Old Hollywood’s not-so-Chosen-One.

Mr. and Mrs. American Gothic were tigers in the sack!

Enough of all this Euro-scandal, am I right?  Let’s cross back over to the right side of the pond where the condoms are thinner and the divorces are sweeter, and talk about some good, ol’ fashioned American sex-having.

For today’s post, For Shame! returns to one of our most frequent haunts, the Old Hollywood.  Full disclosure: this post is not written our resident moving pictures expert, the lovely JAF.  Today’s tale of scandal is written by the least-knowledgeable-about-movies for shame biddy, LHB.  So don’t expect me to educate you on the finer things like “film” or “art.”  This is strictly about illicit interactions between snatches and ding dongs from the days of yore.  Got it? Good.

Hmm…I…Never mind.

Paulette Goddard was born Miriam Shapiro Blumenberg Rosenthal Yaskowitz in Crown Heights, NY.  JUST KIDDING.  She didn’t have that big of a nose.  But she was named Marion Pauline Levy when she came out of her mother’s treyf vag in 1910 in Queens, NY.  This little babushka is only, like, the third Jew we’ve written about on For Shame! and I’m so excited about it, my mezuzah is tingling.

I wouldn’t be that broken up about having a creepy uncle get me into the Zeigfeld girls.  They look like they’re having so much fun!

Paulette’s parents got d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d when she was a youngin’ and papa Levy ran away without so much as a “Shalom, y’all.”  The little harlot, I mean, starlet, grew up to be a very pretty lady and her great uncle (not weird at all) helped her get some gigs as a fashion model and then later as a Ziegfeld girl in the Ziegfeld Follies.  After that, she did a lot of stage acting in NYC, while attending high school in Manhattan.  But then in 1926 (when she was SIX-fucking-TEEN), she married an older business man who made his living cutting down wood.  They were divorced 4 years later (because of impotency issues? – I‘m trying to make a wood joke, I don’t know how, I’m floundering, help me?) after she moved to Hollywood in 1930.

Let’s recap: she’s 20 years old, already divorced and living in the land of movie milk and honey. I’m 21 and I haven’t even been married, let alone divorced yet!  Jesus Christ, Get with it, LHB!

Goddard in Modern Times, looking fierce and, as MRG noted, oddly contemporary.

Anyway, now it’s the ’30s and she’s living in Hollywood and acting in as many pictures as her boobies can get her cast in and living in sin with our favorite star of the silver screen, Charlie Chaplin.  S’right!  Bitch was shacking up with the most famous Nazi-impersonator this side of the Bering Strait.  And he never even put a ring on it!  I know what you’re thinking.  “BFD, LHB.  People do anything in California. They marry prostitutes, they get famous for making sex tapes, they run for office when all they’ve ever done is star in action movies and father illegitimate children.”  Well, you are right of course.  But I haven’t finished my story yet, so sit the fuck down and get ready to be scandalized.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the year 1939 but it was kind of an important one.  It came after 1938 and just before 1940.  You probably remember it because that’s when Germany invaded Poland.  It was also the year that both Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz were released!  Goddard was considered for roles in both – 3rd flying monkey from the left in Oz and Scarlet O’Hara in Wind.  FINE I ADMIT IT.  That wasn’t exactly true.  She was never considered for the role of the third most important flying monkey THAT WE KNOW OF.

But she was one of the last two actresses considered for the part of ScarOHar in the immortal (and super-duper racist) Gone with the Wine, I mean Wind, along with Vivien Leigh.  And guess why she didn’t get the part!!!  The producers wouldn’t touch her because of her questionable marital status with Mr. Chaplin!  Which is kind of bull doody because Vivien Leigh was living with Laurence Olivier and both of them were married to other people who refused to divorce them.  Apparently in the eyes of the movie-gods, choosing not to marry someone because you’re against the whole institution is a way sinner-y-er than being married and living with and boning someone else who is also married.

