Friday Fashion

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Justin Pierce wore it best.

WOW! The voter turnout for last week’s Friday Fashion poll was incredible! 206 of you participated, and I’m guessing it’s because the three contenders for “who wore it best” generated strong opinions. And double WOW! This is unquestionably the closest voting in the history of neverland polls.  67 of you voted that Italian beefcake Vinny Trevino wore those white with blue trim trunks best. 69 of you voted that bootilicous Cameron Matthews did. And 70 of you gave the edge to one of the prettiest pretty boys to ever set foot in the ring, Justing Pierce. That’s a margin of victory of less 4/10ths of one percent! In many state elections, that would trigger an automatic recount, but here at neverland, a winner is a winner, regardless of the margin. That said, Cameron and Vinny can hardly be classified as “losers,” neither in how hot they looked in those same trunks, nor in how hard they move fans in, and out, of anything.  But by the skin of his teeth, it was in Demolition 9 that Justin Pierce who wore it best.

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Justin’s ass could make anything (and most definitely nothing) look stunningly hot!

This week’s poll is another match-up spotted by a reader, this time, Phil, who commented to a prior Friday Fashion that a certain low-slung, pouch-tastic white with black trim singlet first caught his eye when mega-bulge rookie Dylan Roberts wore it getting wrecked in Rookie Wreckers 1. But when it comes to bulges, Kid Karisma is never, ever without an abundance of ammunition, so I have to guess he was battling both his opponent Gabriel Ross as well as for fashion bragging rights  with Dylan Roberts when he wore the same gear in Kid K’s wrestler spotlight. Not everyone could pull this look off (though I’d be happy to pull it off of both of these studs… at the same time… in the ring…). However, I think these two beauties are mouthwateringly tasty in it. But there can be only one, so who do you think wore it best?

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In Rookie Wreckers 1, Dylan Roberts introduced BG East fans to his mammoth bulge and that provocative singlet. He wore it first, but did he wear it best?

 

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Kid Karisma makes everything he touches (his opponents, his gear) all his own, including rocking the same singlet as only Kid K can. It was a bold fashion choice to squeeze his body into the same singlet that Dylan did. Now the question to you is, did he wear it best?

Fashion Friday

Thanks to a couple of readers, we have some more cutting edge fashion decisions yet to make when it comes to homoerotic wrestling gear. Homoerotic wrestling “success” operates on so many levels, of course. There’s the ostensible “winner” who has either scored the most falls or, at the very least, is the last man standing. There’s the most accomplished wrestling sell, where regardless of who is has his hand raised in the end, either wrestler may have been most adept at telling the most convincing story of domination or submission, brutality dished out or suffering embodied. And of course there’s always the gay man’s fallback competition: who’s got the hottest body. But perhaps winner for the most superficial and secondary contest in any homoerotic wrestling competition is “who wore it best?”.

This week’s poll comes to us via the sharp eye for fashion from neverland’s most frequent guest blogger, Alex. Alex points out that three hot and popular wrestlers all wore the same white trunks with blue trim while wrestling for BG East. Dynamo Cameron Matthews worked this gear like the pro he is in Tag Team Torture 9. Vinny Trevino was a vision of muscled beauty in the same trunks in Demolition 6. And incredibly popular babyface hero Justin Pierce sported the same fashion in Demolition 9. I’ll presume to speak for the entire world of homoerotic wrestling fanatics when I say that each of them rocked these trunks. But I leave it up to you to determine who wore it best. Check out the options and then vote below.

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Cameron Matthews hardly needs back up when it comes to making these trunks work like a champ in Tag Team Torture 9.
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Vinny Trevino is the epitome of a muscle hunk wrestler in Demolition 6, but of the options, did he wear these trunks best?
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Few homoerotic wrestlers ever made the splash that achingly pretty Justin Pierce made, but in Demolition 9, did he wear this particular gear choice best?

Thursday Thighs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve already alliterated once today, so I’ll keep Thursday’s Thighs to a minimum.  Mostly, I just want to point out what I think is an odd convention of photographing hot homoerotic wrestling hunks with stunningly sexy legs from the knees (or even lower thighs) up.  Now I love me hot torsos, no doubt.  But the seeming aversion to giving loving photographic attention to the beautiful legs of beautiful wrestlers is just plain wrong!  Here are just a few classic stunners flexing their gorgeous thighs, and yet the focus of the camera remains riveted above the waist.

