Are you lonely? Sexually frustrated? Has life let you down? Are you at the point where you can see yourself fucking a Pringles can full of cleaning supplies? If so, then here’s a photographic walkthrough for constructing your own disembodied vagina. With just a few minutes of effort and the complete eradication of every last molecule of pride, you too can be humping away at something that looks like a boxer’s left ear wrapped in a condom.
Or you could just buy a Fleshlight, which offers a number of significant advantages over the DIY approach to doing yourself:
No embarrassing questions from the housekeeper about why you’ve named her sponges “Lola” and “Trixie”.
Slightly decreased chance that you’ll experience unwanted erections at work when the janitor walks by.
Jaundice isn’t a good look for genitals.
Psychologically speaking, it’s only a short stroll from screwing a homemade cleanser-cooter in your kitchen to raping Elmo in the toy aisle at Walmart.
Plus, Fleshlights are molded from the cockpits of porn stars:
Tori Black: one of those classic, too-pretty-for-porn girls who go ahead and do porn anyway. It's like if Stephen Hawking said "fuck it" and went to work as a high school physics teacher. Only with more anal.
Jenna Haze demonstrates what it would be like if she had an albino conjoined twin that was made entirely of pussy and asshole. Kinda like my dad.
I adore Teagan Pressley, but I don't care for her tat sleeve. I mean, she's quite lovely and adorable, until that one time you glance down and it looks like you're getting a hand-job from Dave Navarro. No one but Perry Farrell wants that.
In case you didn't get enough of Riley Steele in Piranha 3D, now you can take her Fleshlight down to the lake and pretend you found some bits the fish didn't want. You sick fucker.
(Hat tip to John, who has to make his custom fuck-puppets out of old sofa cushions and a 55 gallon drum.)
I don’t know if this video has an audience much broader than arty fashion mavens and carnival sideshow fetishists. (Hi, Uncle Keith!) But I feel confident in saying that if you are a cross-dressing, amyl nitrite-huffing, Madonna-loving homosexual with epilepsy, director Luca Finotti and your genes have just put you in the middle of an emotional Mexican standoff.
WARNING: This video depicts fictional sexual violence. A non-consenting guitar is fondled, thrown forcibly on to a bed, ravaged, and then thrown away like so much refuse. Please remember, kids: not being able to say no, means no.
The awesome thing about a video like this is how it does a terrible job of promoting the actual song (030 by The Good The Bad), and yet no one cares. This is because there are two absolute truths about music video production:
Aspiring filmmakers hang around bands and musicians knowing that someday, they will have a legitimate excuse for paying a hot girl to get naked in front of their cameras. No one ever cares about the music in such a video, but it may get the filmmaker some nookie that’s way out of his league, and will definitely give him something for his demo reel that he’ll watch again and again, usually with the lights off, doors locked, and tissues at hand.
Musicians tolerate this abuse of their musical genius because they get to sit around on set, smoke weed, and watch all the nakedness without being asked to do anything. After all, spending your days high, horny, and lazy is the baseline goal of everyone who ever formed a band.
Let’s be very clear about something: I resent Seth Green. First, there’s the obvious: he made Without A Paddle, for which he will endure a well-deserved season in hell. I’m also bitter about his talent, since I firmly believe hairless Ewoks should stick to playing in trees and stop making the rest of us feel bad for under-achieving despite our robust height and relatively massive genitalia. But most significantly, I resent him for marrying Clare Grant; in a world that contains an available –and given his hair and her skin, color-coordinated– Snooki, why poach the good chicks? It’s just rude, is what I’m saying.
I've got a Facebook friend with a nearly identical head shot. Ah, Hollywood... a land where women never have right ears.
And believe me, I would marry Clare Grant in his place. She’s distinctively gorgeous, has ridiculously hypnotic eyes, and is completely unashamed of her busy genre-sploitation acting career. Hell, from what I can see, she actively embraces it. That implies the sort of down-to-earthiness that would appreciate my sense of whimsy1 and tendency to cry after sex.2
My impotent rage and potent sexuality aside, this is where I point out that the delightful Clare has been in the dorknews of late because she rounded up some sexy friends and Chris Griffin’s less-suave alter-ego to make this video:
Now, in general, I’m not a geek-girl sycophant; these days, we’re supposed to fall all over ourselves the second a pretty lady confesses her love for Alan Moore, but I’m not havin’ it. Why the fuck would anyone act like this is a big deal? Alan Moore is a batshit-crazy genius, and there’s something wrong with you if you don’t appreciate his work. I’m not going to give you extra Life Points for simply resisting the urge to let your physical beauty overwhelm your good taste.
Life Objective #4,287: Somehow convince Clare to wear this outfit while making me a sandwich. Life Objective #4,288: Get Katy Perry to wear the same thing while feeding me the sandwich. Life Objective #4,289: Talk to a shrink about why my fantasies involve sandwiches rather than my penis playing "Destroy the Death Star" with Clare's cervix.
