Penis Dress-Up

Now there's a reason to love the Belgians aside from their waffles and fries and... yeah, that's all I got for ya.

Anyway, BEHOLD:

Best. Condom ad. EVER.

The Maddams Family

Dreams DO come true, my friends. God is smiling on my today! Look what I just happened upon:


My night is now spoken for. Bliss!

The Munsters, Doggie-Style

Some of the perks of being in the porn biz, aside from all the faux dongs I like, is that I get to see soon-to-be porn classics at least a few minutes before everyone else. Last week: This Ain't the Munsters XXX.


I won't get into the juicy plot points, the balls-out acting (yeah, I went there), or the challenging directorial choices. But I will say that the pizza the Hustler crew brought over for us, as enticement to say nice things about the performers' genitalia, hit the spot. There is nothing, NOTHING, like eating a slice while watching Grandpa, Herman, and Lily do the XXX nasty. Brill'!

As a sidebar, fingers crossed "The Addams Family XXX" is next in the production line!

Breaking Up With Your Sex Doll the Right Way

To all your sex-doll owners, (You know who you are... And I know who you are) please be advised that dumping your plastic lay in the woods will land you some unwanted police attention.


My suggestion is to get rid of it the time-honored, old-fashioned way: by passing it on to your kid.

Aloha, Yourself

Clearly, friends, I am doing something wrong to have received this:
And by "wrong" I mean, "JACKPOT!"

"Save the Fight for the Komodo"

The other night, I happened upon a film on cable so extraordinary, so revelatory, I can't in good conscience keep it to myself. I MUST share it with the world.

Ready? Are you in your Netflix queue? Get ready to type this:

"Curse of the Komodo."

Yeah, you read right.

Featuring some of the worst FX ever committed to celluloid, unspeakably awkward editing, and largely endowed porn stars in tank tops trying to act the LIVING SHIT out of it all. In a word: MAGIC.

Behold the awesome power of the komodo!


Know what he's after?

These:


Fingers crossed I can find it for less than 3 bucks on eBay! Though even I refuse to get into a bidding war with a 14-year-old pimply teen from Arkansas for the glory of having it in my paws. Because, as the hero of "Curse" sagely advises: "Save the fight for the komodo."

American Appalling

While I was making a lunch -- aka Red Vines -- run today, I passed an American Apparel store that had two mannequins in a pose that could only be described as "retail-window doggie." It was THAT BAD.

Almost as bad as the stock, which featured, among other pieces of fabric not worthy of the label "clothing," this demure, chaste, I dare say subtle, offering:


Note: This warrants a trip to the proctologist after wear, as things tend to get, er, sucked into the abyss.

I especially am partial to the "action" shots found on the company's site, highlighting the item's broad functionality. Par example:

They're perfect when you're too drunk to make it to the bathroom!

Also:


Ideal for giving you that self-esteem boost when your friend's suffering from crippling scoliosis!

All that and more for the low low price of 26 bucks! A small price to pay for the worth we call Self.

Masterpiece Theatre: Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

After taking a much-needed mental-health hiatus (aka, lounging around in my PJs with an open jar of peanut butter and a spoon), I need to break my silence the only way I know how: with a country-music video. So I am introducing everyone to the wonder, the glory, the dance-hall genius that is Trace Adkins's Honky Tonk Badonkadonk:


First off: The unaltered GarageBand dance loop layered underneath the down-home lyrics is, in a word, miraculous.

I am also weak at the knees for Mr. Trace's painfully awkward, he-should-be-embarrassed dance "moves."

BLESS!

I also likey what transpires at the 3:04 mark, when it morphs into a disco-infused roller-rink slow jam.

KLASSY!

And the lyrics! Dear Lord, THE LYRICS!