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BG East’s Justin Pierce

 

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Can-Am’s Beau Hopkins
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BG East’s Troy Baker
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Can-Am’s Roman Stone

A Case for a Face

Red-white-and-blue junior Captain Americas as pretty, pumped, and competitive as babyfaces can be: Jake Jenkins and Austin Cooper
All in the same day a couple of days ago, SP at Inner Jobber posted a by-the-numbers “how to be a fantasy wrestling jobber (like Curtis Thompson)” post, and Joe at Ringside at Skull Island posted a “you might be a heel if…” list of distinguishing characteristics of the heel set, and I briefly mentioned my guilty pleasure of watching a babyface hero defeat an evil doer in the ring.  I think there’s less said than should be about professional wrestlers who fall neither into the doomed to be exploited category or the devious exploiters category.  Since SP and Joe did such thoughtful treatments of jobbers and heels, I decided to try to do a little more justice on behalf of that oft-maligned class of homoerotic wrestlers: the face.
I’ve got a longstanding crush on handsome hero Mitch Colby.

I say oft-maligned because I think to be compelled to pull for the handsome hero is frequently portrayed as gullible.  To boost for the “good guy,” the hard worker, the play-by-the rules, sincere competitor is frequently equated with naiveté.  Guys into the conquering and suffering of a pretty boy may ache for their jobbers, and guys into domination and humiliation dished out by a villain will pull for their heels.  I have a long, long record of working up a head of steam for plenty of jobbers and plenty of heels.  But call me gullible and naive, because (not always, but definitely sometimes) nothing will crank on my chain as convincingly as an all-in babyface (or just “face”) beauty using brains and brawn to overcome treachery and deceit.

Gorgeous face Denny Cartier is all skill, stamina, and strength on the mat.

I venture into this territory with eyes open.  I’ve seen the equivalent of doctoral dissertations written on parsing out opinions about what and who qualifies to be classified as a babyface wrestler.  I’d bet money someone will let me know where I got it wrong by the time I finish this post.  And I love that about us.  We’re the aroused, gorgeous gay nerds of professional wrestling.  We care way too much, leading us to quibble and at times even squabble about what is, let’s face it, minutiae and trivia.  We openly defy orthodoxies on one hand (e.g., celebrating the fierce, butch, dangerously strong and masculine gay man), while on the other hand bitterly defend other orthodoxies (e.g., heaping contempt on the commenter who describes your favorite jobber as a face, or vice versa).  Despite the apparent perception of others that I consider myself an expert, I offer this as nothing more than my personal system for classifying that distinctive breed of wrestler-for-pay who is not the villain, and he’s not the wrestler who seems eternally destined to lose beautifully.  But rather, he’s the heroic athlete determined to defeat his opponents with skill, stamina, and strength, and sometimes, he even succeeds.

Fiercely pretty babyface tagteam Zack Coleman and Brian Barnes.
Like babies themselves, I can’t think of anyone ugly who I’d classify as a babyface wrestler.  Granted, “ugly” is entirely subjective, but inclusion criteria for babyface wrestlers (as far as I’m concerned), include a strong, chiseled chin, gorgeous, piercing (often blue) eyes, and a gym-toned body with beautiful skin.  The parameters are flexible to accommodate an assortment of tastes (eye of the beholder and all), but something obviously beautiful seems a prerequisite.  A babyface seems to, by definition, be attractive in a conventional sense.  It’s not like particularly homoerotic wrestling is well-populated with men who fail to meet basic standards of physical attractiveness, but those especially handsome Clark Kent-esque boys tend to get checks in my personal tally of elements that add up to the essential ingredients of a compelling face.  Necessary but not sufficient criteria to be a babyface, it seems to me, is eye-catching beauty.  
Alexi Adamov strives valiantly to honestly overcome notorious Aryx Quinn’s dirty tricks.
Further inclusion criteria for me include that babyface wrestlers tend to stick to the straight and narrow when faced with (as they frequently are) an underhanded, dirty, no-good heel.  Here’s where it comes in handy to have powerful muscles and innate athleticism (again, necessary but not sufficient characteristics of faces – plenty of heels and jobbers have beautiful muscles and obvious athleticism).  When faced with cheating and trickery, the Pearl Harbor before the bell rings, the hair pull, the crotch blow, the foreign object, the refusal to break a hold when the action hits the ropes, the babyface hero grimaces, shakes his head (“kids these days”) and reinvests his faith in his thousands of hours of gym time and, hopefully, substantive experience and wrestling skills.  An occasional venture into a retributive low blow not-withstanding (particularly in homoerotic wrestling), the face places his confidence in the superiority of his physique, his mental preparation, his wrestling prowess, and the sincerity of his heart.  In a post-modern world, faces can get away with a lot more rule bending and still be objects of heroic adoration, of course.  They can most definitely lose their temper, open a can of unnecessarily rough whoop-ass, ravage an opponent momentarily in a rage.  But in the morality tales of homoerotic wrestling, if I see a handsome stud tend toward the exercise of self-restraint and appear to intentionally decline to take shortcuts, I check off another box in the face checklist.

