Lo, McLardo!
There comes a time in every drunko-narcotico-occulto-exploito-psychedelo-promisco-pervo’s life when he dies … or doesn’t.
And I haven’t.
Bill Landis of Sleazoid Express? He picked from column A.
Rick Sullivan of The Gore Gazette? He chose column B but, really, cowed as The Reverend was at the jackboots of jailbait-porn-hunting law enforcement, what rational choice did he have?
Then there’s me. Still here. Ten years sober. And built like the living embodiment of heart disease.
Well, that’s less the case each day now as, aided immeasurably by Lady McBeardo, I routinely 
sup lean protein, soy formations, and gardeny treats while peppering my waking hours with maniacal cardio workouts, spontaneous push-up frenzies, and habitual dumbbell-curling in front of The Fattest Loser, Celebrity Fat Club, and, my favorite, “Skinny Wednesday” on The 700 Club.
And when I’m not doing that, I work calmly at my desk, meditate, and willingly forgo infinite impulses/opportunities to beguile a particular universe of females (whom Lady McB hilariously and accurately terms “molested people”) by inundating them with sexually loaded wisecracks and/or demands for nude photos.
Friends, Romans, cunt-like men: I seem to have veered off an express ramp from any previous existence I’ve ever known.
And I like it.
Breast assured: I’m still who I always was, with the same general interests. It’s just that some of the particulars of my life, and my brain, have changed, right along with my Body Mass Index. 
I may well have nothing left to expound upon when it comes to splatter movies, pornography, sexual derring-do (professional and otherwise), barely coded racist tomfoolery, obnoxious music (be it death metal, American Idol, and all ear-bombs in between), black magic, cruel humor, nipple analysis, or any of the other commodities that have made me so slappy-go-lucky.
That doesn’t mean I can’t or don’t still enjoy the aforementioned pastimes—I can and I do—it just means exactly what I wrote above: I’m feeling, mo(i)st strongly, like I’m out of philosophical fuel when it comes any such hoo-hah.
I’d rather blather about eliminating blubber, building muscolosos, and how you’d be better off siphoning Dr. Phibes’ whirly-twirly acid-tubes than ever putting Diet Coke into your body.
This is for now. Not forever. Maybe.
So I direct you to The Incredible Melting McLardo, available by clicking and bookmarking that title, as well as coming soon to a simplified URL near you.
This is not to imply that McBeardo is nullified. I’m still going to pontificate here upon what gets pontificated up on here.
But the action may be over there.
What a woild, eh?
*****
Images pilfered from PLONSKY!
Butthole Surfers Lyrics & My Own Psyche, Semi-Deciphered
How I Write the Way I Write
Of late, I’ve been doing less of it for your edification and more of it for my own mercenary purposes but, still, writing has served as my full-time occupation now for nearly 20 years.
This inevitable trajectory initially arose in 1988 when the sensible decision makers at SUNY Purchase informed me that I would no longer be a full-time student.
Several years followed, then, wherein I apprenticed as a public school janitor, a Special Ed teacher’s aide, and Wall Street library flunky.
That stretch of relentless glamor culminated (via the library’s printers and copy machines) in the publication of HAPPYLAND #1 on September 13, 1991, the same Friday that Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare in 3-D opened at the Lyric Theater (and one night before I saw Mudhoney play some defunct joint in NYC’s meatpacking district where, the following weekend, I caught 
Nirvana. Grunge enough for ya?).
Enthused HAPPYLAND write-ups from Rick Sullivan’s Gore Gazette and Peter Bagge’s HATE (to which I would later contribute a column on my obsession with hippie songstress Natalie Merchant), along with on-air praise from Gerard Cosloy via WFMU, garnered the ’zine nifty intention just in time for the second issue, which showcases “They Call Him Flipper,” an account of Malt-Liquor-powered interracial 42nd Street misadventure that remains my personal literary “Stairway to Heaven.”
From there, The New York Press allowed me to pollute its newsprint on occasion, and I kicked off a long and fruitful (in every sense) personal and professional association with Allan MacDonell of Hustler magazine.
And then I wrote lots of other stuff—including the ongoing Mr. Skin bliss that’s highlighted in the present issue of Time Out Chicago—all the way up until what you see now.
Hi.
Every so often people ask who my favorite writers are, along with which scribes have most influenced my style and what authors I best enjoy and/or with whom I most closely identify.