Now Honey, you can't blame her
For what her mama gave her
It ain't right to hate her
For workin' that money-maker
Band shuts down at two
But we're hangin' out till three
We hate to see her go
But love to watch her leave
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm
Make ya wanna swing along
Got it goin' on
Like Donkey Kong
And whoo-wee
Shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There outta be a law
Get the Sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
(Ooh, that's what I'm talkin' bout right there, honey)

I feel fuzzy inside. (And outside. But that could be my allergies.) Hell, this is just the feel-good song of my lifetime. What a time we live in!

Frida of Expression

My current mood can be summarized thusly:


Oh hells yes!

Sexism in Practice

Overheard today at my local Barnes & Noble, as I was thumbing through a book about recherché S&M (or was it knitting?) techniques.

Pimply white teenager: "Dude, isn't your dad some kind of feminist?"
Heavy-set, pimply white teenager: "No, we both fucking hate feminists. They're sexist."

And... scene.

Space Screwing

Will someone please divert all federal monies going to find a cure for cancer into THIS:

So that we can see more of this:


Please?

Bad Barbie

This new Barbie is officially dubbed Black Canary:

But I'd dub it an exercise in doll badassery!

Clealry intended as a teaching tool, this ambassador of kinky sex will introduce girls and (gay?) boys to the wonderful world that is nipple clamps and safe words! (And what will kids picky as the safe word between dominatrix Barbie and that pussyface of hers, Ken? "iPod"? "Hannah-Montana"? "Frenemy"? The possibilities are ENDLESS!)

I look forward to a near-future filled with young suburban girls outfitted in Forever 21 hoodies getting their role-playing on with S&M Barbie and a bound and ball-gagged Ken doll. My eyes are getting misty just thinking about it.

If I have any advice to Mattel it's to turn this into an entire Fetish line: "Spreader-Bar Ken" or "Hooded Polly Pocket" or "Strap-On Barbie: Limited Edition"! I'm exhausting myself!

This kind of thing restores my faith in humanity. And doll-making.

Da View

Recently, I've felt a disturbance in the Force, like something was missing but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Well, friends, I am pleased to report that I now know what that is...

This here:


That's Whoopi going bat-shit on "The View" this morning, which I have been missing lately because of a scheduling conflict with my nap time.

Anyway, the shitstorm started when Jesse Jackson's use of the N-word was brought up and Elisabeth said no one should use the word in any context because kids might hear it and Whoopi said "We live in two separate worlds" and then Elisabeth started crying:


The negative space that is Sherri Shepherd contributed the usual:


And to make everything seem less awkward, Barbara saved the day by mugging this:



This show deserves a Peabody. Or just a pea.

Mirren = Smokin'-hot Badass

Today a picture of 62-year-old Helen Mirren in a bikini surfaced online. And HOLY SWEET LORD IS THIS WOMAN SIZZLING:

Damn, sister, did you make aging your bitch!

How do you do it?! Do you drink the blood of nubile virgins for breakfast? Did you install a fountain of youth in your backyard that you bathe in nightly while being fed bonbons from a gilded tray? Did you make some kind of crazy-ass Rosemary's Baby pact whereby you get that body and some minion gets... your Scottish terrier?

Also, I think the bathing suit is cute. Damn, woman, you're killing me here! Now I have to go to the freakin' gym and run on the treadmill to the tune of self-loathing. Thanks for nothing.

Artiste du Jour: Erika Rothenberg

Erika Rothenberg is an artist with a sense of humor. Exhibit A:


We need more artists like her. That is all.

Bleepin' P****

Caught some of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List last night, which was alternatively giggle-inducing and so boring that I actually chose to clean the carpet instead (for about 3-1/2 minutes, then got distracted by something shiny, which turned out to be a piece of a candy wrapper, which made me think of chocolate, which made me wish I had some).

