This anti-pornography film from the 1960s left me with one very obvious, and troubling, conclusion: I am deeply envious of the wordsmithery of morally conservative propagandists. From his terse, esoteric pronunciation of bestiality, to his description of a “flood-tide of filth” — a description that calls to mind great, towering waves of briny genitalia — in terms of oratorical outrage, George Putnam is equal parts Shakespeare and Don King. Listening to his ode to a young, female sex toy, he paints a picture of sleazy, corrupted innocence that far exceeds any photograph. His insights are pointed, “[…]very few blind people join the nudist colonies,” he notes; his logic flawless. It was only when he described the irreversible effects of pornography that I realized why man-on-top missionary style sex did not excite me and why I insisted that my girlfriend participate in elaborate, 80s themed cos-play. Suddenly forcing her to dress like Jem or one of the My Little Ponies made perfect, if horrible, sense.
Yet, Putnam remains humble throughout. “In this ad, the titles of the magazines and their table of contents speak more eloquently than I about the tremendous problem here presented,” he says, before uttering the words “Sexual sadism. Strange flagellation cults” with a gravitas that would drive Morgan Freeman mad with jealousy. Oh George, you sell yourself short. Who else could speak of homosexuals as an evil “species” without coming off as a completely ignorant, hateful bigot? Who else could retain their composure while narrating over scores of photographs of female breasts covered by bars so large that one would think these women were in possession of the most freakishly huge areolas to be found on this planet, Earth? Not I!
Towards the end of the clip he quotes Pitirim A. Sorokin — the famed sociologist and author of, among other works, the hysterical and reactionary The American Sex Revolution — as saying that the newsstands of the time
[…] depict the world as a sort of human zoo, inhabited by raped, mutilated, and murdered females and by he-males, outmatching in bestiality, cavemen and out-lusting the lustiest of animals. Male and female alike are hardened in cynical contempt for human life and values.
Part of me wishes these two gentleman had been able to see some of the more interesting corners of the internet, if only to have been able to see their brains leak out their ears. In fact, Putnam is still alive and has, at the very least, changed his opinion on homosexuals. Someone should sit him down in front of 4chan before it’s too late.
The sheet music for the verbosely titled “We Men Must Grow a Mustache: That’s One Thing the Girls Can’t Do!” which, one must assume, is a call to arms to curb the influx of fauxfollicularfacial adornment that some females are fond of, a call that only the tinny twang of a ukulele can properly convey.
The denizens at Wikipedia seem to feel that it is representative of humor aimed at the general acceptance of homosexuality during the 1920s. Certainly the illustration plainly shows a homosexual, who are known for both their razor-sharp sideburns and for having the ability to bend their spines at painful and awkward right angles, a trait that scientists believe was developed so that they could reach the leaves on the uppermost branches of trees. Truly astounding creatures.
Your gross negligence in assuming I am ashamed of any of my musical predilections is noted, and will be revenged. There is absolutely no reason to assume, self-righteous pricks that you are, that the carmine creeping up my collar is anything other than stoic pride, a touch of the ol’ toxoplasma gondii, and perhaps a brief spike in my everyday, baseline feelings of discomfort.
Listen you, I was enjoying the Ruski pop nymphets way back, before any hoity-toity English remixes got loose, much less actual American album releases. This shit was edgy and inaccessible. Hell, it still is! I would get home from my live-action Vampire the Masquerade roleplaying session at the local college campus (back when I was a ginger-curled nymphet myself), maybe boot up a game of Fallout 2, invite my BFF Steve over, and we’d watch these videos, on repeat, in silent awe. Why, I thought to myself, did I not have a dark pixie of a partner, an eternal semi-succubus, someone to cling to during the long nights of crippling self-doubt, someone to share my pants and lipgloss, someone to hold my hair while I purged, someone with whom to ghost ride the whip? I mean, someone besides Steve?
Now, emerald-haired, naked in a wooden trunk, chugging Red Bull and typing on a keyboard for which I cannot see the screen, I ask myself: if I had found her, this dark unicorn, would things have turned out better?
Not only can Jonny McGovern, known in his musical endeavors (though I’m sure it’s not limited to that field) as The Gay Pimp, write one hell of a catchy, hilarious pop tune but his videos are a gas. Even now, being long familiar with Jonny McGovern’s comedic and musical stylings, I can’t help tittering girlishly every time I hear “Soccer Practice”.
The official stance of the Church of Scientology on homosexuals:
“The only answers would seem to be the permanent quarantine of such persons from society to avoid the contagion of their insanities and the general turbulence which they bring to any order, thus forcing it lower on the scale, or processing such persons until they have attained a level on the tone scale which gives them value.”
Although official statements have been released that this is no longer the case, and that Scientology in fact does not care about the sexual practices of its members, I am inclined to doubt them. The Fair Game policy of Scientologists states that any church member may lie, cheat, or steal to destroy the enemies of the church. Misinformation is standard operation procedure.
This video (and stupidly enjoyable track) must have cost at least a cool million, but the Backstreet Boys didn’t care. They were riding high on Lou Perlman’s buggery adoration, they had legions of teenage girls at their beck and call, and it was the nineties, so nobody bothered telling them (to their faces) how stupid they looked, acted, and sounded.
When you’re that rich, that vaunted, and that young, what can you do? Why, a Thriller rip-off that will live in infamy for a chosen few, of course. Namely, me and the rest of the malcontents who were impressionable youth during that cursed era.
And by impressionable, I mean we thought backflipping werewolves were pretty much the golden apex of comedy. We still think that.