The answers to such questions have little to do with my own approach to a blank page.
I read very little fiction, although I feel eternal affection for Mark Twain, James Thurber, and the first ten years or so of Martin Amis.
The writers who truly inspired me to start cranking out words (initially in the form of epic letters to recipients I am now quite sure did not even want them) were critics and essayists—chiefly: Cult Movies author Danny Peary, the Medved Brothers and their various Golden Turkey variations, and rock writer Chuck Eddy whose eruptive prose, when he first hit the Village Voice in the ’80s (gallantly praising Rush), exhilarated me the way I was William S. Burroughs would, but didn’t (and doesn’t). 
Tales of Times Square by Josh Alan Friedman clearly made an apocalyptic impact, as did the aforementioned Gore Gazette and, to a less direct degree, Joe Bob Briggs.
Plus Celebrity Sleuth.
And although (despite my physique for most of my adult life) I’m no comic book guy, I did cop quite a bit from Frank Miller’s 1986 Dark Knight Returns series.
Right now, the writer (of books) whose work I most look forward to is Jimmy McDonough.
More than anything in print, though, when I write what I try to imitate and even produce is sound.
Howard Stern, therefore, is my most direct influence, from his topics to his tone to his New York Jew comedic roots to his actual machine-gun cadence of language.
Sam Kinison’s Louder Than Hell album (and absolutely nothing he did after that) would be another.
Most profoundly, though, what I try to invoke when I write is music, and it’s even some very specific musicians and songs (and even song parts) at that.
As I whack at the keys, I primarily hear Alice Cooper, KISS (including the ‘78 Ace Frehley solo record), Black Sabbath, The Melvins, “Linda Blair” by Redd Kross and, at upbeat intervals, The Monkees and Sweet (the Sex Pistols fall somewhere in the middle, especially in the form of Johnny Rotten’s vocalizing and most especially in the form of “Bodies”).
Singularly, the moments I most often try to replicate is the opening percussiveness Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell”, along with the of pregnant blast of silence that occurs at the song’s three-minute, 34-second mark, right before the big man explodes into:
I’m gonna hit the highway like a battering ram
On a silver black phantom bike
When the metal is hot and the engine is hungry
And we’re all about to see the light
Nothing ever grows in this rotten old hole
Everything is stunted and lost
And nothing really rocks
And nothing really rolls
And nothing’s ever worth the cost
You said it, Jim Steinam via Marvin Lee Aday.
But(t) the band whose sound, look, feel, performance strategy and overall aesthetic has always exerted the deepest influence upon me is the Butthole Surfers.
And they have done this most specifically in the form of “Jimi”, the lead track from their 1988 opus (and final hour of flawlessness), Hairway to Steven.
Of course, the 7-minute, 41-second epic didn’t even have a proper name upon first release (the LP’s track listing consisted cartoons instead of words) and I’ve never seen a transcription of its baffling lyrics anywhere.
So, really, when I tell you that I attempt to channel “Jimi” when I write, I mean I do so in purely sonic terms, although the piece’s thundering, plodding, bowel-rupturing, heavily metallic sounds have always conjured palpably iconic images in my head.
What I picture, as the music rumbles, is this behemoth Viking space marauder who carries a mighty hammer reigning down his cosmic wrath on some deserving weakling(s).
And I am now confessing that that is also how I have always seen myself as I write: typing determinedly and carrying a big cosmic hammer.
It’s a ruse. But it’s mine. So that’s me.
Today, 22 years later, I made a sincere effort to copy down the actual words to “Jimi”.
However sloppily inaccurate the results are to whatever the Gibbytronix device is, in fact, pumping out, they really do fit my own delusions, both creative and … otherwise.
JIMI
[Gutteral, growling voice]
I’m soiled
Soil me
Soil everyone
Oh my
Oh
My
GOD!
I have come 10 million miles
And traveled all your earth
And with his hands
The fiery beast may consummate my birth
Locust, flies and disgusting beasts
Shall crack the ocean floor
And have given life to fiery hands
That open up the door
[Growl]
[Growl]
[Growl]
Fire away!
[High-pitched squealing helium voice]
Oh daddy, daddy!
We need help!
My mind is at an end!
[Back to Growling voice]
All hope is lost!
You’re bleeding now!
Your dreams forever flagged!