Do yourself a favor and go buy yourself a copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, read the shit out of it and tell me it’s not one of the most powerful books you’ve ever read. I hear it’s on sale at a Borders near you.

But Paulette got over it and still had a great career (including starring in the original 1939 The Women) and managed to marry a couple more people.  Which is ALWAYS GOOD.  AM I RIGHT LADIES?!?!  She and Charlie split after filming The Great Dictator together in 1940, but were still BFFs forevs.  She married Burgess Meredith in 1944 and then got a schmivorce from him in 1949.  Then she married the true love of her life, Erich Maria Remarque, in 1958.  When he died in 1970, she inherited his vast collection of modern art.  (HOW JEALOUS AM I?! SO JEALOUS.)  She went on to become one of the richest bitches in the NYC social scene and Andy Warhol’s best friend.  She died after a short illness at age 79.

Moral of the story: If you want to be cast in the most famous movie of the century, have your boyfriend put a ring on it before your headshot gets thrown in the trash because the studio thinks you’re a slut face.


The Right to Bare Arms (and Boobies).

This post commemorates so many things. And by ‘so many’ I mean two.

1) The arrival of the one and only AB at two out of three for shame! midsized east coast liberal arts colleges. He is the last of the really great wangdoodles the internship/education coordinator from Bath, who knew an inordinate amount of fun facts, wore green shoes, was taught by LHB to use ‘the interweb,’ and was the guest of honor for The Only Annual Linley Potluck Dinner, held in the basement of my house. I can still smell MRG’s Martha Proud mac n cheese, and the excitement of 30-odd people crammed into The Cave conference room. Oh my God, my throat’s a little tight.

2) AND, the kind-of-sort-of year anniversary-in-general of all our classes being held in one room. In a building called NELSON HOUSE. It’s called NELSON HOUSE because (according to our study abroad program website) The Viscount Horatio NELSON stayed there on his “frequent visits to the city.” From that I infer he took his prostitutes there.

Ipso facto, vis-a-vis, curriculum vitae, Emma, Lady Hamilton. Horatio Nelson’s greatest bangmaid.

Amy Lyons/Emma Hart. Give me your tired, your poor, your genetically blessed.

Born Amy Lyons in 1765, the daughter of an impoverished blacksmith, she worked her way up from being a maid in various households and at the Drury Lane Theatahhh, to eventually become a model and dancer. Now, being a model and dancer in 18th century England is not the respectable position it is today. When you were a model and dancer in 18th century England, you ended up dancing naked for several months on a dining room table when you’re 15 for a bunch of House of Lords members at a stag party, then getting taken as a mistress by the host, Sir Harry Featherstonhaugh, subsequently ignored, and subsequently subsequently befriending the ‘safe’ Hon. Charles Francis Greville, getting knocked up by Featherstonhaugh, dumped, and then shacking up with Greville. That’s what Wikipedia told me you did if you were a model and dancer in 18th century England. Amy Lyons must have read the same article.

After she had her baby and worked mad Zumba so her figure returned, Greville had Amy change her name to Emma Hart and pose for a bunch of nudie sketches for his friend, George Romney. Romney became obsessed with her (in the art world they prefer the term ‘muse’), and her coy I’ve-danced-on-tables-naked-before hotness made him extremely popular, and introduced Emma to society circles. Biddy learned quick, and she rose to social fame, but also shamed Greville in the process, ’cause, oh look, he’s dating that chick who’s slippin’ the nip in all those paintings. Greville married a rich gurl and shipped Emma off to Naples to be the ‘hostess’ at his elderly uncle, Sir William Hamilton’s ‘salon.’ Wikipedia gets a little sassy when it enters this part of the narrative. And I quote, “Emma was thus sent to Naples, supposedly for six to eight months, little realizing that she was going as the mistress of her host. She became furious when she realized what Greville had planned for her. But in fact this was the best thing that ever happened to her.”

Hush Wiki, just give me the questionable facts.

You know who knows he’s hot? #GeorgeRomney.

