Everyone’s favorite holiday is swiftly approaching. That’s right, December first is World AIDS Day, that magical day when we all gather around the AIDS tree and sing AIDS carols. Or maybe it’s a holiday invented to help spread awareness about a horrible disease. I can never be sure.
To bring awareness to this awareness bringing day in Germany Regenbogen e.V. has teamed up with das comitee to bring us “AIDS IS A MASS MURDERER” an inventive — and NSFW — campaign featuring nubile young women copulating with the likes of Saddam Hussein, Joseph Stalin, and, of course, Adolf Hitler making for disturbing images like this. Of course, if you are going to go all Godwin’s Law on the HIV you might as well go balls deep, so to speak, which leads, of course, to the horror of the television ad shown above; an ad that really draws the attention away from AIDS and places it squarely on, well, fucking Hitler.
1. A female robot must always have perfect makeup, even if her arm is falling off.
2. A female robot must have at least one spare head available to her at all times.
3. A female robot will only find a mate if she follows the First and Second Laws.
All credit to the incomparable Susannah Breslin, Pornographic Cartographer, for the tongue-in-cheek homage to Asimov’s famous Laws.
Surely it’s a lovely picture, but I’m more looking forward to future images from this set. Rob Sheridan explains that he wants the robots to appear a bit more broken down, some even missing limbs, in the next few photos, which I think would help make these look a little grittier and, perhaps, slightly less posed. For those with any mechanical and/or prop-making skills, they’re looking for help. If you’re interested Rob provides an email address at which you can contact him.
Lastly, let me just say this: Do not be lured in by this thing’s demure gaze and vulnerable sensuality. It is a lie, meant to lull your primitive, lizard brain into a sex fueled stupor, at which point it can rip out your spine. Soft curves or no, dear readers, a robot is still a robot and, therefore, not to be trusted.
Virginity remains, in many parts of the world and to many people, a prized commodity; a trophy unsullied by the genitalia and bodily fluids of others. So sought after is this package in its unopened state that a surgical operation is available, the hymenoplasty, to reinstate or repair a woman’s hymen, once again restoring freshness with a newly minted vacuum seal.
For those who don’t wish to go through the rigors of surgery or who simply lost their virginity by accident, either by riding a horse or by tripping and falling upon a gentleman’s exposed penis, a Chinese company offers this home solution. The description for this ersatz maidenhead is set forth in perfect Engrish:
No more worry about losing your virginity. With this product, you can have your first night back anytime. Insert this artificial hymen into your vagina carefully. It will expand a little and make you feel tight. When your lover penetrate, it will ooze out a liquid that look like blood not too much but just the right amount. Add in a few moans and groans, you will pass through undetectable. Its easy to use, clinically proven non-toxic to human and has no side effects, no pain to use and no allergic reaction.
As you can see, the real selling point here is the products ability to release just the right amount of blood-like fluid. It is a testament to the manufacturer’s knowledge of deflowering, for surely nothing would be more embarrassing than, upon the insertion of your lover’s penis, a crimson geyser exploded forth from the depths of your vagina, flinging him backwards from the force and bathing him in faux-hemoglobin. At that point there might, I suspect, be some explaining to do.
After watching this clip of the Ross Sisters’s performance from the 1944 musical Broadway Rhythm one may be forgiven for wondering just what is meant by the phrase “solid potato salad.” You may be thinking that, certainly there is some ulterior meaning here, some sort of perverse inference to be made hinting at an unspeakable taboo; an act unfit for the polite society of your grandparents but universally understood nevertheless. Surely, you might think, they cannot merely be soliloquizing a starchy side dish, no matter how good it may have been.
To this I would respond: does it matter? After watching a trio of lithe nymphets fold themselves in half, does the meaning of such an innocuous phrase still bear contemplation? At the point that a sprightly girl twists and descends like a coiled snake to pluck an apple with her mouth, is innuendo even an issue? I would maintain that, should they have chosen to, they could just as well have read the back of a cereal box and still held the audience’s attention just as effectively.
How many times I have fantasized about being Mikael Gorbachov I cannot say, but often I will find myself staring off into space, day-dreaming that I am the barbarian savior of Russia. With my mighty axe I cut a swath through the U.S.S.R., my rippling biceps, criss-crossed with veins, pump furiously like taut, fleshy pistons as I deal blood-soaked death to my enemies. With my laser vision I decimate the armies of zombie, Stalin impersonators, rending them limb from limb; freeing from their clutches the buxom, nubile nymphs of the hammer and sickle. Yes, it is for them — their bosoms heaving, their lips trembling with fear — that I, flush with the ancient and infinite power afforded me by The Mark emblazoned on my pate, rampage through the Motherland. It is for them that I bring soda from the West, and American denim.
And, oh, how grateful they are…
For the sake of decorum I feel that here would be a good place to stop. Besides, the stories of Gorbachov’s legendary sexual prowess and enormous genitalia are common knowledge. Alas, as will always be the case, I must awake from my reverie knowing that I am not Mikael Gorbachov. I cannot shoot lasers from my eyes, nor have I ever kicked someone hard enough to separate their head from their shoulders. No, I must live knowing those Soviet angels, their skin sticky and sweet from consuming Twinkies, will never welcome me into their arms, but this amazing ode to the man, from Russian metal mavens’ ANJ and director Tom Stern, is, I suppose, the next best thing.
BLU’s Muto: animation on a public wall. Beautiful surely, but I couldn’t help but think about all the artwork he covered up to make it (I know, it’s a public wall, it comes with the territory.) Thanks to Ry-Tron and everyone else who sent this in!
Don’t you fucking dare post knitting patterns for Dr. Who characters. So sayeth the BBC, though most likely it was worded in a far more politely threatening manner filled with words contain superfluous “u”s. Thanks, August Moon!
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
