Audrina Patridge

(sing the following phrase like you're Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.)

The...hills are alive...with the sound of titties. They're hanging here and there all day long. What's gonna happen... if she slips that top off...Freddy's gonna sing another song.

Ohh...his mouth...will be full of Audrina Patridge titty....He'll suck...nibble and nuzzle all night long...Then in the morning...when she wakes...he'll be gone...out the door...she'll be alone.

Sexy 20-Something of the Week: Sophia Bush

Sophia Anna Bush was born July 8, 1982 (26) in Pasadena, California.

She attended USC and was a member of the kappa Kappa Gamma sisterhood, where she served as the social chair.

While attending USC, she was the Tournamnet of Roses parade Queen in 2000.

She made her film debut in Van Wilder and plays the

one-time-spoiled-rich-slut-who-has-made-it on-her-own-since-graduating

Brooke Davis in the WB's One Tree Hill.

She married OTH co-star Chad Michael Murray in April of '05 but seperated in September of the same year.
A few months after her divorce was final, rumors flew that she was dating/hooking up with Dallas QB and Eastern Illinois alum Tony Romo. These rumors started because they were seen together in Texas. Holy shit! If I'm at a Starbucks in Chicago and, I don't know, Erin Andrews walks in to get a venti, half caf/half de-caf, carmel mochiato, minus the carmel and the whip, are people going to start saying that her and I are getting it on? Didn't think so.
She supported the push for President Obama. Now, please enjoy the rest of the pics.

The non-porn, porn. Thanx Spike.

please meet...

Natalia Vodianova

Crush of the Month

So what that it's the middle of February and I am just now declaring my Crush of the Month. I'm not sure I even declared who my Crush of the Month was the last couple of months, so leave me alone. Anyway, my crush this month is Jodie Marsh.

Enjoy the pics.

Jodie was born December 23, 1978 (30) in Brentwood, Essex, England.

Being the bad ass that she is, when she was a young girl, she had her nose mangled in a hockey game. And because of this accident, she was the target of kids who, at the time, must not have hit puberty yet because they told her that she was ugly. This treatment caused her to consider suicide. And even if you didn't have surgery to fix it at 15, there would be no reason to worry Ms. Marsh, you'd still look beautiful.

She is a glamour model and t.v. personality. And she's been on way too many t.v. shows to list on the blog.

O.K., maybe just one. She was on Celebrity Big Brother in the UK. She clashed with Pete Burns, Michael Barrymore and George Galloway because they tired of her discussing her sexual experiences.

She used to write a column for the celeb gossip rag Sneak until it closed up shop in '06. She was also sex expert for Zoo Magazine, writing directly for men and giving them ideas and advice.

I went to a party last night....

...and the first thing I see when I walk through the door is this! OK. Not really. But it would have been a whole hell of a lot cooler of a party if I did.

Sexy 20-Something of the Week: Kayleigh Pearson

I'd like you all to meet Kayleigh Pearson.

Kayleigh was born June 25, 1985 in Bath, England.

Enjoy the pics.

While growing up, she was involved with gymnastics. And she was so good, she was running her own gymnastic class at the ripe old age off 11.

She studied Sports Science at University College Worcester.

Here come the boobies, er, the boobie.

Oh how nice.

Sexy 40-something of of the Week: Jennifer Aniston

If you don't know what a Two-Fer is, well, a Two-Fer is something you complete and finish two things while doing it. Today, boys and girls, we got a Two-Fer. Today is Jennifer Aniston's 40th birthday, so congratulations are in order. And today also marks the day that she can belong to the Sexy 40-something club here at Head of Fred. Happy birthday Jen.

Fashion Tip #11

Granny panties are so 1993. If you own them, toss them in the trash. Buy a pair of thongs. Or at least a pair of little boy shorts. Please.

Again, Baby Spice is no longer a baby.