While in Naples, she became an entertainer of sorts, creating tableau vivants (or, as normal people call them, mime shows) by combining classical poses with ‘modern allure,’ and adopted the dress of Italian peasants. Blah blah blah, she became even more famous and influenced fashion and acting across Europe, blah blah, created the Grecian/Regency style, blah blah fucking blah. She finally gave in to the 60something Hamilton in 1791, and married him in her mid twenties. This might have been due to the fact she received a title and one of the largest landholdings in England, but who knows, maybe she really loved the guy.

In 1798, when Emma was 33 (FUCKING OLD, MAN), she met Horatio Nelson, hero of the Napoleonic Wars, who was missing an arm, an eye, most of his teeth, and prone to coughing fits. Apparently she fainted from ecstasy at the sight of him.

Sir. William Hamilton. Hey I’m into it.

She nursed him (with her lady parts), fell in love, and began an affair which was kind of creepily encouraged by Hamilton (maybe because his most famous wife was now banging the most famous man in England and he got dope swag since he was along for the ride). The three of them thus embarked on a devil’s threesome roadtrip across Europe, meeting great acclaim in every city as people applauded their shameless banging. Nelson was sent back to the Navy by the Admiralty because this behavior was a little unkosher, so in his absence, Emma picked up her relationship with Hamilton, who she refused to divorce. Nelson, b.t.dubs, was also married, but estranged from his wife, and did not feel he could solicit a divorce from her without a great military victory. Maybe so he could rub more shit in her face, but I’m just guessing here.

When he returned, the three of them bought a house in England and lived openly in a (quote, Wikipedia), “menage a trois that fascinated the public.” They were tabloid staples, and Emma had Nelson’s daughter, Horatia, in 1801, and a second died shortly after birth in 1804. William died in 1803, and Nelson returned to war, leaving Emma lonely but now free to marry her one-armed Fabio when he returned.


Too bad. He died.

She became poor, obscure and alcoholic and died of dysentery in 1815. A fairytale ending!!!!!!1

BUT, she endures in popular culture. She’s had three movies made about her (including one from Alexander Korda, who made one of my all time favorites, The Third Man, starring ORSON WELLES), has multiple books devoted to her and multiple fashions are in her debt, and basically any Penguin Classics cover from Austen/Bronte/Thackery/Grahame-Smith/etc. features a portrait of Emma looking regal as shit. So I guess the moral of the story is that you can be a huge slut, but also a brilliant social climber and get super famous (and lord knows, if you’ve read Vanity Fair you can see more than a few connections between Becky Sharp and Emma…). So let’s all be models and dancers and dimepieces in 18th England and be awesome forever.


Sleeping with a professor is awesome! PSYCH, it’s a terrible idea.

BOOM, story time:

Once upon a time there was a hilarious and criminally attractive student named MRG. Now, MRG didn’t like “science.” In fact, whenever she wrote about it on her critically-acclaimed, award-winning* comedy blog about historical sex scandals, she used quotation marks to ridicule a vastly important branch of academia that she didn’t understand because deep down she felt inadequate as a lit major with a lot of smart science friends who did things like develop a sustainability plan for the Chesapeake Bay watershed while she read books about feelings and wrote papers about her feelings about those books about feelings.

Trying to make LHB hate science too. Cheap? Probably. 100% effective? Absolutely.

But the Registrar at her college knew that science was MRG’s weakness, and that she’d been putting off that science gen-ed requirement like her life depended on it.

But the Registrar, like all good villains, was omnipotent and knew MRG’s plan. So it did what any antagonist would do – it sent her a very polite listserv email at the beginning of the semester reminding her that she needed to take another science class to graduate. And MRG, valiant bitch that she was, went to said Registrar and apologetically and politely asked to be added to the introductory Psych class. Then the Registrar gave her a hard candy.

