I wonder how many skeeved-out emails it took before he clarified that The Michael Jackson Experience was a game and not a slang term for a light-skinned thumb being mashed up your pooper.

This article is going to take a second to start rolling, so, to get you to bear with me, here's a photo of a petite brunette inviting you to give her dollhouse a shellacking. I think she's legal and just flat. For the sake of not having my hard drive impounded my the Feds, I hope that's the case.

After a few years of running this website, I’d like to think that I understand a thing or two about how traffic on the Internet works. For example, pages like mine exist solely to entertain people while they’re at work and, the instant you guys are home, my numbers plummet like Natalie Wood off the side of a boat as you all hunker down with porn. Loud, disgusting, smelly porn.

That tells me we all love to treat our bodies like they were an amusement park the instant we’re not around others. But it also says that non-pornographic websites that can be read at work are at a premium. (Given my traffic, they must be.) Ask a guy what his favorite porn URLs are and he’ll rattle ‘em off like Bubba Blue listing shrimp dishes. Then quiz him about the pages he checks out at work. After naming Sports Illustrated, ESPN and Facebook (if it isn’t blocked), there’s going to be a lot of pauses. Which is why I’m here today to introduce to you a powerful new arrow in your quiver of time-wasting websites: My Body Gallery.

My Body Gallery has both its Heavens...

And its Hells.

My Body Gallery claims to show you “What real women look like,” and, boy, does it deliver on that promise. The entire site is nothing but self-submitted photos of women accompanied by their height and weight. Hit the refresh button, and a new woman pops up. And another. And another. Before I knew it, I had pissed away 30 minutes clicking through photo after photo, most of which I wish I could have unseen.

I freely admit to enjoying MBG for all the wrong reasons. There’s the rush of finding the one photo in every 20 that contains an attractive woman who’s made all the sexier because of what you had to wade through to view her. On top of that, I love arming myself with the knowledge of what exactly a woman’s weight is based solely upon her appearance. (Not the easiest job on Earth because I’m convinced some of these broads still lie about their weight. Either that or they replaced their bones with balsa wood like some anti-Wolverine.) Trust me, it’s knowledge that comes in handy when you’re trying to undermine a girl’s confidence juuuust enough so that she says yes to that threesome.

See what I mean? If you're going to tell the world you clock in at over 200, honey, don't give us a MySpace angle. Go whole hog. Haha, hog...

My Body Gallery awaits your visit. Just like your boss awaits all that work you should be doing. And we all know which you’ll choose to get around to first. Sinner.

Don’t forget to like Papa’s Basement on Facebook, follow on Twitter and rate the radio show on iTunes. Or forget to. It’s not like I’m giving away winning lottery numbers.

Got this in the mail today. I wonder if they make a version for gynecologists.

Thanks to Zora Mae for the design.

There was a time – a more innocent time – in my life when I believed the reasons the enemies of America hated us were manyfold. Our support of Israel. Our colonialist policies. Our women who shave their vaginas and the fact we have ample pornographic evidence to prove that they do. After laying my eyes on this, however, I know that is all bullshit. People hate us because we have ads in our malls directing you to buy clothing for your dog at Victoria’s Secret.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this country. Outside of the shitty healthcare, cutthroat corporations that exported away our entire economy and rampant morbid obesity, I can’t think of much I’d change. If the world were high school, we would be the blonde cheerleader with tits as big as softballs and an ass so firm you could use it as a bottle opener. But seeing things like this drives me nuts. If you have enough money that dressing your goddamn pet is an option, send some of it to one of those flies-in-the-eyes countries instead. Or to me. Because the letters you get from me telling you what I did with that money each month would be a lot wilder than hearing about some water purification system being built in my village. I guarantee you that.

If you thought that title meant you’d be getting a photo of my two nieces, frankly, you have some growing up to do. I could live between Christina Hendricks’ breasts. Maybe I’d occasionally pop up like the Caddyshack gopher for food and water, but that’s it.