Teeth is being released in the UK on June 20th and in preparation it is being advertised with the use of, among other things, a website explaining the condition known as vagina dentata, complete with a short educational film about the malady that affects one in twelve million women worldwide.
After careful consideration Randy decided that his master could afford to purchase a new ball and that this particular game of fetch was over.
Thanks to everyone who pinged Ectomo on Valentine’s Day, it made Eliza’s puckered tear ducts moist with joy (or rage, I can never tell)!
The severing of a number of undersea communications cables have elicited claims of sabotage. Edward points to one of the more plausible theories.
The beautiful story of a young woman and the intimate relationship she shares with her speakers. Thanks, Tristion!
What happens when someone with a high speed camera takes video of insects being pelted with various liquids and miniature pies? Mable invites you to find out.
I do not know what is going on in this video but it is NSFW. Looks of disgust should be aimed at ithidet.
Update: The ever lovely and erudite Suzanne points out that the above image is by two Swiss collagists, Plonk & Replonk, and is part of a set of postcards which can be seen here.
Due to my own deeply Freudian psychological baggage, this was the creature that would prance out of my bedroom closet at midnight when I was a boy, to float horrifically above my bed, pink cape splayed between pale, stretched finger tips, and profusely vomit blood all over me. These days? The slippery slope, one thing leads to another, and somehow, I’ve ended up dating my own personal Dracula.
A trailer for Femina Ridens (The Frightened Woman), directed by Piero Shivazappa and starring Philippe Leroy as Dotto, a groovy, Mod-ish playboy who lures Mary -played by Dagmar Lassander- to his far-out mansion for some dancing and maybe just a bit of S&M. Soon, however, he finds their roles reversed. The “money shot”, so to speak, comes at the end of the trailer as Dotto walks into a giant toothed vulva. Subtlety be damned!
I’m not big on children, with the exception of their use as a source of nourishment. However, if I did take a break from my daily regiment of jolting my testicles with a cattle prod and imbibing gallons of Mountain Dew long enough to allow me to spawn, I would most certainly begin educating my future cultist with Baby’s First Mythos, written by C.J. Henderson and featuring illustrations by Erica Henderson. The inscription for the two plates above should lay to rest any doubts that this should be added to your clandestine curriculum:
D is for DAGON,
Because he’s one of the gods,
And not for the Deep Ones,
Who’re a step up from frogs.
4 is for the NIGHTGAUNTS,
Who abandon victims in the Vale of Pnath.
I for one would not trust America’s educational system -or any other’s for that matter with, perhaps, the exception of Leng’s- to teach my vaginally excreted, uterine parasite child traditional Cthulian values. Would you?
From the series of short films for Adidas’s line of Adicolor footwear, comes Charles White’s entry entitled Pink. Pink is the story of a stuffed animal and his bestest friend in the whole wide world, The Attractive Blonde Nymphet. In fact, Mr. Bear cares so much for his lithe BFF that one day, with the help of a magical, metaphor -and fluid- dripping seashell, he turns her into a sequined fuck doll and brutally “snuggles” her.
Take from this what you will. I am to understand from the comments I’ve read for this video that I am “not getting it”, that there is, in fact, a “deeper meaning”. Now, as both my masters and my readers are fond of pointing out, I do not know things about stuff. Make no mistake, I am grateful for the mass of sneering and merciless pedantry that follows in my wake, like a fetid, editorial afterbirth, assuring that my already fragile self-esteem remains on the level of a herpes ridden porn starlet preparing to service every male within a 5 mile radius.
That said, what we have here can be interpreted as the story of a girl’s sexualizing and commodifying of her body. In making herself a beautiful, bling-encrusted product, she robs herself of her vitality and innocence, represented by Mr. Bear. However, twisted pervert that I am, I recognize veiled threats of sodomy when I see them. That said, I stand by my claims of filthy, vicious, ursine toy rape.
