Of course you do. You're supposed to. And you're not alone. Take a look:
"I want to put my penis in Christine Chen's butt."
The sentiment above—found carved deep, with something very sharp, in block letters, into the wall of a pisser in a Seattle-area Denny's—deftly illustrates the dirty point. And you, most likely, relate to that point.
Admit it! You'd joyfully junk up the trunk of one or more local newscasters. You're only human, most likely, and your burning desire to bone TV newspeople is common among humans in general. Indeed, the Old Man Era of Rather-Brokaw-Jennings (a hard-haired age of integrity, not Botox) has faded away (RIP Peter, see you in hell Dan and Tom), and over the last two decades a far-weirder and much-hornier newscast has come into focus.
Some background: Since the dawn of so-called "time" (which is merely an illusion, probably created by Karl Rove to serve some Republican plot) the vagina-free stamping grounds of television broadcast news were traditionally reserved for the staid, the bald, the wrinkly, the penis-having, the doughnut-eating, and the all of the above.
But in our modern era so-called "producers" and other dark and conspiratorial forces ("news directors," "marketing executives," "station managers," "the Illuminati," "Karl Rove") have realized that broadcast news is a visual fucking medium for Christ's sake! They've moved to embrace the rude and immutable First Law of Existence: A hot clam with lips that could suck a demographic through a microphone and enormous tits that point at Pluto almost always makes for a more captivating—and more commercially compelling—newscast than a pruney-pussed septuagenarian with a hunchback and a big fat ass. (Or Ken Schram.) Also, they've woken up to the notion that the aforementioned hot clam need not necessarily have to be female. (Word.)
Of course, the Powers That Be in the Mainstream Media—or the MSM, as the annoying dinks in the blog-o-spheres insist on calling it—are adept at the dark art of misdirection, so they mingle relatively repulsive sidekicks (or "co-anchors") in with the lunchmeat in order to distract and confuse. Don't be fooled! That sexy on-the-street reporter has teeth as white as a Klan picnic and armpits as deep as Puget Sound, and the sports guy has a package like the UPS driver of the year, but the dentured dinosaur droning behind the anchor desk is the crusty window-dressing, hung there to help you justify your viewership to your ego, neatly obscuring the horrible truth: They've roped you in by your own fleshy, fleshy, flesh rope! Or nub(s), as the case may be. They work on nub(s) too, the bastards. After all, no one really wants to watch the news... unless they're masochists. Or masturbating. Which is the point.
So who are these reporters and anchors, the ones that make your sex bits quiver? From whence does their raw sexual magnetism spring? What are they about? What would the heave and thrust be like in, on, or under them? It's your right—your duty—to know! Or to speculate wildly! And it is my right—my duty!—to report, dissemble, concoct, tell hard truths, and invent others out of whole cloth. And then—and only then—you decide! In short, nothing in this piece is true, except the stuff that isn't.
But before we begin our examination I must emphasize again: The networks have conspired to snag you by the short hairs. "Make news sexy, they will watch." Ergo, the lickable likes of KING 5's Lori Matsukawa and Susannah Frame, Q13 Morning Anchor Bill Wixey, and to a far, far (far, far) lesser degree, KING 5's Jim Forman.
And, of course, Steve Pool.
Just kidding. Not Steve Pool.
Walter Kelley looks exactly like David Hasselhoff in Knight Rider, but that was before 25 years of sun damage fried him into an old brown shoe and his fuzzy man tits turned gray. (Walter Kelley, not David Hasselhoff, whose man boobs, in stark contrast, remain firm and not so gray. As of this writing.) Or maybe Walter looks more like the father from Stephen King's Pet Sematary (the movie), who also wore very tight jeans. But to at least one viewer, Walter Kelley looks mostly like delicious. "Of course, they only ever show Walter from the waist up on TV," one frisky viewer of indeterminate gender laments. "I like to imagine he has no pants on, he's got a great big dick, and he has me on all fours out of the shot." If rumors are to be believed (and they aren't), Walter makes the occasional towel-draped, dew-dappled tour of the steamy Washington Athletic Club men's locker room—where he titillates onlookers, who sneak peeks as he towel dries his hair (it's mostly real!) and applies his deodorant. Provocative! Considerate! Walter Kelley!
Few can resist the raw sexual power of Christine Chen. (Few, I say!) In fact, that bathroom wall carving about the penetration of Christine's perky little melon bottom merely represents the reservoir tip of the big hard iceberg as far as the feelings of Christine's fans are concerned. In a recent and not very scientific poll of intrigued parties, Christine emerged as the definitive sex princess of Seattle newscastrixes, having barely edged out Kathi Goertzen and Jean Enersen by about 20 million miles. As one anonymous Christine fan put it, "I can't explain how she affects me. Most of the time, I watch the news alone, with the sound off. Can you guess what I'm doing?" Possibly. If it is, indeed, what everyone else is doing, too. Which it is.