But I do award Life Points for brazenly being who you are, having fun with it, and not making excuses. That is hot, in oh-so-many ways. And by that standard, Clare’s score is about to roll over like the odometer in a 1972 Duster.
Someone has excellent posture. Also, boobs. And a skilled aesthetician, by the look of things.
Interesting side-note: despite the Geek Girls video’s popularity, I believe people are missing out on the real gem in her online filmography:
That’s just art, that is.
Yeah, fuck you, Green; you're the Billy Joel of poultry-oriented android shows, and one day you'll get yours. Which, if history is any indication, will involve lots of money and hot babes. So... fuck you twice!
Oh, and Clare, seriously love… have you delved deeply into your beau’s oeuvre?3 I’m just puttin’ it out there; this is how your offspring will turn out:
So do us all a favor: if you’re determined to stay with him, at least keep Seth as far from your womb as possible. (I’ve got some really tiny crime scene tape if you’d like to borrow it.) And if you absolutely must turn to a young star of Can’t Buy Me Love to ruin this majestic perfection:
…at least give Patrick Dempsey a call. Worst case scenario, your kid will wait until he’s thirty, and then turn into a stud.
It’s been non-stop for a few months now: everywhere I look, there’s Karissa Shannon in a bikini, Karissa Shannon letting her boyfriend expose her boob on the red carpet, Karissa Shannon flashing everyone an upskirt, Karissa Shannon pretending to be in a sex tape with Heidi Montag, Karissa Shannon really making a sex tape with the aforementioned boyfriend, or Karissa Shannon studying for her PhD. (Not everyone knows this, but it’s simply a coincidence that Karissa studying looks strikingly like Karissa on all fours with her ass jacked up in the fashion of an under-aged Thai prostitute outside a naval base during shore-leave.)
Know what I haven’t seen? Kristina Shannon. Where the fuck is the other Shannon twin? I have no answers, but I do have theories.
THE MURDER SWITCHEROO: Geena & Sunny Han were smoking hot twin sisters, co-valedictorians in high school, and thoroughly messed up by their mother. Geena was jealous of Sunny –who was marginally, precariously more successful– and eventually decided to kill her and assume Sunny’s identity. This did not work out so well, given that Geena was that really dumb sort of smart, where you assume even your bad ideas are okay, ’cause you’re so much brighter than everyone else. It’s possible that Karissa has attempted this with Kristina, although it’s worth pointing out that Karissa and Kristina aren’t as identical as Geena and Sunny, and, well, Karissa is actually the dumb sort of dumb, where you have a bad idea, giggle, and then get really sleepy. PLAUSIBILITY: 10%
THE LOHAN MANEUVER: Was there only one Shannon to begin with, and it was all just a trick… like The Parent Trap, where Lindsay Lohan played dual roles as twins? Granted, it’s a little different, since Karissa isn’t a herpes-ridden ginger… she’s a natural brunette. But if you think about it, with Photoshop and CG, you could fool a lotta people. And at this point in his life, you could fool Hef with a blow-up doll and a handful of hard candy. An alternate version of this theory posits that Karissa/Kristina are two personalities inhabiting the same body, locked in an eternal struggle for control over the host vagina. Having seen the vagina in question, I could definitely understand going all Highlander over it. PLAUSIBILITY: 15%
THE CANNIBALISTIC SUPERVILLAIN OPTION: In the womb, a twin will sometimes die and be absorbed by the survivor, a really gross thing that doctors call Vanishing Twin Syndrome.1 What those fancy-pants doctors won’t tell you is that the surviving half of a VTS case also absorbs the other’s soul, giving her unspeakable power over time and space, along with enhanced senses and an overwhelming compulsion to spin around in circles shouting “Can you see up my dress?” (Which, as it turns out, imbues her with unspeakable power over penises.) It’s possible that Karissa has sacrificed Kristina on the altar of some dark god, in an attempt to reabsorb the other half of her sexiness. It could happen; it’s gotta be cheaper than a boob job. PLAUSIBILITY: 20%
THE TRIBAL-BIMBO TRANSPLANT: It may be no coincidence that Karissa’s ascendence as Publicly Visible Twin coincides roughly with the unveiling of the 2010 Montag Convertible. The Yoruba people of southwestern Nigeria believe that twins are sacred, and if one dies, its soul must be transferred into a tree, from which a totemic figurine is carved and kept as part of the family. What if Kristina simply died as the result of an accidental semen overdose, and lacking a handy tree, Karissa used ancient African rituals to transfer her sisters’ mind and soul into the nearest inanimate, semi-organic object: Heidi. This would also totally explain Heidi’s emerging fascination with crystals and her hasty separation from The Douche That Walks Like A Man. PLAUSIBILITY: ALMOST DEFINITELY CERTAIN%
Like I said, I have no answers here, only questions and a scrotum made of kevlar. But I think it’s important that we always probe the darkness for the Light of Truth, even if we occasionally stick our hands in the Icky Stuff of Doubt in the process. It’s the least we owe Kristina Shannon.2
NOTE: Some might argue that this photo of the twins making out --taken last month at one of Hef's parties-- debunks my entire "Kristina Shannon has been mystically bound within the form of a big-titted mannequin from LA at the hands of her sorceress sister" theory from the get-go. And you might be right, but I'm way too high to care right now.