You might be thinking that the Registrar won, and if so, you’re fucking wrong. Because on the second day of class, MRG’s professor (who talks EXACTLY like Jimmy Stewart and looks EXACTLY like a gray-haired Stephen Colbert and therefore is married to the luckiest woman in the world) said “blah blah blah theories blah blah blah blah the most famous psychological sex scandal in history blah blah blah hypothesis blah blah” during a lecture about experimental design.

MRG is a red-blooded American woman, so she got a little turned on. But she knew what she had to do: she took care of her lady boner, fanned herself a little, and started frantically taking notes. The following post is a result of that most serendipitous happening. Serendipitous because 1) she’s learned something in a science class and 2) because it’s topical as shit now that school’s started again.


Way the fuck back in the 1910s and 1920s, psychology was still a burgeoning science. That Freud guy was getting really prominent with his theories about sex and stuff, and other psychologists (who probably weren’t actually referring to themselves as psychologists yet, but you get it) were also trying to make names for themselves. This thing called “ethics” wasn’t really too big yet, either, so all kinds of crazyass illegal experiments on people’s brains and shit were happening. All in all, a great fucking time to be a scientist.

JBW. Like an SBW, only less strong, less ethnic, and less female.

John B. Watson smelled what everyone was stepping in. He was a researcher at Johns Hopkins, and he liked to observe kids. Not in a pedo way, but in a SCIENCE way. And at some point in 1920 he realized that kids are so fucking annoying.

“They turn into pansy-ass bitches when they hear loud noises or see scary images. I bet it’s because they haven’t been conditioned to keep their shit toether,” hypothesized young John. “YES, I HAVE FOUND MY CONTRIBUTION TO SOCIETY AND TO SCIENCE.”

Really what he decided to do was to train a living, breathing, honest-to-god human infant-child to be terrified of white rats, just to be a douche and/or for SCIENCE. We’ve noted my lack of scientific acuity. Maybe that’s why I’m a little nauseous right now.

Rosalie Rayner, his alliteratively named, sassy, sexy, smart graduate ladystudent lab assistant, felt a little differently. Namely, super-crazy-science-horny. She was like, “AWWWW, I hate when children are very reasonably terrified by scary things, too! We’re totes soul mates, JB.” And then she probably unbuttoned her lab coat a little, because JB subsequently asked her to conduct the study with him.

Rosalie and her human puppet.

I’m not going to get into the experiment too much because it’s apparently really famous. It’s the “Little Albert” study. Google it. You don’t even have to do that, because I’ve linked the Wiki page right fucking here. Anyway, suffice it to say that JB somehow found a loving mother who didn’t give a white rat’s ass (SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Because there were rats in the experiment??! Damn, I’m good.) about her child’s brain/future life and then he proceeded to work his science voodoo classical conditioning magic on lil’ Albie until the poor guy literally pooped his pants at the sight of anything white and furry. Okay, maybe that’s not true. I wasn’t there. But I do know that JB and Rosalie went ahead and decided NOT to bother reversing the conditioning. Which is really fucked up. But I’m pretty sure it’s because they were too busy embarking on a steamy, sciency, professor-student love affair to give a shit about Albie’s “life” or the consequences of “irreversibly fucking it up.”

This is definitely an archival photograph of Ms. Rayner.

That’s right. We’ve come to the secks. These two were doing it all over the place, and probably in the lab, too. I feel like a lot of beakers were shattered. Remember that episode of Boy Meets World where Fred Savage guest stars as a hot professor who tries to bang Topanga, and she’s all, No, I have morals, I’m married to Corey? Remember that? I’m pretty sure Rosalie had the exact opposite reaction to JB’s advances. She was probably doing really gross and phallic things with test tubes, and then he was probably all, “Don’t gotta be a psychologist to know what’s on that bitch’s mind, AM I RIGHT?!” She also probably could get him some pot. I can’t deny that there were perks. Anyway, the the inappropriate banging ensued.

