One Love: A Special Event For Our Fab Followers – and “Like” Minded Bloggers

You know who you are. At some point, something (likely one of our wickedly hilarious and relatable posts filled with the perfect pictures to accompany the text) inspired you to go to the top of the blog page and hit +Follow.


Or maybe one of us followed you first and you thought, “what the hell. I’m feeling generous/reckless/lucky/spontaneous/lazy/hopeful today.” You wrestled with the good sense of your decision for a split second and then blindly hit “+Follow.” We’ll take it, and thank you.

Here’s why we write to you today.

Although appearing as static, perfectly content avatars moving through the blog world predictably calm and unfettered, we are indeed human. Denmother and Helen celebrate visits to our blog. So what if Brad Pitt’s penis is pulling most visitors in – he’s HUGE, check it out, and welcome.

We revel in “likes” and adore comments. You don’t see it, but when people respond to our stuff, Denmother flushes and undoes two or three buttons on her high avatar collar.

Helen gives her avatar partner on the dock a high five.

We feel like we’ve connected with some of you out there. It inspires us to keep at it in the hope that one day, due to overwhelming response, Denmother will be sufficiently stimulated to the point where she will be forced to strip down to her corset and loosen it just the tiniest bit.

Helen, without a thought for her modesty, will strip right down and jump buck naked into that ever-beckoning lake, suggesting unabashedly to her stoic avatar companion that he come and frolic with her.

Fine followers, here’s the thing. There are 71 of you. The most likes we’ve ever gotten on one labour of love is 28, and that was on a post about breasts boobs. Just saying. That leaves 43 of you unaccounted for. And, at the end of the day, on most posts we’re missing 50 or more or you.

We get it. Heybeergut!! Essays From The Cougar Den is a relatively new kid on the block. Not yet a mainstay in your real-life, relationship destroying blogging habits.

However once, just once, we’d like to reach all of you. Bring you all in. Together. As one. Even if it remains a onetime little blip on an otherwise quiet, but super awesome sleeper blog.  We’d like to be lifted up not simply by you, but with you, as one is lifted on Valentine’s Day with forced, store-bought genuine expressions of love.


We have decided to declare February 14th as the day on which we will stage a “LIKE-IN” on a special  St. Valentine’s Day post.

We will ignore our real-life relationship bullshit issues and revel in free-wheeling, blogger love. Any way you wish to justify liking us, we will embrace it. No questions, and no judgement.  We’ll not only like, but love you back.

Yes, it will be the One Love Valentine’s Day Blog Post Throw-down. Throw a “like” our way on February 14th.


Show us that you’re out there watching, waiting and worrying that you’ll never have good reason to visit our blog again. But you will visit again. Denmother and Helen have been described – by each other – as the crack of the blogging world.

Come in for the group hug.

Stay for the intercourse discourse that results from community union.

Our renewed passion, fed from your demonstration of pure, unsolicited adoration will earn you some healthy loving in return….  Turn on, tune in, and drop by on the 14th. Bring your friends.  Non-followers eagerly encouraged to share in the vibe. If you have yet to experience Cougar Love or you’re just coming back for more, this is where the magic happens.


Le Clown, When You Call My Name, It’s Like A Little Prayer

There is a ripple in the blog force, and as with anything borne of vibration, I plan to explore, touch, taste and insert it to discover if I have finally found that which brings me nothing but cheap pleasure.

But this isn’t just about me.  In fact it’s not about me at all.  Because if it were about me the job ad would not have necessitated ingesting copious amounts of alcohol just to figure out what the fuck the magnificent™ one was talking about.  I mean it started with hymen and ended with a question.  Somewhere in there were pieces of his body to use at one’s discretion.  When I mention pieces of body being available to the masses, you of course now realize this opportunity comes by way of one named Le Clown, and his inability to keep his own house in order.

He has become overwhelmed with the handful of people in his fan club and looks to others to manage these lost souls and sell them and others not yet indoctrinated, the illusion of a brush with magnificence™ while in reality delivering mediocrity from the fan club whip in return.  Circle of Life.

My first duty as ACOF Fan Club Wrangler would of course be to attend the Calgary Stampede (on Le Clown’s dime, as he in his benevolence would insist upon) and learn the ways of the true wrangler.  For this is one serious job that requires a level of professionalism currently unavailable in the eastern provinces of Canada.  I will become proficient in lassoing, torturing, downing and of course branding.  All cattle I successfully force into submission wrangle will display ACOF on their shanks, and these shall be the next proud members of the illustrious fan club.

The alluring idea of a job-share is something I have not been able to shake since becoming aware of this most generous off-loading of responsibility.  I suspect that Le Clown, Subcomandante and I will work side-by-each, glory-to-glory, fuck-fucker-fuckest to deliver to the people that which has never been delivered before – encouragement of their servitude through dependable replies to comments.  The mind-boggling infrastructure that has been put together, the computer code that has been written, even the brilliant idea to exploit the desperation of others longing to feel a sense of belonging are but few of the reasons that I hold Le Clown in such high esteem.  His forward thinking, his brilliant mind, that face.  He is going to take us to places the blogging world has never been and the likes of which we may never see again in our humble lifetimes.


I was born on a blog four months ago.  I don’t know Le Clown well, Subcomandante less so, and they don’t know me at all.  Yet, seriously, I consider them my parents.  I will serve and protect them in any way necessary like Higgins served Magnum P.I, like Gopher served The Captain, like Tattoo served Mr. Roarke, like Charlton Heston served the apes; wearing a uniform, appearing near naked, accepting bondage, donning a mustache, speaking with an accent, appearing sweaty, with gritted teeth.


I will keep fans in line by providing generous doses of sarcasm and fucks lightly interspersed with elusive promises of direct access to the magnificent™.  When necessary I’ll employ Tony Danza, a friend and former lover to spank me repetitively while yelling “Who’s the boss?”, should I ever slack on my wrangling responsibilities.  And, full disclosure, I may intentionally slack once in a while, but that’s my own shit and Tony’s always been good to me.


I rally for this job because I can’t swear in front of my children.  I can’t not swear in front of Le Clown and Subcomandante.  They unleash the leash of Catholic guilt.  They empower! They are power! They’re pow! They poo!  Shit.  See?

If I am not the chosen one, I plan to don a mask, call myself La Boeuf and stalk vegan bloggers.  And, start my own fucking club where my followers will not be carnies but carni-vores.  We’ll find clown fans and eat them for breakfast.  We’ll take the i’s out of magnificence™ so it will read magnfcence© and make no sense.  An empire will slowly crumble.

Dad; mom; I love you guys.  I don’t want things to end this way.  We’re all in it together.  Let the clown empire reign supreme.  I’m down on my knees.  I will take you there.