At one point in the episode, she stunt-marries some nice Jewish couple. She, of course, FUBARs most of it, and peppers the majority of the ceremony with vulgarities fit for a tattoo parlor in San Pedro. Most of these vulgarities were helpfully bleeped by the kind censors at Bravo. Most except: "pussy." That's right: "fuck" and "shit" were no-gos but a derogatory term for female genitalia passed with flying colors. More than once. I'm considering writing a letter to Bravo and telling them: "It's all or nothing, bitches. Come the F on!" I'd love to know what the thought process is behind allowing a "pussy" over a "shit," but I'll leave that to the experts to ponder.

And I'm sure if Kathy ever read this, this would sum up her response:

Boy Sauce

I LOVE the French — cheese, wine, cheese, Charlotte Gainsbourg, cheese, buttery pastries, cheese, tongue-kissing, etc. But the following has rocked my world. I may never watch a Catherine Deneuve movie again. Not even "Belle De Jour." Yeah, it's THAT bad.

Courtesy of Les 400 Culs comes this eBay France listing for "15 ml de jus de maillots de bain homme."

Know what that is? "15 milliliters of Male Bathing-Suit Juice."


The seller collected the "jus" from a public swimming pool in Paris. I'm wondering how the "precious nectar" (his words, not mine) was in fact collected. Is there such a collection device? I imagine the object would look something like the biting shark on the end of a stick you get in the concession stands of amusement parks. Like this:

Gotcha!

Things get even creepier with the description of the odor as "delicate" owing to the fact it was collected in such a "convivial" and "virile" environment as the changing room of a public pool.

That's so many kinds of weird-nasty I can't even count. It's infinitively weird-nasty. It's the pi of weird-nasty!

This would all be a 5-euro joke we could put behind us if it weren't for the fact 4 freakin' people (or escaped zoo gorillas) have bid on it. WTFF?! Le gross.

Faux Shlongs

As if we needed another reason to actively dislike the least-watched HBO series since forever... OK, actually since last year's dreadful "John From Cincinnati" (shiver)... the lead actor of "Tell Me You Love Me" has now revealed his on-screen dick is not his own. Yep: This dude's been sporting a dildo.

And he actually looks pleased about it! Like, homie wha?

I loathe the double standard about pee-pee parts in film/TV, and this is just another notch in that moronic belt. I mean, why don't the actresses on the show wear fake vaginas? I've "heard" they make very anatomically-correct ones these days. Really life-like. Simulacrum, if you will.

Anyway, the biggest sin of this show is that it actually manages to be boring despite featuring graphic sex scenes, fake peckers notwithstanding. So, I guess that's a feat in itself. Yippee.

Pity Me

Some douches broke into my poor sweet car this morning and stole my favorite handbag, along with my wallet and a peanut-butter Clif bar. When I called my credit-card company to report the vandalism, they said the budding Bonnie and Clydes had used it already to buy discount gas and a whopping 24 bucks' worth of food at McDonald's. Guess they were lovin' it. Zing! Anyway, if any of you has any extra cash lying under the sofa, I want this as a replacement.


So cute! It's Kangol. I likey. It's on sale here.

Just puttin' it out there...

Septuagenarian Pops Out Litttle Humans

According to the BBC, this 70-year-old Indian woman just had twins:


My friend asked the tough questions: "Shouldn't there be a 'Closed' sign? Or maybe just 'Out of Order'?"

I'd add "Stop" to the list.

But really, what I am most struggling to wrap my head around is the fact this woman has been menstruating since the 50s. She's been menstruating since Eisenhower! She's been menstruating since the invention of Super Glue! She's been menstruating since Rosa Parks gave up her freakin' seat on the back of a freakin' bus! (And that's all the trivia I have for you today, folks.)

She has my deepest sympathy.

Sex Scenes Gone Bad

The bad-sex-scene curators over at Nerve have done us all a favor and narrowed a potentially limitless list down to a semi-digestible 50. No. 1 is the how-about-butter-as-lube Euro-flick, Last Tango in Paris. A solid choice, as the particular scene in question is horrendously "acted," self-consciously pretentious, and most egregiously, un-sexy. It's celluloid suckiness.