And of course JB was married. Of course. These two were also really shitty at sneaking around, so Johns Hopkins found out. After JB refused to just send Rosalie abroad for a little while (cause you know, that’s how these things are solved), ol’ Johnny Hopkins asked JB to step down. Which was good of them, morally…………….until you remember that they let this motherfucker alter an eight-month-old baby’s brain permanently in the name of science, undisturbed. But fucking a student, that crosses a line.

This is sort of cute. Fuckers.

Either way, Mrs. Watson divorced her asshat husband quicker than you can say “irreconcilable differences,” and Rosalie and JB were married in 1921 and stayed that way until 1935, when she died.

Listen, ladies. I get it. You get it. We’ve all had a crush on at least one of our male professors. They’re smart, they’re endearingly thin (because the eight-year PhD didn’t allow time or money for food), and they’re passionate about things. I know for a fact that should a certain British professor who knows how to werq an ascot propose marriage to JAF, our ginger friend would arrive at Heathrow in head-to-toe Vera Wang within 10 hours. I get it.

But here are some things that should impede a pedagogue-pupil relationship:
1) Possible loss of job/credibility.
2) Breaking up a marriage.

I fucking hate science.


*These are inaccurate adjectives.

The Syph Sense

Not that I’m making excuses, but let me make an explanation for my blog absence.  My blabsence.  And in true For Shame! fashion, it’s going to come full circle, so read hard.

It may be my affection for the moustache, but I think he might be one for Bangable Dudes.

I recently started rehearsals for a play.  A play is something that involves people pretending to be other people usually on a stage in front of other people who aren’t pretending to be anybody. It’s something that humanity used to really appreciate before movies were invented.  The play is called An Absolute Turkey.  It’s a French farce and the story involves husbands cheating on their wives and the wives coming up with clever ways of getting back at them.  I’m playing the prostitute.  And yes, fuck you, my character has a name, it’s not just “3rd prostitute from the left,” I’m THE fucking prostitute.  Literally.  You probably didn’t really care about all of that but the point is: rehearsals are taking up a lot of my time so I’m sorry if I made you feel abandoned.  Point deux is:  this play was conveniently written by a guy named Georges Feydeau whose fondest hobby, to his detriment and to my extreme pleasure, was extramarital D-wetting.

Napoleon III, one of Georges' three possible fathers. OMIGOD HIS LIFE IS JUST LIKE MAMA MIA!!!


Full Circle.  BOOM.

So here’s how the D got gooey:

Jorge was the supposed son of novelist/scholar Ernest-Aime Feydeau and whorebag/society beauty Léocadie Bogaslawa Zalewska.  I say “supposed” not because he was supposedly a son, but because Léocadie may or may not have been fucking either or both the Duke of Morny and Napoleon III circa 9 months before Georges’ birth.  So ever since his fetal days, the scandal fairies were sprinkling their dust on Feydeau junior.

When Georges separated himself from the womb and grew up into a big boy, he knew we wanted to write for the Theaaaahhhtre.  He started writing monologues at age 20 and then, like so many young hopefuls trying to make it in the biz (yes, like me, dear god what am I doing with my life), the kid started to get really poor really fast.  Luckily, he snagged himself a pretty little lady named Marianne Corolus-Duran, the daughter of the famous French painter.  (Funny tidbit: There is a scene in An Absolute Turkey where some of the characters discuss the uselessness of purchasing fine art when you could just buy a painting by an obscure relative of one of the masters – they’re just as good and a whole lot cheaper.  While this is, on the one hand, a commentary on the tight-fistedness of Paris’ bourgeoisie, it’s also probably a dig at his father-in-law.  Touchee, Georges, touchee!) And Marianne came with enough cash that Georges could afford to take a couple of years off from writing to learn from his betters and perfect his craft.

And by “his craft” what I mean is he spent a lot of time at Maxim’s (a swank-ass restaurant in Paris, famous for the beautiful women that the owner planted in the window seats to lure men into its loins), drinking, gambling, and getting laid by bitches who were not named Marianne.

I don't blame him! I feel hot and bothered just looking at this picture.

