dresses up as a Goth to try and get a girl.

Oh Howard Wolowitz, I'd be that girl. And then after I'd been that girl all over you and under you and back to front with you, we could play Mario Kart all night long together.

Sounds like bliss, to me.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Writing Update

Inorite? You didn't expect me to do that. If you visit this blog often, you're probably shocked to find that I'm actually a writer, and not some insane inventor of a device called The Man Fancier.

But I swear to God I am, and I thought I should maybe talk a little bit about this thing I do in between watching The Big Bang Theory and wondering why it has to be Howard Wolowitz I man fancy.

So, on the upside:

I'm writing proposals for a super sekrit thing! And I had a dream about super sekrit thing - namely that I was only asked to maybe take part in it because someone wanted Charlotte Stevens and mistakenly asked me instead, but lets put that aside before it makes me evaluate my psych too intently. Basically, I'm hovering between massive excitement and certainty that it will all never come off, at the moment, so please wish me luck. Or failing that, please wish for me to get over my sudden, inexplicable love for a man replete with sleazy come-ons.

My novella, Carnal Craving, is out now in the anthology Mammoth Book of Hot Romance. Or at least, it is in the UK. And it's a totally exciting and wonderful antho to be in, so even if you hate me and wish you were reading Charlotte Stevens instead, go buy it because everyone else in it is orsum. See:

My other novella, Guarded, comes out soon! Hurrah! Here's the link, if you want to learn some stuff about it:

I am in the middle of editing a novel (Telling Tales) and a novella (All Other Things). The fact that I'm editing them in and of itself isn't exactly good news (though I suppose it might count as such when you know that I'm also currently addicted to Sims 3 and The Big Bang Theory, and both things are making me not go to the toilet and not bathe and not eat until I turn into a sightless mole person who thinks she has to keep an eye on her energy bar in order to determine when to sleep), but the fact that I don't hate either of them with a passion of a thousand burning suns shining out of Michael York's butthole is. Somehow I always think I'm going to hate the books I've written when I haven't read them for a while, as though evol goblins came in and rewrote the whole things when I wasn't looking. But no, I think I'm safe.

I got a lovely review of my short story in Obsessed, from none other than the illustrious Super Librarian herself:

Of course, I then did a big excitement wee. She liked it! Even tho the story's weird as fook! And she wants to read more stuff of mine! *shorts out*

And on the downside:

I don't care about the downside anymore. It's there, but I'm not even going to give it the time of day. Look: Maru!

Monday, August 1, 2011

Mancandy Monday: Brandon Routh

I'm pretty sure I've never done a Brandon Routh Mancandy. Which quite possibly threatens the very existence of our universe, and makes me a likely evol doppelganger of myself. I mean, only an evol doppelganger of myself would not have done a Mancandy about Brandon Routh, by now. Plus, she has a tiny goatee and she eats all of the mint Bliss Hershey's things that I swear were made by God himself, I swear they were.

But enough about Hershey's mint Bliss things copyright God 2011. Onto why it's so unbelievable that I've done so many Mancandies that I now can no longer remember if I've done one about him, or not.

Because seriously, he's like the most perfect man ever. I think God made him while he was eating one of the mint Hershey's Bliss thingies. He put it in his mouth, and then he had an instant orgasm, and then he made Brandon Routh.

Don't believe me? Check out this arm:

I mean seriously. How is his arm like that? It looks like it has a sexy alien growing inside of it. And I don't mind admitting that I want to hump that sexy alien. I want to hump it until it hatches out of his face.

Which probably explains why he's staring in such trepidation at the whole area. I'd be staring too, if my arm was a) that sexy and b) likely to turn into a seven foot xenomorph that eats the crew of my spaceship and leaves me crying in my underwear with a cat.

Though I've got to say, I think I cry harder when I look upon Brandon Routh's glorious visage. Or at least, my vagina cries harder. My vagina cries so much that I have to hook myself up to an IV to combat vagina dehydration. Most of the fluids in my body are halfway down my legs, because of this thing:

I can't even call it a face. It's not a face. It's a mint Hershey's Bliss thing on top of someone's neck. It's my every sexual fantasy made flesh, in so many, many perfect ways that I can't even really talk about it. I mean - he's literally like Zachary Quinto's more attractive younger brother.

Can you even wrap your mind around that? I can't. I can't even think about it without being consumed by my own groin. All I have to do is picture myself going round to Mrs Quinto-Routh's house for tea, ready to wet myself over her gorgeous son Zachary, and then THIS creature walks out of his sweaty boy bedroom and is all like:


Because come on. You know the Brandon Routh in my head talks like that. He's not only vagina dehydratingly handsome, he's also somehow the most adorbs thing ever. He made an orsum Clark Kent precisely because he's so good at tripping over his own feet and being all awkward, and you know how stupid things like that turn my crank.

I want him to trip over his feet and fall face first into my fanny. Which is not half as gross as it sounds, because by this point he's spent half an hour being all vulnerable and cute and prudish, and my vagina's as dry as the Sahara because it just created a miniature Nile around my ankles.

Brandon Routh makes me have geographical locations between my legs. Tomorrow the Discovery Channel are coming around to make a documentary about this mysterious confluence of a giant river and a barren desert. Bear Grylls is going to climb my left thigh and survive on the Ruffles crumbs that I somehow let drop into the crevice behind my kneecap.

But I don't care, because Brandon Routh exists. And not only does he exist, but he also brings more visitors to my blog than any other thing does, purely by virtue of the search term "Brandon Routh bulge". And I can't even feel bad about that, because his bulge looks like this:

And also because recently the search term "Charlotte Stein" overtook it, which just makes me want to kiss the world. Stay still, world. I'm going in.


If you'd like to hear more about my obsession with Brandon Routh, you can visit these posts what I did over at Geek and Kink about him, Superman and Clark Kent:

I have no idea if I've ever said this on my blog because apparently I have all the "my blog" knowledge of someone who's the opposite of me - like, say Cameron Diaz - but I blog every Friday there, and other orsum people blog there on other days about all things sexy and geeky. It's fun! Check it out!