Who’s got whom? Babyface hearthrob Brad Rochelle battles babyface heartthrob Jeff Phoenix

That’s not to say a babyface can only be seen in matches against heels, of course.  He can most definitely wrestle another babyface or a jobber, by all means.  Sometimes, he may be less easily identified in those settings, but nevertheless he perseveres in the certainty that he is the “better man” which will lead to his victory (as opposed to the heel who sees his victory, by whatever means, as the evidence that he’s the better man).  A babyface v babyface battle can be a particularly compelling thing of beauty.  Two hard, hardworking studs who’ve been convinced by accolades and past victories that they are destined to succeed can generate intensely satisfying and homoerotically charged wrestling entertainment.  The allure of the thrill of competition (which I argue is an essential element of what turns me on about the drama of homoerotic wrestling) can be most poignant and compelling for me when it’s face v face, beauty v beauty, power v power.  These are matches in which tit-for-tat wrestling often makes me smile, as athletes play a game of HORSE, showing off their skills and strength in a one-upsmanship format.  Like knights in armor of old, they charge upright into one another with a typically unspoken assumption that purity of heart will add weight to the scales of justice, and the outcome is less about the delectable doings inside the ropes as it is about who wanted it more as demonstrated by preparation, training, and hard work before they entered the ring.

Classic babyface Christopher Bruce shocks and awes perennially supine Rio Garza

I also like the drama of a babyface v jobber match, though again, I think this can confuse folks who equate a serious mauling as the exclusive domain of a heel.  By my way of thinking, a babyface is generally convinced in the superiority of his training, conditioning, and strength, so there’s most definitely still a story to tell when he encounters a pretty slice of heaven with a track record for getting crushed and humiliated.  He wrestles because he has faith in the premise that if he is the better man, he will win.  Dangling a jobber in front of his face, particularly a tasty, pretty, unknowingly vulnerable jobber, merely offers him the opportunity to collect evidence to confirm what he already knew: all of his hard work destines him to conquer an unworthy opponent.  A jobber’s job is that much more crucial in a babyface v jobber match, because his suffering must rise from being outmatched and outwitted above board.  There’s not likely a low blow or a nipple-twist to explain what threw the jobber off his game, so the two must dance the intricate dance of decisive, convincing combat.  A jobber must beat like a wave upon the sand against the superior strength of body and spirit, only slowly to ebb in will and perseverance in the face of the innate dominance of the finely tuned babyface offense.  Not an ounce less agony, not a smidge less suffering is required than if the jobber took a fist to the scrotum and had his face forced into a heel’s swelling crotch.  This tale is just a tad more subtle but no less tantalizing and tempting for my tastes, for the drama of a jobber slowly crumbling beneath a face.

