Depicted here is the extraordinarily rare Zombie-Faced Mermaid, a creature not unlike the flounder and the fiddler crab in its stunning asymmetry, and voracious appetite for sailor sex.

Photos From the 2008 Mermaid Parade: Drag, Burlesque, and Little Girls’ Parties [And I Am Not Lying]

One of my favorite questions to ask militant vegans is whether or not they would eat meat grown in a lab, and cultured from animals in ways that don’t inconvenience them in any way. The reasonable vegans are usually OK with the idea, the less reasonable ones give me exactly the reaction I was looking for in the first place.

All baiting aside, this line of inquiry raises some interesting questions. If we could grow beef, chicken, or pork in a lab from innocuously harvested cells could we not also grow human meat? And if so, would there be a market for it? Considering the horrific deviancy of our readership (and oh how we love you for it) I say an emphatic yes is the only reasonable answer. Apparently a student at Cranbrook (a college of art and science) agrees.

Thanapong Vudhichamnong, the aforementioned student with a jones for auto-cannibalism, and the best name I’ve seen in a long time, has created the consuME Meat Make; a speculative design that would grow a small donut-shaped piece of meat fit for consumption from a biological sample. While this would do wonders for global stability as far as consumption of resources is concerned, I can’t imagine this device would be available for very long before someone made a human sample.

So…who wants Rosenburgers?

consuME Meat Maker [grinding.be] : Beyond Fashion

Meet Corey Delaney, 16 of Melbourne, Australia and his “famous” glasses. Corey is being interviewed by a stern, buxom blond because he threw a party while his parents were on vacation, and when young Master Delaney throws a party, sometimes it involves over five hundred people and requires the attention of thirty police officers, a police helicopter, and the police dog squad. The raucous party goers caused an estimated twenty thousand dollars in damage which Corey or, more likely, Mr. and Mrs. Delaney may have to pay for.

Corey, for his part and to the frustration of the aforementioned buxom anchorwoman, seems unrepentant, and really, why should he? Shirtless, so as to better show off his single, pierced nipple, wearing a hat that he may have taken from a preteen girl or a mentally retarded woman, and glasses which are, as mentioned earlier, “famous” he has his whole life ahead of him. The world is his drunken oyster.

It makes me glad then, dear readers, that I do not live in a country, colonized by murderers, rapists, and thieves, that would produce a jackass of Corey Delaney’s caliber and instead live in a country, colonized by religious zealots who wanted to outlaw Christmas and which has never, ever, afforded people the liberty of such spectacular idiocy.

Best Street Party Ever - Parents Yet To Find Out [YouTube] : Nothing To Do With Arbroath : Guardian Unlimited

In a culture of casual nudity, cheap beauty, and non-stop supermodel rollerdiscos, what can a man do to get noticed? How can he draw slitted eyes away from mirrors, and fellow sapphic sphynxes, long enough to make any sort of impression? When personality, looks, and tiger speedos just don’t cut the mustard anymore, what else is left?

What else indeed.

By all accounts Major Thomas Weir and his sister Jean were lovely people if, perhaps, just a tad on the overly pious side. Born in 1599 he had a significant military record as Covenanting soldier and he was captain of the town guard until 1650. Devout Presbyterians, Weir was preacher at his local church and he and his sister lived on Edinburgh’s West Bow, a street full of so many devout Presbyterians that those who lived there were known as the “Bowhead Saints”. In fact, Weir was known as being one of the purest and most active in his community, which he was seen frequently patrolling, his ever present black thornwood staff in hand.

He lived to the ripe old age of 70, when, in 1670, he was executed. You see there was only one problem with Major Thomas Weir: he had been leading a double life as a warlock and serial pervert.
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Remember the almost magical surge of “boy bands” that suddenly swamped the airwaves like a tsunami of clumsy vocal harmonies, recycled New Edition dance moves, and ambiguously-gay camraderie in the late 1990s? The Backstreet Boys, N*Sync, LFO (Lyte Funky Ones)…? I can’t recall how many people said these postpubescent power-balladeers looked and sounded so alike it wouldn’t be a surprise to discover they were manufactured somewhere in a factory.

Well, the factory was in Orlando, Florida, and its president was a jovial fella by the name of Lou Pearlman, a.k.a. “Big Poppa.”

Big Poppa published a book in 2002, entitled Bands, Brands & Billions, in which he made himself out to be a sort of Donald Trump figure who rose from skid-row in Flushing, Queens, to become first the head of a blimp empire–yes, an empire built around renting out blimps–and later, a musical empire responsible for launching the careers of the Backstreet Boys, N*Sync, and many other typical boy bands. Lou Pearlman was like a short, white Don Corleone sitting at the controls of an imperium built on blimps and boys.

Too bad he was 1) swindling everyone who even loaned him a buck for his blimp biz; and 2) was a little more into the boys than the bands. Continue Reading…

In analyzing my name, a blessing and curse bestowed on me by my worldly parents, one might infer that I am a swarthy foreigner sipping Turkish coffee and smoking kreteks in a Middle Eastern cafe surrounded by throngs of brown skinned youth, eager for tales of debauchery and adventure. One might also infer I am simply a long haired, pimply faced, goon with a penchant for obscure literature in middle America having taken up the moniker of an Arabic poet in an attempt to obfuscate the shame of being named Ernie. While I fit certain portions of each stereotype, Ernie being what Brownlee calls my “bitch-name”, I am neither in whole.

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“It’s supposed to be like a silent robot porno movie from another planet.”

This seemed like the perfect distraction for His Enormity.