Why am I posting this on Cthursday? Pay attention to the gangly gentleman in the deceptively intellectual glasses, with the briefcase and the obsession with staring away from the camera at exactly a ninety-degree angle. I assume he’s supposed to be some sort of Jekyll/Hyde manifestation, but his bifurcation is less monstrous than it is piscean. My hypothesis is that some concept artist snuck that one past the board, giggling into his dog-eared copy of the Compleat Works of Lovecraft the while.
But I don’t think backflipping werewolves had to be snuck past anyone.
Psychopathia Sexualis, by Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing M.D., first printed in 1886, was the reference book for the spectrum of sexual deviance in the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Krafft-Ebing, like many at the time, believed that the purpose of sexual desire was procreation, and any form of desire that didn’t go towards that ultimate goal was a perversion. Unsurprisingly, there are few case studies of women to be found here, the idea of a woman who engaged in sex for pleasure being a truly unwholesome one to the Victorian Gentleman. In the English translation, which one can read, in its entirety here, it reads: “Woman, however, if physically and mentally normal, and properly educated, has but little sensual desire. If it were otherwise, marriage and family life would be empty words.”
It’s a fascinating read, and many of the “perversions” will seem tame to anyone who has spent two or three minutes on the internet, but there are some gems. Consider, if you will, the plight of “X” in Case 99:
“X., aged twenty, inverted sexually. Only loved men with large bushy mustaches. One day he met a man who was his ideal. He invited him to his home, but was unspeakably disappointed when the man removed an artificial mustache. Only when the visitor returned the ornament to his upper lip did he exercise his charm over X. once more and restored X. to complete virility.”
Unspeakably disappointed indeed. For those of you who parade about with your artificial moustaches, for shame. How can you live with yourselves knowing, as you must, that your filthy, follicular lies are harming the gay moustache fetishist community? Know that one day, you shall receive your comeuppance. There is only so much abuse they will take.
The Macaroni, 18th century fop and precursor to the Dandy. Formally, the macaroni is the small, tri-corner hat seen perched atop the gentleman’s towering wig. In the parody “Yankee Doodle” an American “doodle”, or fool, places a feather in his hat, proclaiming that it made him stylish, or “macaroni”. It was also an oft repeated rumor in Britain that members of the “Maccaroni Club” were sodomites.
While no such club actually existed, the phrase was used in newspaper articles and letters in reference to the trial of Captain Robert Jones who, in July 1772, was convicted of sodomizing a thirteen year-old boy. He would be pardoned later but not before reporters and outraged citizens had thoroughly intertwined his behavior with that of “The Maccaroni Club (which is composed of all the travelled young men who wear long curls and spying-glasses)” and, in doing so, permanently besmirched the public image of the fashionable, towering wig.
This is either a flagrant display of barely repressed juvenile homosexuality and the consequences of homeschooling, or the work of a comedy genius. Or both. Regardless, this budding Orwell is going places. I highly suggest watching the rest of the videos in the series, if for no other reason than to fill your daily quota of staring slackjawed at your monitor.
I’m comfortable being “that guy” here at ectomo. You know, the guy who writes about freaky sex that may or may not involve species other than my own. I’m alright with it although, admittedly, for a long time I wasn’t. Everyone here has been really supportive since I came out though, I must say. I mean, Eliza throws-up a little every time we pass each other near the coffee maker, but she’s at least trying make eye contact with me now.
So, that being said, imagine my unbridled joy when I came upon a link to a Guardian article titled Necrophilia Among Ducks Ruffles Feathers. Oh, I’ll bet it does.
The article relates the tale of Dutch researcher Kees Moeliker who, while in his office in the Natuurmuseum Rotterdam, was startled by the loud bang of a mallard hitting the building’s glass facade. He then recounts the scene that greeted him upon his arrival:
I’m shocked, shocked I tell you, that Mr. Waters and his pencil-thin perv-stache have not been featured on ectomo. Therefore, I am more than happy to rectify the situation with this sneering postcard.
The pattern of world politics, etched upon the solid gold cock ring of Karl Rove’s gay, piercing fetishist father, Louie?
I didn’t know his son — all I knew about his family was what Louie recounted to me as I looked at their pictures in the living room. Other than that I was mostly bothered by their visits to Palm Springs or his to Santa Fe, since that meant the house was closed for other over-night friends. And as to his former wife, Louie told me he had come out and so they divorced. But when I saw his family photographs I just saw the usual groupings of people and smiling-faced portraitures.
As a way to introduce me to piercing, he showed me a collection of the “world’s first body piercing magazine” — PFIQ (Piercing Fans International Quarterly). Those early magazines depicted a world many thought of “only as a handful of widely dispersed and closeted hardcore fetishists.” I was fascinated.
And pictured in that magazine was Louie … well, not Louie’s face but it was definitely Louie’s piercings [Editor’s note: in fact, Louie was one of their best known cover models!]. Louie had more genital piercings — all gold — than God … and there they were, all pictured in that magazine.
Perhaps not: it’s all anecdotal and unsupported, and the timing is suspect. Of course, I’m not sure I want to see the clinical DNA report that proves conclusively that the big toe thick ring laying in the palm of this guy’s hand, strangely stained with crusty verdigris, was actually used to thickly squeeze the erection of Rove. Sr.
Beware! A godless Atheist treads colossally through the polluted industrial dumps of America, scooping up our virginal, big breasted Christian women by the handful and then stretching their skin over his enormous heathen erection, one by one, until he finds one poor girl elastic enough to function as a fleshy prophylactic for a sodomite orgy with a fellow sky-scraper sized homosexual. Luckily, the Christian Air Force is on the case, swooping their bi-plane fighters low to vaporize the beast with anointed bullets. America is safe once more from the Godless Sodomite Threat.
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.
The pattern of world politics, etched upon the solid gold cock ring of Karl Rove’s gay, piercing fetishist father, Louie? 