He did eventually have a great deal of success in show biz and was able to quit his day job as a law clerk.  His most popular play in Paris, The Lady from Maxim’s (bet his wife declined her comped tickets to that one) premiered in 1899 and his most popular play for English audiences, A Flea in Her Ear premiered in 1907.  Feydeau enjoyed about 2 decades of extreme popularity in France and all over Western Europe.  He is now considered, along with Moliere, to be one of the masters of French farce.  His work is also considered to be a precursor to Surrealist Theatre, Dada, and Theatre of the Absurd.  BFD.  Seriously.

Not funny. Kind of funny?

But then in 1909, his wife was like, “Your pepe has, like, green bumps and shit all over it and I don’t think I had anything to do with that.  Why don’t you move into that skeez hotel down the way and let’s never talk again.”  All alone, except for the company of a few venereal diseases, a gambling problem, and his trusty flask, our man moved into a hotel and lived there, wallowing in self pity, publicly shamed by divorce, until 1917 when he was admitted to a sanatorium.  Sanitarium is a word that people use instead of “place for crazy people.”  It doesn’t mean “a place where things are very clean,” although there were sanitariums that I hope were clean because they were used as facilities for people with TB.  But they didn’t really know what germs were then, so I’m guessing not.  I’m telling you this because I think it’s a confusing word and it’s not used anymore.  And if you were thinking it was the clean place you’d probably be like, “Well that sounds fucking fabulous, what’s wrong with that?” and then you wouldn’t really be getting the story.

So you’re fucking welcome for the clarification.

Apparently, one of those bitches at Maxim’s was carrying around a little bacteria called spirochete which grows into an infection called syphilis which, when untreated, can scramble your brains like eggs at a good diner.

Georges’ last few plays were a series of dark comedies featuring misogynistic portrayals of overpowering females.  Resentful much, Feydeau?  Now, I’m not saying it’s funny that he died impoverished and alone, locked in the cold, dark cell of some creepy, Alpine insane asylum all because he was in too big of a hurry to remember how to wrap up his junk before The Lady from Maxim’s mounted him…But I am saying that the picture I have in my head of Feydeau cursing his long-since divorced wife, taking a swig of whiskey, and promptly writing in another horrifying female character into a play is a little bit hilarious.  Is that wrong?

Maybe.  But you know what’s not wrong?  The life lesson that you always get at the end of a for shame! post.  Here it is:

Stay away from the craps table, watch your alcohol intake, and wear a motherfucking condom.


Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore Because She’s Too Busy Being Baller.

Fuck yes.

Short, sweet, medieval. Two out of those three are things I like.

Question: who makes great fucking  scandals? The British Royal Family, that’s fucking who.

In 1340 there was born a ladybaby named Alice Perrers to no great family or wealth. Though info on the lady herself is spotty, we know for certain that she was one of the most brazen hussies to dickhunt the Most Dangerous Game. Having been married at least twice before our scandal takes shape, she had little qualms about either releasing men back into the wilderness of heartache and shucking their own corn when she was done using their bodies and bankaccounts, or snagging some other poor bitch’s main squeeze. Even if that main squeeze happened to be Edward III, King of England.

Now Edward was popular. The only thing he fucked up were his kids (who started the War of the Roses), but it wasn’t his fault, because some progeny will never learn, even if they’re tutored under the mighty auspices of a king so tight he turned the tide of the 100 Years War with only his set of brass and generations of breeding that told him he was a god among kings. He won at existence before he even started playing. He founded the Order of the Garter so English men didn’t always have to be boys, and could pretend they were worthy to walk in his Hell-defying shadow. He pounded ale at night till the sun waited for his permission to rise, then sicced his wolfhounds on mother nature till he deigned to let the masses know it was okay to breathe that day. Every step he took was more important than most mens’ entire lives, and his eyes shot bolts of pants-shitting terror through any motherlover who even looked sideways at his lady, Queen Philippa. Until Alice came along.

Philippa. Life ain't fair sweetheart. Even with your sparklyass wimple, you were bested by some darkhorse with legs a mile long and boobies that just itched to be nuzzled.