Dan Devone is a tropical sex tiki with scrumptious caramel skin and crinkle-up eyes and a smile that says "fuck me" in at least two languages. Dan and his muscles and his big white teeth and his shithouse shoulders have rocked Seattle's stupid little libido since his smiley and sexually devastating debut as Q13's sports guy sometime way back in the '90s. Dan was born in Honolulu, Hawaii, where they don't wear a lot of clothes, but spent his formative years in San Francisco, where they wear a lot of clothes, but take them off with little discretion, randomly, and often with strangers. Despite this, Dan is relatively unafflicted with "the gayness," or, indeed, "fudgepackery," "ass-munchery," or "butt-pokery" of any sort, despite my best efforts to secretly hypnotize myself into believing anything to the contrary. In fact, Dan (or, as I've come to call him over the years, "Please Fuck Me!") has widely and often been described as a "testosterone-drenched ladies' man." When he isn't engaging himself in such incongruously homoerotic activities as being naked in the locker room at the Seattle Athletic Club (better than average, if you were wondering, and you were), publicly detailing the vagaries of sweaty ball sports of all sorts, or asking me out for drinks that one time (He did once! I swear!), he allegedly once said, "I could eat sushi seven days a week." Whether or not the raw and fishy finger food in question is figurative, literal, or in any way alludes to KING 5's Lori Matsukawa is probably libelous, if not entirely beside the point.
Two out of three suit-and-tie types consider Kerri Kazarba the local newscaster they'd most likely let drive their kids to soccer practice. Three out of three want to sit on her face. Of course, the other female newscasters say she has no gag reflex, but they're nothing but a bunch of jealous bitches.
If you're ever pounding Jean Enersen in the poop chute (and who among us wouldn't, if only but we could?), and she starts moaning and groaning real loud or starts yapping like a broken Chihuahua or something, whatever you do, don't shush her. Jean Enersen hates to be shushed. And don't bugger her in a moving car, either. Road rage. It could be an issue. (You could get something bitten off!) And don't do it in Macy's or Nordstrom, either. The security guards are probably watching you. Believe it.
One could fill a room with a bunch of smaller rooms filled with tiny little people who love Joyce Taylor. She's kind of like a relatively hot tree of some sort—aloof and tall but not too scratchy to rub your fun parts against. But this sexy Emmy Award–winning anchor is more than a happy talking head with hard hair and consummate diction. Joyce Taylor possesses the single most sexually provocative attribute in the universe—an identical twin sister!
Two words: foot fetish. We're not saying she has one, or indulges foot fetishes, but those are two words. One, two. Count 'em. Oh, and she speaks fluent Spanish! ¡Aspire mis zapatos!
Mimi Jung has never been Miss Seafair, but she's a damn sight better than a Blue Angel in your eye. Speaking of fingers, she doesn't like that, stop it. Also, she grew up in Puyallup, so she probably lost her cherry in a barn.
She started out at Northwest Cable News, but left when she realized everyone there was repulsive. She wears too much foundation for KOMO, so she landed at KING 5. "My jaw hurts!" she probably says all the time.
One or two "I need a spanking " types think he's fuckable. They've told me so. I don't get it.
She's not as busty as Christine Chen. Also, she's relatively more Japanese. The Japanese word for seaweed is "nori," which rhymes with—do I have to spell it out for you?
The big space between her eyebrows is so smooth! I just want to lick it! Just LICK IT! I once had a long conversation with her gynecologist, which is more than you can say.
"Bernard Choi looks just like a guy I gave a blowjob to on a school bus during an out-of-town band trip in high school. His come tasted like bleach and lemons. It was really hot."
His name in Hungarian means "One Whose Big Floppy Penis Is Like Unto a Dinner Sausage." If you make fun of his name, he might hit you.
Some guy called "Steven" wistfully confesses, "Seattle has tons of dowdy and butch female news reporters. But Alison Grande has got the sweetest face... and the most sincere and beautiful smile..." Indeed. But still we must ask ourselves: Can the length and breadth of Alison Grande be summed up by those sweet apple cheeks? Heavens, no! She's also been blessed with a respectable handful of boobs and a first-prize ass. (Some say she even smells like licorice!) But more importantly, this former Miss Seafair (Yes! Miss Seafair!) also makes sexy little kitten-like mewing sounds whenever she gets shampooed! According to an anonymous source, Alison is wont to "close her eyes, kick her feet a little, and make soft, sort-of mewing, yummy sounds deep in her throat" whenever soapy fingers meet scalp. Whether or not this sordid tale of Alison Grande's mildly orgasmic head hygiene is true or some kind of terrible exaggeration based upon a fictional composite character, there is absolutely no doubt in anyone's mind that this former Miss Seafair (!) probably gets shampooed a lot. Or could. You know, if she wanted to.
