Tits That Time Again: Watch and Vote on the Best Nude Scenes of the Year
There’s an iPad prize but, really, it’s your civic duty.
Come, peruse the nominudes for Mr. Skin’s 12th Annual Anatomy Awards:
Love and Other Drugs
Lake Placid 3
McBeardo’s Pick: Piranha 3D, glands-down. Here was a self-conscious take on grindhouse excess, that never veers into the self-congratulations of neo-Troma spittle like Machete. The outright gall of the never-ending underwater lesbian ballet is topped only by naturally monster-bosomed Gianna Michaels nude parasailing as her triple-G cups explode right off the screen and compete with popcorn for space in your slack-jawed maw.
McBeardo’s Pick: Boardwalk Empire. Spartacus came out swinging a terrible, swift sword, to be sure—Xena! At last! Nude!—but the audacity of the increasing-to-the-point-of-gynecological nakedness of Paz De La Huerta on Boardwalk every week, coupled with gratuitous Gretch Mol gazongas, made me look forward most to each Sunday night trip down Atlantic Titty way.
BEST CELEBRITY LESBIAN SCENE
Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis in Black Swan
Amanda Seyfried and Julianne Moore in Chloe
Kelly Brook and Riley Steele in Piranha 3D
Elena Anaya and Natasha Yarovenko in Room in Rome
Heather Graham and Jaime Winston in Boogie Woogie
McBeardo’s Pick: The worst is Black Swan. And I don’t just mean this year, I mean maybe the worst ever. I can think of only one more appallingly asexual sex scene between desirable women, in the 1993 softcore abomination Wild Cactus. Hefty-chested Playmate India Allen and raven-maned Michelle Moffet get in bed and just sort of gyrate in the direction toward one another, without touching. Still, it beats the tampons out of the Portman-Kunis anti-event.
The winner, then, is Chloe. Amanda Seyfried looks like a jugsy Rainbeaux Smith and post-partum redhead nipples—a la the lusciously used milk-spigots of Ms. Moore—are impossible to top where I come from. And onto.
And as noted, you might win an iPad.
That way, McBeardo can be with you all the time.
Just the way you love it.
On a skingential note, it’s Ass Wednesday here in the Mr. Skin office, an annual rite-of-schwing in which employees get the day off—the reason simply being: the sheer hilariousness of having company holiday called “Ass Wednesday.”
Of course, I’m at my desk, properly working, because—for the love of teat, I’m Mr. Skin’s Head Writer, what ever else could I want to be doing?
During my first few winters here, Ass Wednesday coincided, as you might expect, with the papist high holiday of Ash Wednesday.
Alas, midway through last decade, a trial-by-hellfire period known as The Skinquisition ensued wherein the company was unduly influenced by … an out-of-place sort, let us say, who, where brains might go, seemed to have nothing but a clump of already-been-chewed Communion wafers.
Upon his very first visit to Skin Central, in fact, the Head Skinquisitor approached the guys in the back who comb through videos for visible nipples and, with friendly seriousness, asked them:
“Say, anybody know where the nearest Catholic church is around here?”
Yes. This really happened.
And, as it should be, Mr. Skin’s pube-spotting department could not help out.
The Skinquisition lasted three long years (the exact amount of time of Christ’s ministry on earth. Co-skin-cidence?), during which Ass Wednesday went the way of Friday cheeseburgers during Lent.
At some point in the final chapters of The Skinquisition, Ass Wednesday reappeared, albeit it weeks removed from Ash Wednesday, thus ruining the joke (as usual).
But we got it back. And here tit is.
Now none of this should be taken as a blight on Mr. Skin himself.
Yes, Mr. Skin is a real man and, yes, I would publicly sport a feces-smear on my forehead each Ass Wednesday as a display of my loving devotion to him. Or any other day. In fact, right now. And forever.
I’m just explaining why Ass Wednesday is a solid month prior to Ash Wednesday.
And I’m setting up that I’m at the empty Mr. Skin office and I come, today, to share with you our skinfinitely more skin-portant yearly ritual—the nominudes for the 12th Annual Anatomy Awards.
Tit’s all right, this Life of McBeardo.
Really. Tit is.
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