I said it before, today I'm saying it again: Baby Spice is no longer a baby. Her name is Emma Bunton and she's hotter than all hell. She might even give Posh a run these days. I mean, unless you like egotistical bitches who think that "common" folk would eat their shit. Not me.

Good Morning

Poor kid.

The poor little guy is a little messed up. I can remember having experiences like this. Those weren't from over medication by my dentist though.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY....

...to ME, 31.
I'm getting fucking old.

All my friends were dead.

As we watched the rain through the windows of that old truck, driving the rocky gravel lanes, passing the bottle, stolen, and swiping drags from the snuffed out butt's in the tray, we often didn't speak to one another.

Old country: Cash, Jennings, Nelson, cried from the rusty speakers of that old Chevy and neither dared to change the station. We didn't really like the sound of the music that was playing, but we both understood what those old boys were preachin',

A twisting cloud of death would eventually destroy an old corn bin and toss tractors, trailers, children into neighboring counties. And for some reason, we still drove to our spot of silence.

That old lot, surrounded by the Elm and the Oak was gated off by the slow mumbling of the Aux Able Creek, where the dead of our community rested for years, decades, centuries, was our spot of comfort.

We'd sit, under the storm, with the dead, trying to depict their short stories that were engraved in the cement slabs at their heads and pretend that we actually knew how it really went down.

Hours atop hours, they'd stack like empty wooden crates on the docks, with the two of us talking with the dead, but never each other, sharing the pint and trying to find a way, the way, to not end up in a spot like the one that we sat at.

With lightning crashing into the tree's and thunder echoing screams between
John C. Jones/Christopher R. Kelly/Suzanne L. Bolze, we were soothed.

The old black cat, with only one eye, the left, would scamper out from behind the tomb house that held more of the dead just to see where the voices were coming from.

Headlights from Interstate 80 and Route 6 found their way in from time to time, bending around fence posts and through the trees. Nobody ever found us there. And they never will.

Perhaps that is why we went there anyway. So that we can both be alone with our minds, the forgotten dreams of the dead and the lost memories of love.

We did this every time it stormed. We did it to cleanse ourselves. And our minds.
But most importantly...

to leave it all behind with the dead that we called our friends...

where it belonged.

Why do you write?

I met a girl over the weekend. She was good looking, nice to talk with and seemed to irk my interest in Psychology (she was a Psychologist, go figure). After a few drinks, she asked me what I did and I told her that I was a free lance journalist. She then posed a very simple question, that for some reason, I had no answer.

Girl- Why do you write Freddy?
Me- Because that is what I went to school for.
Girl- No, no. I mean, WHY do you write. Do you hope to reach millions of people with your stories and help to change their views on whatever the topic may be? Or do you write because you hope to make millions of dollars writing books of fiction? Or is it because you know nothing else. And if it is the last, I really don’t think that I can continue a conversation with you, sorry.

I stood in amazement. Not because of the bluntness of the girl and her question, because I didn’t know the answer myself. And that scared the fuck out of me.

Why, if I don’t know why I write, did I just spend the ridiculous amount of money that I did to get the piece of $5 dollar paper that says I can write? And why did I quit the job that I was doing before going back to school, a job that I made close to $80,000 a year doing, if I didn’t know? And why, if I am so creative with words like so many of my instructors told me in my classes, couldn’t I speak one word to answer the Psychologists question?

I always knew that I liked to write, well, loved to write. I always was doing it. Any spare minute I had while sitting in whatever machine I was running at the construction site while working that job, I was writing. Times that I was making deliveries or picking up equipment for that job too, and had a story idea, I’d pull the truck to the side of the road and scribble down a few sentences that I would recall later to start my voyage with words. I can remember one time, one of the very few times that I was in a Church for Sunday mass and had an idea. I told God that I was sorry and beat feet to my laptop in the truck.