She beamed her fierce diva gaze in his direction at court and he was done. She’s a notably scandalous mantrap, not just because of her affair, but because she securely held Edward, the Hammer of Medieval Manhood, by the pork and beans for the rest of his living days. She bore three children by him, and they were imbued with the mythic strength of royal bastards: they married richer than Rockefellers and spent the rest of their days shoving their parent’s illegal boning in everybody’s face.

Alice made a name, a fucking name for herself. She paraded around in Edward’s court dressed in gold, and dripping jewels and pheromones. She was declared “the Lady of the Sun,” and was a suitably thundering honey to match her king’s voracious bee. By the time she died she owned more of England than God, not just through gifts from Edward but because she had a mind like a diamond and eyes that burned like cigarettes. She worked politics better than she worked Edward’s one-eyed trouser snake. Her mastery of mistressing has gone down in the annals of history, handed to us unworthy prudes through a medium we can handle: literature.

Now I see you’re all scratching your heads. What does she mean? I’d have most definitely remembered such a baller biddy before. Well unless you’ve never had to take an English class in your life, then you do know this fox with a mouth insured by Lloyd’s of London. She’s the inspiration for Chaucer’s Wife of Bath.

Ridin' Dirty.

Just a refresher for those who don’t loll themselves to sleep at night with the classics of medieval epic poetry, the Wife of Bath is one of the best known and best developed women in English literature. Alyson, or simply Alys, she was a rebel without a pause, a figurehead for feminist and antifeminist views of the Middle Ages, and a quadruple-married SBW who knew what she wanted and used her poon and business accumen to snag it. Her whore talons grabbed onto the rich, the old, the poor and the facemeltingly hot, but she come out on top every time she was down, and each husband’s head eventually exploded with her awesome. Read it for your goddamn selves, and raise a glass to Alice Perrers, forever immortalized as the greatest bitch this side of the Renaissance.


You’ve been abandoned. It won’t happen again.

You might have noticed that lately that you’ve been crying yourself to sleep at night, racking your brain, trying desperately to figure out why it is that in recent weeks your insides have felt like they just watched The Fox and the Hound.  Well, I don’t quite know how to break this to you without you getting a little angry-face at us, but here goes: We think it might have had something to do with the lack of scandal we’ve been cranking out.  And we’re really sorry.  But we have posts coming up this week about a poetic medieval mistress, a syphilitic playwright, and some teacher on student action just in time for back-to-school.  So we promise to make it all up to you with a week filled with so much P in so much V, you wont know where to rub yourself.


If we made you feel like this picture by not posting lately, I can't apologize enough.

Our Favorite Search Term Referrals: PART DEUX.

It’s that time again!  For those of you who are all like, “Where the frack was Part UN?” allow me to enlighten you:  WordPress has this cool feature called “search term referrals” that shows us what terms people search that lead them to our blog.  Like last time, it frightens us that a large percentage of people who find our blog may or may not have been looking for pediatric pornography.  Enjoy.

And, like last time, Bold text is a search term and non-bold text is witty retort courtesy of LHB, MRG, and JAF.  We’re still serious about this: MATURE READERS ONLY.

“meta carpenter” – I don’t know why Jesus would be meta, but he’s definitely the first thing I thought of when I read this.

mary boleyn the great prostitute – I’ll be honest, I think she was so-so.

kimbell art museum shit you – Whoa whoa whoa, as a Texan and the world’s biggest Louis Kahn fan, I would just like to say a big “Shit you” right back to the asshole who searched this term.

french person from the 1700 clip art – The only thing this person could do to be more better friends with us, would be to have typed the search term in comic sans.

post coital cigarette The hottest way to kill yourself.

john ruskin pubic hair – was ______.  (You fill in the blank.  It’s like a dirty mad lib.)

colin firth wearing a sweater – You know what MRG likes.

geena davis pirate nipples – You know what we all like.