Heel rising Morgan Cruise drops gorgeous giant Diego Diaz with a shocking low blow

Finally, I’d like to make a case for holding these archetypes in pro wrestling lightly when it comes to homoerotic fare.  While I’m sure I’ll get crap for getting it wrong (won’t be the first time… to get crap or to get it wrong), I’ll also suggest that so far, there isn’t a homoerotic wrestling company producing a through-story with quite the consistency of a weekly mainstream pro wrestling serial in which these archetypes were birthed in live wrestling and televised wrestling entertainment decades ago (probably centuries, really).  Character development takes time and consistency that I think is particularly challenging in the catch-as-catch-can world of the homoerotic wrestling industry.  While there are notable exceptions, such as the highly entertaining through-story that Alex recently posted about regarding the crushing humiliation of fan-favorite face Brad Rochelle until Brad pulled off a sweetly satisfying heel turn in the middle of the Contract series, a chaptered story building motivation and a story arc is a rare element in homoerotic wrestling.  And therefore a face, jobber, or heel may be built or broken within the confines of a given match.  I find this type of story telling more intense, though inherently more difficult to latch onto favorite characters over time (because characters may play multiple roles in seemingly out-of-order sequences).  In other words, my favorite industry highlights that a face (or a jobber or a heel) is not who a wrestler is, but what a wrestler does.  The sum total of a storied career in pro wrestling for gay eyes likely demonstrates that “one man in his time plays many parts.”

Gorgeous babyface Justin Pierce puts the hurt on gorgeous babyface Tommy Tara

In his last post, Alex proposed a new Contract (or Contract-like-series) to chart another rare chaptered story of homoerotic wrestling drama.  I love that idea.  I’d also add my dream of an honest-to-god serial homoerotic pro wrestling story, released as a “season,” witnessing the rise and fall of wrestling hopefuls, the tensions and betrayals, the shocking humiliations and victories-against-the-well-established-odds… alliances made, loyalties tested, egos crushed, losers showing up again owned and operated by the man who bested them… roaring testimonials, sweat-soaked post-match interviews, an explicitly named grudge, a quest for vengeance.  There are some nice tropes and devices of classic mainstream pro wrestling that I think have yet to be fully translated into an explicitly homoerotic context.  I’m sure it would require an entirely different production, likely including prohibitive amounts of scheduling, investment, and choreography.  But seriously, I’d pay a premium for that, particularly with an explicitly homoerotic angle.  Some more suspense, a story arc, a chance to tune in repeatedly to be compelled by a favorite face, heel or jobber… surely there’s a significant market for that.

Babyface beauty Cameron Matthews heeled by Kid Vicious
So I started by making a case for a face, which I still stand by enthusiastically.  Heroes battling for good, winning valiantly, losing in soul-crushing, despair-inducing humiliation… fuck, I love that guy.  But I’d love him even more in a context in which I could watch his character grow and change, in which his motivation is more explicit, contrasts drawn more starkly, perhaps his heel turn that much more shocking because he’d convinced me of his utter trust that right will ultimately overcome might.  I’m sure it’s a pipe dream, but it’s still a dream that makes my blood pulse harder.

The Give and Take

At some point I lost track of Wrestling Arsenal’s fine blog, but I just found it again. He has a nice, smart take on wrestling, and he’s got a fun sense of humor. Wrestling Arsenal’s post yesterday, for example, offers an insightful examination of the suffering wrestling hunk.

“The true beauty of pro wrestling,” he writes, “lies not in the strength and stamina of the winner, but in the frailty, vulnerability, and suffering of the loser.” The ironic twist is that so many of us want to see our favorite wrestler suffer. Hell, I’d venture to guess 99.9% of the readers of this blog get wildly aroused to see our favorite wrestler suffer! Wrestling Arsenal argues that the sight of the suffering hero stirs the most profound pathos. Our sympathies and identification with the sufferer are boiled down to the most potent essence of humanity as we watch the vulnerability of one man laid out so completely, without the least pretense of dignity left to him.

I like this deconstruction of the iconic moment of a wrestler’s suffering. It strikes a chord in me. It also makes me think about the additional element that causes a drastic drop in my blood pressure: the victor gazing down upon the suffering loser. I think all the same elements apply that Wrestling Arsenal describes. And I think that there’s also an element of profound intimacy in that exchange between the two battlers that speaks directly to the inherent homoeroticism of wrestling.

