A severed puppet head, floating in front of a multicolored disc and shag carpet background, reminisces about his first lovemaking session with his rodeo sleeping bag; describing its pattern of clowns and barrels in the same tones of wistful reverie that one might use to describe the color of their first love’s eyes. Things continue downhill at an astonishing rate once the guru begins recounting a day when, “overwhelmed with humpiness”, he violated his grandmother’s bathroom rug, which to you and me may seem odd but to a man who has spread peanut butter on himself so as to entice his canine companion I’m sure it’s all perfectly normal.
The feature film knockoff is arguably the most celebrated pornographic genre, not so much for the films themselves but their inventive titles. That statement is, however, a bit misleading considering that most of these titles are, in fact, fake. Still, it is perhaps far more palatable for many to imagine films like Schindler’s Fist or How Stella Got Her tubes Packed than to acknowledge the vast cornucopia of filth that can be found through even the most innocuous of unfiltered Google searches.
Regardless, knockoff porno has, of course, been made; but few have produced the atrocity that is 1973’s Bat Pussy. After the introduction from a sharp dressed man — who may or may not have been the inspiration for John Travolta as he prepared for the roll of Vincent Vega — who informs us that, should we not wish to view a porno we probably should have paid more attention to the neon signs when we entered the theater, the movie proper begins. We are informed that in a secret underground warehouse, Adora Dildo, a.k.a. Bat Pussy is waiting patiently for her “twat to twitch”, which it seems is a sign that a crime is going to be committed, like a vaginal Spider-sense.
This apparently occurs, for Bat Pussy emerges, now costumed, from an outhouse, leaps onto a red rubber ball and proceeds to bounce across a rural landscape in what must be the most inefficient mode of transportation one could employ, short of getting from place to place by doing “The Worm”. Aware of this shortcoming, our white trash heroine makes a bee-line for the scene, stopping only to foil the plans of a lecherous, portly man who attempts to accost a young woman and to urinate, which she probably should have done back at the outhouse before she left.
Eventually she arrives and here, thankfully, this edit ends as what follows would have been unpleasant. It seems that the crime was, in fact, the filming of a porno:
Picture a beehived redhead Trailer Trash chick in her 40’s from Tennessee doing some MAJOR shit-talking to an impotent hillbilly while rolling around naked on a bed trying to copulate.
No. No I think I shan’t. I’ve seen more than enough and, really, some things are better left unseen.
There are those who get off on seeing other people dress up like anthropomorphized nightmares and there are those who get off on watching other people exercise; but I would venture that the segment of the population who enjoys both is rather small. This is what I tell myself when watching a video of what appears to be a blue possum on an elliptical machine. I tell myself this as she glances back at the camera in what I assume is an attempt to look coy and as the camera focuses on the ponderous, metronome-like pendulum swing of her tail. I tell myself this but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Neat idea isn’t it? A seemingly useless bit of waste transformed into something useful and (depending on your personal aesthetic) attractive. Some junk-artist must’ve had a particularly good idea from which we can all now benefit, right? Wrong. Instead, “industrial designer” Sergio Silva did what meth-fiends have been doing for years, going one step further by sticking some oil, a wick, and a magnet into the improvised crank-pipe. All of which somehow justifies its $650 price tag. Yes that’s right, six hundred and fifty dollars for a light bulb dripping with what I can only describe as concentrated design genius.
This bit of divine inspiration made the rounds a few weeks ago, and while irked at the blatant insanity displayed by the designer I simply moved on; deciding that the people paying $650 for an afternoon crafts project probably deserved exactly what they were getting. But Sergio has really outdone himself with his latest creation, and earned my ire anew.
Listen child and heed my words: beware the Devil Pencil. Ignore its inviting rictal grin and resist the temptation to wrap its phallic body in your sweet, innocent embrace; for while the pleasures to be had are many, the price to be paid is high. The Devil Pencil loves you not. No! No, the Devil Pencil sees you as nothing more than delectable pabulum. Leering, its eyes glide over you, salivating at the thought of your delicious soul, its gaze leaving a glistening trail upon your lily-white, alabaster skin.
So flee, flee my darling from its perfidious promises, ignore its deceitful chicanery — for that is what it is, sorcery of the most vile sort; a false Elysium of cake and kites. Run fast and run far. Run until you can no longer see the Devil Pencil. Run until you forget.
Update: as jont vociferously points out in the comments a high quality version can be viewed here at the Savannah College of Art and Design’s website. Thanks!
From the Spanish television series Cruz y raya.com comes “Los Simpsons”, a skit in which the comedy duo paint themselves yellow, slap giant fake eyes on their faces, and pretend to be Homer and Marge Simpson. The effect is, shall we say, less than comedic.
Before the epic meme of doing crazed things with Garfield strips put Fatal Farm in the upper echelons of internet stardom they had previously worked on a number of reworkings of classic televison intros; none of which were nearly as disturbing as their reworking of DuckTales in which Webbigail “Webby” Vanderquack meets a hottie on myspace. Unfortunately said hottie is, in reality, a Beagle Boy cruising for underage ducks to exploit for child pornography. A harrowing tale with a twist that will stay with you long after the clip has ended; most likely a queasy, empty feeling from having watched your beautiful childhood memories perverted and degraded. On a web-cam. In a basement dungeon.
This clip has all the trademarks of a sequence that, even if it were to be viewed in its proper context, would still make absolutely no sense. Inexplicable bikini-clad girl dancing by the side of the road? Check. Ninja, complete with katana and badly animated leaping effects? Check. Person in a bear suit with a shotgun? Check.
If you suffer from paruresis or coulrophobia this clip may be your worst nightmare. Nothing is more likely to paralyze one’s bladder than the leering, demonic, clown visage shown here except for, perhaps, being filmed while trying to urinate on what is essentially a kiddie ride.
I still remember coming downstairs for school in the morning as a boy, hungry for Apple Jacks, and to discover that my parents had slopped a ladleful of Cream of Wheat into my breakfast bowl instead. “Great,” I’d say, choking back my prolapsing gastric tract and fixing my parents with a hateful glare. “Semen.” And that’s when the beatings would start.
Apparently, I’m not the only person who has equated the texture of Cream of Wheat with lumpy, grainy ejaculate over the years. In fact, apparently, there was a fetish for Cream of Wheat going as far back as the early 80’s, as used-up, bouffant-ed porn stars eagerly fellated prancing coke heads dressed in cardboard Cream of Wheat boxes.
This is work safe: it was also my worst nightmare when I was ten. Stay until the end, for the violent jactitations of a man dressed only in a pair of sunglasses and a foam-rubber costume resembling a piece of toast. Cocaine is a hell of a drug.
I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what I think about the veracity of this story but the above photo, while slightly disturbing, sent me into an uncontrollable laughing seizure. It seems that someone in the Japanese Department of Education came up with an idea to combat their country’s declining birth rate by instituting “position training” in Physical Education classes starting in second grade. The time used for this training will be diverted from “ceremony and bowing practice” lessons.
If this is indeed true the Japanese must be applauded for, at the very least, giving an honest and accurate portrayal of the sexual act. They pull no punches, as can clearly be seen in the photo; the young boy, eager and enthusiastic, his partner limply feigning enthusiasm and enjoyment in return while trying not to laugh in his face.
At some point after 1988 someone, somewhere was playing Super Mario Bros. 2 and thought “One day I’m gonna fuck Birdo.” Well it seems that that day came to pass.
From the Place That Shall Not Be Named.
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.