As good as the choices are, there is one scene conspicuously absent from the list that should be on ANY list dedicated to outrageous badness as an art form: this sex scene from I Know Who Killed Me.

I LOVE how it opens with Lindsay Lohan's character's prosthetic leg chillin' by the wall:

And it get so much better (better = badder) from there, as you'll duly note.

I love that there's a blue filter used for no apparent reason other than maybe it was the only one available the day of the shoot. I love the embarrassing sex choreography, in which Lindsay at one point rides the guy like a pommel horse. And I love love love the heavy-handed intercutting to draw attention away from the gospel-of-truth that Lindsay and her co-star have no perceptible chemistry. Brava!

PhDs will one day be dedicated to its awfulness. Courses will be planned to examine in-depth the achingly bad score, the dude's girly orgasm sounds, the cloacal kissing. This is a genre unto itself!

It's a serious oversight on Nerve's part, because, truly, this is the worst sex scene since the circa-'89 Heath Ed video I was shown in gym class that started with a boy getting a boner and ended with a girl boned and with child. I still have the scars.

Anti-Woman Sloganeering

Jezebel linked to this T-shart today: This fabric dingleberry offends me as a woman, a clothes buyer (looks ill-fitting), and a copy editor (what's with the hyphen blitzkrieg?).

The fact that the sizes also come in Juniors and Youth-Fit (aka for boys) does little to quell the vomitorium gaining strength in my abdomen.

I do not believe in censorship. I do not believe in controlling language. I do not believe in blue-penciling people.

Having said all of that, let's no kid ourselves that this type of thing is not dangerous. It's easy to write a slogan like this if you haven't been the victim of date rape, or know someone who has. Just like it's easy to use a specific slur when it can never be directed at you.

Not to mention, the "Looking for 'date rape' products" link at the bottom of the Amazon page is really the cherry atop this preternaturally vile cake.

"A Painted Stranger Sexually Assualted Me" Tee on Sale!

Anyone who has seen me lately knows that I am in dire need of new clothes. Eight-year-old jeans that I have been patching the shit out of with any dumpster scraps I can find and a T-shirt that has something like an afterbirth stain on it is just not cutting it. Even the nose-less homeless guy outside my local coffee hole don't want to tap this, yo.

So, even though I am 173 years too old for Urban Outfitters, I sniffed out their Sale signage in the hopes of new-outfitting my sorry ass.

As I was perusing the Anorexic Apparel, I stepped in this piece of shit:


I first read this as "Jack Skellington Grabbed My Muffins." I later re-read it as "I Was Groped By a Finger-Painter on the El Train." I mean, even the model doesn't look happy about this.

For $14.99, I expect them to throw in a Rape Kit.

En Vogue

Because this morning I couldn't, I just COULD NOT, bring myself to watch what was on offer at the gym, a hazardous-waste cornucopia that included "The View" and "Highlights of Sporting Events" and "Some Local Newscast Featuring Graphics From '92," I grabbed a magazine at the door. Please, no snap judgements:


It was either that or "Men's Health" and the thought of parsing Viva Viagra ads to get to articles about jock itch was just about as depressing as a limbless kitten.

Seventy-two pages of ads later, I found myself spacing out on this chestnut of a quote:

Lo siento, perras, but this is irresponsible and despicable, and most importantly, doesn't work, as I just pictured my last meal and immediately felt my body inching closer to the fridge for the leftovers. Ahh... cold pancakes. But I digress. Thiz gross.

After realizing I had gone into a fugue state pondering the effects of such a quotable and had been staring at the wonky eye of the dude on the treadmill a few doors down, I focused on the task at hand: Getting through the Nicole Kidman article.

WTFuckness? Did somebody iron her face?

OK, so I couldn't get through the article. The pics stopped me in my tracks the same way the Juvederm stopped Nicole from physically hitting 17.