When Jack Guerin climbed into the ring with Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!), he had a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He was a young, hard, eager rookie. Seriously sweet pecs and thick shoulders. Ominously, he’d not done his homework, though. He didn’t really know who Mr. Joshua was. He didn’t know what Mr. Joshua was capable of. He didn’t know that 15 minutes later, he’d find himself flat on his stomach in the middle of the ring, completely dazed and nearly delirious. And the key thing that young Jack didn’t know was that Mr. Joshua was standing overtop of him, his feet straddling Jack’s torso, staring down at the young buck’s muscled back. There’s an element of self-congratulations about the victor’s gaze upon his beaten, defenseless opponent. He’s appreciating his handiwork. He’s admiring the effect of his labors played out so explicitly on the suffering body of his once-invincible challenger. Of course, Mr. Joshua is also just waiting for poor Jack to crawl back up to his hands and knees so that he can drop his ass down punishingly into the small of Jack’s back, sending him crashing back to the mat (and then needing to adjust his massive package for his effort). But before that, there’s something almost more intimate about Mr. Joshua’s fixed gaze on upon his outmatched opponent suffering beneath him than any physical contact exchanged between the two.

I haven’t yet seen the classic battle between Dante Rosetti and Davey Dee from Fantasymen 13, but I confess that I’ve been nursing a growing infatuation with Dante lately. The sight of Davey smiling down so malevolently as Dante is flat on his back in the center of the ring is an entire novel of story telling in one photo. Okay, set aside (if you can) the distracting sight of Davey’s cock so clearly outlined beneath the taut, shiny fabric of his white tights. And once you’ve managed to tear your eyes away from both men’s stunning physiques, take another look at Davey’s face. With his head cocked slightly to the side, he’s soaking in Dante’s defenseless. With his hands planted domineeringly on his narrow hips, Davey is simply delighting in the physical vulnerability of his gorgeous opponent. Even though I haven’t seen the match, I can tell with absolute certainty that the the gorgeous dark Italian that climbed into the ring with such a sense of inevitability about his victory couldn’t have imagined he’d be flattened and helpless soon enough. Whatever these two got up to in the ring (or out of the ring, for that matter), this pleased, assessing gaze that Davey gives his beaten hunk just seems astonishingly intimate to me.

My last case in point comes from one of the all time great mat battles in my book. Mitch Colby, the then owner of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title, faced off against the timeless physique and constantly growing mat savvy of BG East veteran Patrick Donovan. These two stunning hunks compare stats before the match starts. Mitch has an extra inch of height and a couple handfuls of pounds over Patrick, but both coldly calculating studs agree that they’re evenly matched on paper. When the scramble begins, it turns out that they’re evenly matched in practice, as well. The submissions fly fast and furious. Both boys are twisted and crushed to the point that it makes me wince just to watch it. They both fight a little dirty, taking unnecessary advantage, refusing to break on submissions, resorting to crotch claws to steal the wind from each other’s sails. When Patrick suggests a bearhug challenge, both long, tall slabs of beef are soaked in sweat and put on gorgeous display as they take turns willingly suffering in each other’s arms. Back and forth, back and forth, you begin to wonder if either of these boys will manage to build the momentum to finally derail his tenacious opponent.

But in the end, Mitch conquers like the reigning champ he was. Patrick is lying in pools of both boys’ sweat, flat on his back, pretty much oblivious to the world in the exhausted haze Mitch left him in. Mitch flexes and preens. He throws his own little victory party as he celebrates while Patrick slowly writhes on the mat with Mitch’s foot planted alternatingly on his ass and then crushing his crotch. And then Mitch takes up that familiar position, his feet straddling Patrick’s ridiculously narrow waist as he stares down long and hard at the fallen gladiator. Patrick’s instantly inadequate orange thong barely does the job of reigning in the veteran’s swollen moneymaker. True enough, Mitch pretty quickly connects all the dots going through your mind and mine by dropping to his hand and knees, grinding his own pouch into Patrick’s, pinning the loser’s wrists over his head, and tasting the sweet taste of victory. But I swear to you, that moment that Mitch is hovering, gazing down at his beaten man, that’s the most intimate moment of this match in my mind, as Mitch simply witnesses up close what Wrestling Arsenal calls “the vulnerability, frailty, and suffering of the loser.”