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It would appear that the light at the end of the tunnel is in fact a train, of the die-cast variety, being crushed by tiny, Japanese, lady feet. Speculation continues over the real reason behind John and Eliza’s trip to the far East and if a truly orgiastic feast was the entree then the crushing of trains by the delicate nadirous extremities of tiny Japanese women must be the appetizer.

While I would consider myself a man of understanding when it comes to the multitude of sexual peccadillos people insist on participating in I’ve never fully understood the crushing fetish. Having started in the states with women crushing insects and the like with their feet, which I can grok as an extension of foot fetishism, the Japanese, as they specialize in, have perverted perversion and introduced all manner of crushing fetishism.

Just what kind of person can lean over a television broadcasting the wreckage of a once picturesque model train, as delivered by the wrathful foot of an Easterly nymphet, and sigh in tainted release? I suspect we all know two of these people. I wonder if the producers of these videos are concerned by the recent lead paint scares in China.

Model Trains Fetish Japanese DVD via Boing Boing

I won’t pretend to not have tried to convince my girlfriend that allowing me to keep a harem would be a good idea. Lying in bed on my side as she briskly cleans out my festering bed sores I assure her that all of this could be avoided if I only had a collection of lithe nymphs ensconced in silks, draping themselves lazily over velvet divans. How many nights could she have avoided weeping softly to herself in the bathroom after having been subjected, yet again, to my filthy advances, gritting her teeth as my squamous body exfoliated her skin? Why would she not want to let someone else prop up the rolling flesh covering my atrophied legs in order to pressure wash deep within its hidden recesses? I’m just saying, her life would be so much easier. Alas, she seems to be some sort of twisted masochist for I remain here, haremless.

Regardless, I find the strength to go on. However sometimes I am still thrown into a deep morass of depression when I find things like this wonderful compendium of harem girls, belly dancers, and other assorted entertainers. Ah well, a man can dream right? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go. My right side is becoming quite septic and I need to be turned again.

P.S. It should go without saying that some of this is NSFW but I’m saying it anyway.

Belly Dancers and Harem Girls: A Historical/Cheesecake Gallery [Dance and The ShanMonster]

Awwwwwww, yeah…bring it home to us, Barry & Lavonne!

To this day, the ladies always ask me: Pegritz…why are you so fly? Where did you ever get your fetish for velour tuxedos and very large mounds of vanilla pudding?

Well, I just look into those lovely multifaceted female eyes and I say, “Baby, it was The State, a comedy show on MTV waaaay back in The Day. Half of the members of The State now form the cast of Reno 911, and y’all know Ian Michael Black from every single VH-1 retro programme known to man. But, baby…don’t go looking for those seXXXy Staters on DeeVamaDee, because the gods ain’t with us on this one. So just don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, sugar; just sliiiiiiiiide over here to Dr. Pegritz’s pudding pile and…awwwwwwww, yeaaaaahhhh!”

Too bad I can’t for the life of me get the video to embed properly in this page. Just…just follow the link–you’ll dig the hell out of it!

Would anyone really have minded losing World War II to the Nazis if the SS had been full of sexy dominatrixes like Ilsa? I know, I know: the Jews, the Gypsies, the Homosexuals, the Political Dissidents. But I’d hope that, given a Nazi army largely populated by busty sadomasochists with an insatiable hunger for bisexual love, they’d have taken one for the team. Fascism’s just not so bad when you’re handcuffed to a swastika-shaped bed and being ridden by a foxy minx. It only falls apart when a wattled toad like Joseph Goebbels is doing the riding.

Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS [Film Stills Live Journal, NSFW]

I said last week that I was going to theme this week of NdJ’s, and that they were going to be either sweet, or salty. I’ve changed my mind.

With the posting of Rammstein’s “Sonne” on Saturday, my appetite was whetted for music videos that stand as triumphs of filmmaking in their own right. So that will be the flavor this week, starting with a dear favorite of mine, “Mr. Brightside”.

I usually dislike bands-of-the-moment, especially the young male bands with homogeneous albums and hit singles (I’m looking at you, My Chemical Romance), but after I watched this video several times, at first for the girl and then for the spectacle and then for the little story, the song regrettably sank in.

This came out a few years after Moulin Rouge did, and frankly this was the better film.

What is it with music videos and iconic, heartbreaking, but ultimately anonymous heroines?

I can’t find an embeddable copy of this video anywhere, so you’ll have to slum it with a link:

Mr. Brightside [YouTube]

I’m posting uncensored under the assumption that through the hypocrisy of corporate America, monochromatic mammaries exposed in their erect and perky glory will not raise suspicions of inter-cubicle masturbation in the minds of your employers. If I’m wrong, let me know, we’ll octobee it, and it’ll be lesson learned.

Woman With The Most Bizarre Headgear [Vintage Photo Livejournal]

A sad day for hedonists everywhere: one of our own has died, and not — as I know he would have liked — by asphyxiation while snorting blow out of the rectum of a BBW dominatrix, into which he was ensconced down to the waist.

Count Gottfried von Bismarck, who was found dead on Monday aged 44, was a louche German aristocrat with a multi-faceted history as a pleasure-seeking heroin addict, hell-raising alcoholic, flamboyant waster and a reckless and extravagant host of homosexual orgies…

The great-great-grandson of Prince Otto, Germany’s Iron Chancellor and architect of the modern German state, the young von Bismarck showed early promise as a brilliant scholar, but led an exotic life of gilded aimlessness that attracted the attention of the gossip columns from the moment he arrived in Oxford in 1983 and hosted a dinner at which the severed heads of two pigs were placed at either end of the table.

When not clad in the lederhosen of his homeland, he cultivated an air of sophisticated complexity by appearing in women’s clothes, set off by lipstick and fishnet stockings.

Count Gottfried von Bismarck Obituary [Telegraph] : Dethroner