As a followup to Brownlee’s earlier clip of a haunting exchange between monotone mother and slaphappy son, I present that educational movie in its entirety: The ABC’s of Sex Education for Trainables.
Based on commentary from the Peanut Gallery in the original post, it appears that this video was intended as fodder for functionally retarded children (I assume the word “trainable” refers to such).
But once again, Fate bares her slavering fangs to Ectomo, and grants us this boon: the opening scene depicts the exact method of successfully selling a moustache ride. Watch and learn, my sweetlings, and be sure to paw and fumble at as much retard hair as humanly possible while making your pitch.
Thanks to Peanuteer Brian Schlosser for giving us this link.
Truly, this is one nightmare that Brownlee and I share: a pixie-headed girleen, gracile of limb and sleek of shape, decides to undergo a series of twenty surgeries that turn her into a putty-colored, basketball-breasted, fish-lipped hag.
The infinite tragedy of such a decision, undoubtedly backed with heaping doses of body dysmorphia, depression, and just plain bad taste, is that her career didn’t take off until she did it.
Anyone who finds this actually attractive, this Thing that she has twisted herself into, should be weeping with shame…
Many times — as I drunkenly ram roughly-hewn chunk of metal into the key slot of my portcullis and violently rattle it around, showing gratuitous insensitivity to the sensual experience of the broad, flat, comatose object that I am penetrating — I marvel how similar the act of unlocking a door is to the physical act of love. If only my keyhole were a jelly hole! If only hairy beef curtains surrounded it’s vertical slit!
I’ve often wondered if I were alone in this fetish. Ah, not so: the Valo County Mail Order Company, Department P-1, advertising in a vintage New Yorker, understands my passion! “NOW! IT CAN HAVE FUR AROUND IT!” the add enthusiastically proclaims. The manufacturer also guarantees that your buck won’t go to waste: “A million laughs with this genuine mink keyhole cover!”
Boy, wouldn’t you just love to meet the guy who would loudly emit a million dry, wet, hacking guffaws when presented with so mundane a joke as a hairy keyhole?
I would like all of you to take a good, hard look at the “painting” you see above. I used the word in quotes not to disparage it, but because it does not actually seem to be painted at all, rather being some form of canvas-like sculpture. Please tell me what you see. Because what I see is a six foot tall vagina hanging on the wall of my new Berlin apartment.
A word of explanation: one of Ectomo’s readers actually hooked me up with my new Kreuzberg pad. It is utterly gorgeous, and Mark himself is a super guy: one of those supernaturally kind and giving people who makes you feel like a boorish asshole just by standing in his presence. The apartment belongs to one of his friends (also a wonderful and generous guy) and it is fully furnished, with several pieces of art hanging on the walls.
The art is, perhaps, not my style, but that’s okay, since I’ll only be here a few months and taste in art is a highly personal thing, which no one short of its owner needs to love. And, in fact, I do take a certain joy out of some of the art’s aesthetic absurdity. The apartment is lousy with decapitated gold Buddha heads. I have infused the apartment with my own personality for the time being by putting fezzes on them. A shrine to Ganesha, the implausible Indian Elephant God, prominently adorns one corner of the flat, and it delights me just by dint of its surreal presence.
But my face immediately lit up when I walked into the apartment and, surveying it, noticed that a gigantic jelly hole was bolted to the wall. Now my days are spent staring at it and wondering if it will suddenly gush a stream of uterine fluid before the massive bloody crown of a gigantic fetus’ head rips the painting in twain. I am also considering cutting triangles out of construction paper and putting them on each side of the equatorial slit, turning the vagina into a giant vagina dentata for the duration of my stay here.
I’m not sure if I’m not reading too much of my own Freudian complexes into this. It could also, I suppose, be representative of a butt crack. Other interpretations are either a giant number 1 (a declaration of superiority on my landlord’s part, maybe?)or a capital letter I ( a masterwork of solipsism). I turn to you, o readers, to restore some semblance of objectivity to my interpretation.
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.