Power and vulnerability. Strength and weakness. Dominance and submission. Victory and defeat. It’s the combination of these elements that write the wrestling stories that grab hold of us. I keep watching not for the sight of one man’s hand raised in victory, but for that erotic telling of the story of a relationship, of power against power and the slow turning of power into vulnerability.

How Does That Feel!?


It’s cliche’, I know. But I can’t help myself but be sucked in when one wrestler snarls at his opponent, “
How does that feel!?

It’s not as if it’s a real question. It’s typically asked when one man is clearly suffering. The obvious answer is, “It hurts!” The question is rhetorical. It’s not asked in an effort to gather information, but to domineer. It’s a question intended to humiliate, to drive home the point that the suffering man is paid for and owned outright by his opponent. Asking the question, “how does that feel,” is about pointing out all that’s obvious here: I control you. Where your pain starts and stops is completely in my hands. I own your body, and once you acknowledge the foregone conclusion that you have no choice but submit to me, you’re entirely mine.
Let me just put it out there. When I’m watching a favorite homoerotic beat down and I hear the rhetorical question, “How does that feel,” I frequently answer. Out loud. Emphatically. As usual, even as I type this I wonder, “Am I just disclosing way too much?” Ah, what the hell. When I hear Cole or Mitch or Rusty or Derek snarl down at some muscled boy that they’ve just broken in body and spirit, asking him how it feels, I often answer, saying something like, “That feels fucking awesome!” I realize that they aren’t actually asking me, but that question can collapse the distance between entertainer and entertained for me, transporting me ringside where my muscle champion inflicts pain explicitly for my pleasure. Sure, he’s looking down into his opponent’s face as he crushes the suffering man’s balls beneath his feet, but his question is for me, “How does that feel, Bard?”
He’s digging his claws into the fantastically meaty pecs of his jobber boy, whose face is contorted with pain and near-sobs are wracking his body. And when he asks, “How does that feel?” he’s asking me, “Is this what you want to see? If I claw my fingers in deeper, how does that make you feel, Bard?”
It’s a contemptuous, domineering, humiliating throw away line that’s just meant to tell the story of one man’s complete domination. But when the fighter on top asks, “How does that feel,” the words frequently transport me ringside, where this muscle on muscle battle is being waged for my pleasure. The ars erotica of the beautiful body beatdown becomes more than just implicitly for my pleasure. The dispenser of punishment is considerately checking in with his patron. “How about if I twist his rippled body a few inches farther? What if I crank his neck until he cries. How does that feel, Bard?”
Feels fucking awesome, Mitch. Keep it up.

Users Behaving Badly

The internet is quite a forum for letting it all hang out. I certainly don’t share the depth of intimate details with perfect strangers that I encounter face-to-face, that I’m willing to share with personal strangers who remain faceless on the other end of an internet connection. The medium is a remarkable venue for confession, community, and self-disclosure. Clearly, it’s also a medium ripe with opportunities to behave poorly.

I’ve noticed an uptick in the number of people attempting to comment on this blog using non-Latin-based characters and embedded with multiple links. While I sincerely appreciate the international following that the blog might attract, just be forewarned that any comments with embeds will be rejected, and the only non-English comments permitted will be those written in Swedish (ask Swito). I do my best to be a generous host, so I expect my guests to behave themselves appropriately. Embeds with potentially dangerous links are bad manners. To those of you who might want to comment with embeds linked to spyware or other noxious tricks, I think someone needs to sit you down and teach you a thing or two about manners.
Similarly, the large number of notes I get each day notifying me that I’ve won Britain’s national lottery are just bad form. No I will not give you my bank account number so that you can deposit the millions of pounds to which I have miraculously become entitled. I won’t give you my bank account number so that you can give me your dead husband’s millions in oil revenue from Africa. I won’t give you my bank account number in order to assist you in a most profitable business venture. I could not, would not in a house. I could not, would not with a mouse.
I’m just talking about good manners. Don’t try to steal what doesn’t belong to you. Don’t prey on the naive. Don’t bilk the simple-minded or gullible. It’s just bad form. And to those of you who persist in angling to cheat and steal, trick and betray, I can only hope that someday someone will powerslam your ass so hard your teeth rattle, climb on top of your chest, pin your throat to the floor and spit in your face until you submit, relent, and think better of your bad behavior in the future.
Manners, gentlemen. Manners.