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!
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?
If you happen to be the type of person who wishes to feel the bristly caress of a moustachioed kiss without the other, bothersome man parts that usually accompany it, then Canada — Toronto, Ontario specifically it seems — may be paradise for you. The frigid climes provide a perfect breeding ground, producing a cornucopia of Molson™-fortified, Canadian nymphs displaying an array of tasteful and feminine moustaches. Truly, one of Nature’s great wonders.
Instructables has a step-by-step to crochet your very own Cthulhu! A few people tipped us on this one, but Bibi was first.
Bela sends us some fantastic artwork from the talented Sayaka; comprised of an Ectomo favorite, namely: lithe, Japanese nymphets. Also, tentacles.
Asa Gilmore calls out attention to a list of abandoned wonders in Russia, saying “Scroll to the end of the article. If that strange contraption doesn’t scream ‘Steampunk’ to you, I shall eat my hat and say ‘balderdash.’”
Benton Barnett submitted this badass gas mask t-shirt which will now have to be added to my wardrobe. They can be purchase here.
Dr. Hypercube warns us, via ectotweet, to beware the cephalopod loo.
Strange coincidences and eerie alignments this Tuesday morning. Steve Scott is a London based animation director and illustrator who also, apparently, has some sort of telepathic ability that has allowed him to lick the collective brain of Ectomo. This piece, entitled The Society of Victorian Mutants is as close as I believe I’ve seen to summing up the fetishes of Ectoplasmosis’s hive-mind in their entirety.
We don’t think it goes to far to say that Ectomo and Steve -if we may be so bold- should, and shall, be Best Friends Forever and we can hang out and do each other’s make-up and talk about tentacles and Cthulhu. We are sure of this, surer than anything in our entire, short lives. Make haste and hit up his site for an impressive collection of moustaches, Victorian fashion, robots, and pin-ups. Also, could you to pass him this note: “Do you like Ectomo? Circle one: Yes No”
Photographer Kimiko Yushida has managed here to combine three things I never suspected I would appreciate, emo hair, pale pink, and the concept of marriage. Each of her self portraits represents a different “bride”, all of whom exude a sinister aura; due in part to the image of a demure femme fatale she conjures.
Behind each mask of quiet femininity seems to lurk the heart of a nymphet having grown into her power, rather than past it. It is for these women alone, these Lolitas fully realized even beyond their time, that my heart can truly swoon.
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.