Why do I write? How dare you ask me that question!!! I write for the same reason many, many, MANY other writers write. I write because it is what I know. I write because it is what makes me feel good about myself and keeps getting me out of bed in the morning. I write because it is protection from myself and my idle hands. If I didn’t write, I know that I would find myself to be crazier than I already know that I am and closer to the thing called death that we all try to avoid. It doesn’t matter if I never make a million dollars. I didn’t go into this world of Journalism thinking that I would anyway. As long as I can wake up in the morning and feel good about myself, and the thoughts that I've researched and found to be true, or the ideas that I hold but haven't yet proven, I’ve got the best fucking job in the World.

Sure, maybe my BA in Journalism isn’t held quite as high as your Masters Degree in Psychology, but it’s mine and I still earned the fucker.

I really wish I would have said all of the above, but I froze. And I really wish that I could have remembered a line from The Dead Poets Society, and changed it a bit:

I don't read and write because it's cute. I read and writ because I am a member of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering – these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But writing is beauty, romance and love – these are what I stay alive for.

Don't you dare try to tell me how to raise my kids.

Today, I had an appointment with my dermatologist for the psoriasis that has been wreaking havoc over my body for the past eight years by making my arms, legs, chest, stomach and back look like a red, not black, spotted Dalmatian dog.

And as I awaited the arrival of Dr. Doolittle to the examination room, I grabbed the one and only magazine on the back of the door. I can’t remember what it was called, though it was something along the lines of Familyhood, or How to be Good Parents or The Way to Destroy Your Child.

But anyway, as I flipped through the pages at a medium pace, I stumbled across an article written by some Dr. Couldn’t Tell My Ass From a Hole in the Ground. It was just like Dear Abbey or her sister Ann Landers. (I hope that is correct info, but I ain’t too certain and to tell you the truth, I really don’t give a flying fuck.)

There was a question sent to this Dr., by a mom in Someplace, Michigan asking him if he thought it was a good, or bad, idea to install a lock on the inside of her 13-year-old daughters bedroom door. The lady continued on about how her daughter has been asking for one and she and her husband are going to install one, but just for a quick check, wanted his opinion on the matter.

So, Dr. CTMAFAHITG writes back to her and tells her that he would advise highly against installing a lock to the inside of her daughters door for several reasons.

The first reason that he gave was, ‘Incase there is an emergency, or a fire, and you or your husband need to get into the room, you won’t be able to if the door is locked.

The second reason he gave was, ‘In today’s world, our children grow up so quickly with television and the internet, and most teenagers who have locks on their bedroom doors only want them installed because they will consume and store alcoholic beverages behind locked doors and partake in drug usage.

The third reason he gave this poor lady who has probably been checked into a mental clinic by know worrying about her little girl with the locked door that was installed before she read the nice Doc’s response letter was, ‘Beside the booze and drugs, most teenagers, especially the young girls and young boys, will sneak their “boyfriends/girlfriends in through the bedroom window late at night and start to explore their sexuality’s.

Who and the fuck does this cat think he is telling this mother information like that?

I know that when or if I get married and have children, their doors will certainly have locks on them. If there is a fire in the house or I need to get into my daughters/sons bedroom to save them, I’ll bet my left and right testicle I ain’t gonna let any $3.00 lock keep me from busting down the door.

And if I want the door opened to check and see if Freddy Jr. or Fredricka are smoking weed or dropping acid or just storing the shit in the old shoebox beneath their beds, that lock ain’t gonna stop me still.

And if I think that my little guy is banging out with the head cheerleader of the highschool he goes to, I’ll let him have his fun. And if it is my little princess with the starting quarterback, I’ll let the misses deal with her.

But I will never, listen to some fucking guy who thinks he is going to save the world by saving the children from their mistakes. Everybody makes ‘em doc. And everybody learns from ‘em. If you want to raise your children to be shy and sheltered and scared shit-less of everything in this world, be my guest, go right ahead. I’ll see you when you catch your daughter in bed with Lil Freddy at 3 in the morning.

Freddy in the Chi.