orgy anal

bayeaux tapestry the pregnant bitch – I wonder if JAF knows what this person is referring to because I want to see that shit.

prince puffy sleeves men

regulars for shame true blood Yes, we at For Shame are regulars on True Blood, thank you for noticing!

gay victorian orgy

getting some good booty

who’s she?  i just want to love her.  tight jeans  – This person is a fucking poet.

are klondike bars bad for you – Nope.

goebbels sexual appetite – Big and bigoted.

when do i get to be emperor + son fucks mom – Soon + you’re a sicko.  How’s that for an answer?

evelyn nesbit hot bitch

king henry the viii was a fucking idiot – Listen, tit-head, why don’t you shut the fuck up and read a fucking book because H.8 was anything but an idiot, you fucking idiot.  (It hurts, doesn’t it?)

jennifer hudson sassy dreamgirl effie

slampiece is not a girlfriend – Wise.  Fucking wise.

crazy horse fuckong lady

european motherfuckers – Couldn’t have said it better myself.

get your colonial shame off my breasts – I think I’ll just let this little gem stand on its own.

i am your beard

tyras fake hair – It’s called a weave, people. 

but thats crazy horse Ba-dum chiiiiiiii!!!!!!1

ann boleyn fellattio – I bet she gave great head. 

woman fuck with buffalo horn – That seems like a gynecological nightmare.

eric northman beard

i want read horse with girls sex story in hindi – Yeah? I want read you to reassess your life.

baroness gets her way with well hung black man and fucks him – Is this a movie?  Is it on Netflix?  When can I see it?

vagina whistler – Is this another movie title? Like The Horse Whisperer or something? I would pay to see that.

how to find girl for fuck in whistler

colonel sanders daughter pictures

her pubic hair did not fit she obtained an annulment Valid.

eric northman nazi –  Sacrilege. You shut your whore mouth.

wife fuck shame sharing be shame

eat suck from sexy ass – Help. Seek it.

fuck that crazy hore

tomboy is make males to crossdress? – Yes, my sweet, inquisitive friend. Yes it is.

she bang she rule – Little-known original chorus of Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs.”

don’t fuck with alaska – OMIGOD SARAH PALIN FOUND OUR BLOG!

i am his slam piece – A compliment of the highest order has been bestowed on you, yung frnd.

am i his slam piece – Hey, you can do anything you put your mind to.

i want read horse with girls sex story in hindi – You’d have come to the right place if we in fact wrote about any of those things.

what moustached, cane-toting silent film star was born on this day in 1889? –  Are we fucking AOL Answers? Read an effing book, or watch the Oscar-nominated 1992 biopic staring one Robert Downey Jr. for your goddamn answers.

gentleman woodcut 

‘striptease’ on train lapped up in china – ‘What?’

indian mothers and teenagers showing intimacy – Is anyone else alarmed by the frequency of search terms in this theme?

sodomy chains – It’s times like this when I really feel like we’re doing society a great service.

clubplatinumy sexy com – You guys………..did Tom Haverford find our blog?

my time my favor walt whitman email – …..my moment, my Dove?

my confessor fucks me – That’s not our problem. We’ve got bystanded syndrome. Blame it on society.

mega throatfuck complication – Yes, I can see how that could get mega-complicated.

imagine yourself as one of the figures in the battle depicted in the bayeux tapestry, in a letter home, describe the experience to your family. write a first person account of this historical event from the perspective of one of the figures in tapestry. – I can only assume this was a homework question, and I can only assume that you’re going to get an A-motherfucking-plus on it. You’re welcome.

gerbil manor – Gerbil lords, gerbil vassals, gerbil serfs. God I hope that’s what this person does for funsies.

swimfins project building for kindergarten – I’m so sorry that you ended up here.

what authors would you recommend on crown prince rudolph – MRG, obviously.

women, shit. willaim faulkner – Yes, damn. Right.

michael jackson dangerous aleister crowley

teresa giudice wikipedia – YES YES YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES.

Yours truly,