Let Kathi Goertzen be. This woman is a poem.
Weekend Weather Boy
Theron has that snotty frat-boy swagger that makes my dick so hard. But is he also secretly a movie star? Let's examine: Through many long-buried but recently uncovered top-secret and much-hyphenated Hollywood memos, it has emerged that in 2002 Angelina Jolie and entourage beset themselves upon Seattle to "do a movie." In this movie, Angelina played a TV reporter. Apparently, scenes from this alleged movie were actually shot in the KOMO 4 studios! Equally apparently, our very own Dan Lewis and, of course, cuddly Steve Pool appeared in cameo roles. But upon really, really deeper examination it seems that neither Dan nor Steve appear anywhere in the credits at all... unlike a certain dazzling and weirdly named young up 'n' comer (in my mouth!) called Theron Zahn, who evidentially played an actual character that was actually written down in the script and had lines and an actual name! ("Steve"!) Could it be our relatively obscure but sexy little weatherboy? Possibly! You couldn't pay me to watch that crap and confirm it!
Kevin is a lonely, helmet-headed wildflower growing in the KOMO garden of stones. His official KOMO biography offers this anecdote: "A viewer once told Kevin, 'I don't recognize you. When are you on?' He responded by pulling up the hood of his raincoat, covering his head, and tightening the drawstring snugly around his face. 'Oh! Now I know who you are!' she said!" This clearly illustrates the common fact that Kevin is uncut, and everyone knows it. German's call their foreskin "mein tuke."
She's beautiful, single, lives alone, and has a dog. She runs "triathlons." She is also queer sensitive and attended (i.e., "reported upon") this year's Pride Parade. Not that anything is being insinuated, but you know that Lucy Liu is a lesbian, and if people didn't keep reminding me every 20 seconds, I'd totally forget. She just doesn't put out that vibe, you know? Of course you do.
Infamous Manslut!, KOMO, or KIRO maybe, or Q13. OR KING 5.
If this were indeed the right moment to finally expose the true identity of Mr. X, we could entertain you with details aplenty about pecker-waggy, booze-swilly scandal, for Mr. X, who isn't and never was Karl Rove or Steve Pool or Kathi Goertzen, has allegedly been swilling the booze and wagging the pecker at pseudo-willing and mostly gay men in pseudo-salacious and mostly gay circumstances since the peckers and the booze and the gays were invented. Described variously as a "desperate slut," "Seattle's randiest TV news personality," and a "fruity mass guaranteed to make you feel like shit in the morning" (but rarely, if ever, described as KING 5's Jeff Renner), the legendary Mr. X's widely celebrated deviant activity is hardly limited to the aforementioned indiscriminate wagging of his freakishly enormous baloney pony. In fact, more recent reports seem to indicate a nascent proclivity for, as it were, "taking it up the ass." (Or as Jean Enersen calls it, "le poop chute.")
Oh, mysterious and butt-anomalous Mr. X! Will we ever come to know the real you? May God seriously forbid.
Jim's all-too-brief time in Seattle made as deep an impression upon the face of Northwest newscasting as Mr. X's huge penis did upon whatever face happened to be on the other side of that glory hole. Jim neither lives nor broadcasts in Seattle anymore, but he still deserves deep and penetrating appreciation. In a far more scientific poll than the one conducted for Christine Chen, it was once determined that during the pinnacle of his local reign, 35.5 percent of news watchers would rather perform slurpy fellatio on Jim Castillo's 7.5 inches of uncut lovesleeve over the uncut lovesleeves of any other local male newscaster. Sadly, in the summer of 2002, Jim and his hypothetical lovesleeve flew our Seattley coop to thrive sexily at another Fox affiliate in sexy, sexy New York instead. But it bears reflection that Jim's general beefcakeyness was capitalized upon early in his career by wise female producers at one of his first stations in Columbia, Missouri, who increased their viewership by a gazillion, forcing Jim to strip down and get sweaty every day on air. "I loved it," Jim once lied. Sadly, Jim Castillo is the only male newscaster in Seattle history that can be definitively ruled out as being Mr. X. Maybe.