You really don’t want to click that link. Or maybe you do, sicko. ↩
Well, technically, I owe her for a half a bag of weed and a blowjob she gave me behind a 7-11 a couple years ago. But you only owe her the search for truth thing. ↩
Check this crazy shit out. For those under the age of fifty, Helen Mirren has primarily been That Respectable Older British Actress you always recognize but seldom make a point of seeing. She’s usually a queen or something, gets nominated for a Golden Globe, and generally goes about doing her respectable, older actress thing.
Then came 2008, when people suddenly remembered that she had a vagina, and had possibly even been a sexual being at some point before Hollywood decided she was past her fuck- by date. Thus was born her World’s Hottest Grandma phase, exemplified by this photo:
Okay, sure, not exactly Bar Rafaeli, but impressive for someone in her 60s, right? Here’s the thing, though… how did I not know how smokin’ she was when she wasn’t 62? Have you seen some of this shit?
Huhwhatnow? I have no idea what that insane shit was, but it was awesome. And wait, it gets better.
So basically, Helen Mirren was the 1968 version of Kelly Brook? I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a horndog historian, but this is all news to me. It’s like the past has opened up and spewed beautiful, elegant titties at me.
She was still rockin’ the sexay into the ’80s, when –for reasons fathomable only to Antonio Banderas– people like Melanie Griffith started getting all the headlining chick roles. I don’t get it. Helen had more sensual class than Geena Davis had teeth.
Best of all, she made a movie called Age of Consent. Which, judging by the screen-caps I’ve seen, is clearly in the running for Best Movie Ever Made.
Someone (and by someone, I mean me) needs to get on remaking this obvious cinematic classic. I’m thinking Selena Gomez in the spear-fishing/nude-modeling role; she looks even less age-of-consenty now than Helen did in the original, and how could she resist getting the same sand in her crack that once irritated the ass of the fabled Helen Mirren?
(In case you’re wondering, I’ve found that women tend to resist things a lot. Which is why I’ve learned to always tighten my knots.)
There are many things here that impressed me, even as I shot it. The tits, of course, but more than that.
The really big girl, who gamely decided to start unzipping her pants. Just how drunk would she have needed to be to go through with it? And how drunk would the crowd need to be to cheer her on? And how long would it take me to forget?
The super-skinny chick on the left, who –when outgunned by all the tits and ass on display– decided to break it down old school. “Old school” meaning, in this context, “like a twitching seizure victim watching an old episode of Pokemon.”
The emcee, who managed to be reach previously unexplored heights of dochedom by actually scolding girls for flashing their tits. Prick.
I’m not 100% sure what I’m looking at in this photo. It could be booty model (and bride of Ice-T) Coco getting her tan on. It could be what was waiting for a subsequently really happy Richard Dreyfus inside the alien’s ship at the end of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It could be the Creator of the Universe, given how many times I’ve said “oh my fucking God” while looking at it. (And if so, kudos on that ass, Lord.)
But there is one thing that is absolutely certain about this shot: it is awesome. Check out more of Coco’s tweetstuff below.
In a move akin to birds not ruling out flying or hobos not ruling out public urination, Audrina made the world a little warmer and fuzzier with her recent statement. What she said:
If I was passionate about the script and the scene was there in order to make the character believable then I would do it. If it was just a flash of booty here and a bit of boob there then fine, but anything too intense and I probably wouldn’t do it.
What she meant:
I’ve already stretched my fifteen minutes in ways which make it clear that my boobs’ gravity can distort the curvature of space-time, so I need to step up my game. I’m tired of appearing in shitty movies that no one wants to see in a theater, and am looking for a chance to make a shitty movie that people will want to see with their pants off. Please, Hollywood producers… if you thought for even a moment that I was too modest to give you The Full Audrey, think again!
I mean, ”…make the character believable?” Audrina, I would pay good money just to get a glimpse of your vag through a hole drilled in the wall of your hotel room (and I have; drill bits aren’t cheap), but you could be oiled up and riding me like one of those mechanical ponies outside the supermarket and I still wouldn’t find you believable. I don’t buy you as Audrina Partridge, let alone Scarlett O’Hara. The only role to which you’re ideally suited is that of a spray-tanned Old Navy supermodelquin.
And hell, it’s not as if you haven’t gotten naked for us before.
With that said, I don’t think we should let my lack of respect for your career nor your lack of awareness of my existence keep us apart. Come to me. I’ve got a bottle of baby oil and a stack of quarters… meet me outside the Publix at 2:30 and we’ll get this thing done.