At least the mag was kind enough to juxtapose a photo of Karl Lagerfeld and a fembot.

That got me to the end of my workout.

A Sex Toy With Your Ill-Fitting Threads?

Courtesy of its scumbaguette CEO, American Apparel is now selling the Hitachi Magic Wand.

This is the wiggle stick in question:


What better way to accessorize underwear that an American Girl Doll would find ass-constrictive?! (I riddle you not, AA's panties lowered my sperm count just on sight alone.)

But seriously, I am most offended because now I have incentive to shop there.

Pussy Peddling: Idealized

I finally caught "Secret Diary of a Call Girl" last night, in between bites of a dark-chocolate-marzipan Ritter bar. Anywayz... The premise of the show: A call girl named Belle de Jour (a reach-around to Buñuel) likes her work because, as she puts it, she likes to fuck and she likes money.

It's like a factory-farm butcher saying he likes his job because he gets to work with animals.

So let's not kid ourselves: The show is a romanticized version of a really fucked-up occupation. The notion that a hooker — one highly palatable Billie Piper — is cool with her career choice is the type of thing that makes us all able to sleep at night.

However, the character Hannah/Belle doesn't sit as cozily with her body-sellin' as the producers would like us to think. She says she loves her job because she likes to screw, but later, elaborates, saying, she loves her job because she doesn't have to be herself. There is a bit of dissociation going on. It isn't even her fucking at all. It's a character doing the sexy. In human parlance, we call this denial.

After a little wiki search, I discovered that Billie Piper has struggled with anorexia. This personal tragedy underscores for me the very public tragedy, and danger, of presenting hooking as something cool. Women disembodying themselves, both onscreen and off, should not be shot in soft focus.

The direct address is also tummy-owee-inducing, as it makes the viewer a complicit participant. No pure artifice here: We are all in this together! Brecht would be wet-dreaming the shit out of this were he alive.

Not to mention, this promo graphic:


Reminds me of this:


Having said all of this, I will probably watch another episode because a) it has some realistic sex scenes and b) the British accents are hella funny.

I never said I was a role model.

Dumb Avocados

In between mourning George Carlin and Amy Winehouse’s lung capacity, this served to distract the living shit out of me:


E!, in an E!xceptional move, has decided to take the negative press directed at its newest reality vart, “Denise Richards: It’s Complicated,” and turn it into promo fodder. Although I do not fully grasp the complex subtlety of “Dumber Than an Avocado,” I can say with some certainty that this is meant to be derogatory, an insult to both avocados and Denise Richards.

I also detect a soupçon of sexism. Don't you?

It’s not really that complicated.

Photo Du Jour: Terry O'Neill

Pussy Galore!


Thanks, Reverse Cowgirl, for posting this. It was the perfect little pick-me-up!

Snail Smut

Everyone's favorite bat-shit-crazy model/actress/spokesperson for the criminally insane (and by "everyone" I mean "me"), Isabella Rossellini, has made what I consider the first and final word in green pornography.

We are talking about this woman:


The XXXciting video features IR in a giant snail costume, going over the specifics of slug fucking. It's ten kinds of awesome.

She starts by saying something boring about how big her foot would be if she were a snail. I was more focused on the anatomically correct pee-pee parts.


She then helpfully explains: "I can withdraw my entire body into my shell, where I can hide my vagina and my penis. I have both." In human parlance, we call that a "she-male." But I don't want to quibble.

At this point, shit starts to get super funked up.

She curls her body into the shell like a fist and says these magic words: "My anus would end up at the top of my head."

But really, who HASN'T been there?

She then talks about how she can produce darts to inflict pain, which “turns me on.” Is she still the snail at this point or Isabella? You be the judge.

Then the S&M commences!

After pummeling the living snot out of each other in a kinky freakfest, Isabella and her giant snail friend do the nasty.

Says the chick in the escargot costume, "Sadomasochism excites me."

I need a cold shower.