[Growl] [Growl] [Growl]
What do you know about reality?
I AM REALITY!
What do you know about death?
I AM DEATH!
I don’t know what you can see
[Unintelligible rants, evil laughter]
Who knows the things I’ve seen
The faces I know, the places I’ve been
I’m running now with my [unintelligible-- sort of sounds like "lava lamp"]
[Growl] [Growl] [Growl]
[Back to squealing helium voice]
Oh, daddy! Please!
Don’t touch me on my penis and vagina!
Oh, daddy! Don’t touch me in my bottom!
Please daddy!
[Wailing, followed by laughter]
Crazy, crazy fucking world!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Crazy goddamned world!
[Laughter]
Shit
Hey!
[Growling voice]
What is so funny?
Me or my [unintelligible]?
[Gurgle] slap in the face!
[Helium voice]
Oh nooooo! Oh no!
[Growl voice]
You RANG?
Yet Another McUpdate. Bona Fide Content Coming Soon! (And Hard!)
Long Time, No Nothing
Your McBeardo hast been muy, muy occupado.
Woik-wise, Mr. Skin: The Return evolves splendiferously.
Also, I’m easing toward Offical State Sanctioning of my union with Lady McBeardo.
And I filed taxes on time for the first time ever, for which I do, in fact, want every manner of the credit in the world.
And by credit, I mean credit-credit, as in FICO-score-credit.
Because Lord and Lady McB needs a castle to call our own.
Plus, I’m 41 years old, for that Dwarf-Kid From The Tin Drum’s sake.
*********************************************
Back in Skinness
Next week, my shanya punim—or at least the distinctive eyebrow portion of said (gorgeous) object—is slated to appear in Time Out Chicago.
The occasion is a piece on The State of Mr. Skin.
One detail not included in that epistle is how my job has changed for Phase 2 of this grand McBeardo-Mr. Skin experiment.
So’s just so’s youse know:
At present, my chief focus is on Mr. Skin Radio Prep. It’s an online service aimed at on-air radio personalities and programs, providing them with topics to talk about, jokes to jape, and bits to undertake. That’s mostly what I write these days and, wholeheartedly, I love it.
So the next time T.P. and The Bunghole coax a chuckle from you on the way to work, I may well have had a hand in your amusement.
AND NOTHING BUT YOUR AMUSEMENT MATTERS IN MY WORLD.
****************************************************
McBeardo Writes About Movies, Right?
I do. When I do.
Starting this weekend, I’m going to log every trip Lady McBeardo and I make to West Chicago’s Cascade Drive-In in 2010. 
I can’t even say “this spring and summer” because, heroically, the Cascade stayed open for business well into December last year.
Thus far, we’re one visit in: a double feature of Clash of the Titans (pretty good) and Cop Out (apocalyptically atrocious).
The current double feature is ideal modern drive-in grist: Kick-Ass and From Paris with Love.
What makes it perfect is that I’d have zippo interest in seeing Kick-Ass indoors (McLovin is not and I am relatively sure that Lady McB and I, along with whoever else is at the Cascade over the next few nights, will possess the only human eyes to ever be lain upon From Paris with Love under any circumstances, anywhere.
So you’ve got that to look forward to.
Which I know means a lot.
In the meantime, bend your penis on this candy bar:
*****************************
McLardo
My exile to a personal Isle of McElba this past winter prompted radical alterations in my outlooks, behavior and, most importantly, my waistline.
And, for once, for the better.
In a lifetime consisting of acidic labors for Hustler magazine, the heinous hardcore of avant-garde pornographer Gregory Dark, publishing the ultimate sleaze ’zine, aiming to unload 
the bowels of music lovers by means of the crotch-rock combo Gays in the Military and all other manner of (f)artistic outrage, I have finally happened upon the ultimate concept in shock journalism.
My very own weight loss blog: McLardo.com.
There’s nothing there now but—back off multinational media conglomerates—the domain is mine and the madness of mid-life fitness fanaticism is upon me.
You shall read all about it.
Until then, gaze in abhorrence over the obese abomination from 2009 at right.
Despite how I more and more emphatically endorse the message of that XXXL t-shirt each moment, he and me are no longer one.
Specifically, we’re two inches around the midsection and one full shirt size apart. And there greater distances occurring all the time, even now as I type these words from atop an exercise ball.
Nobody who read HAPPYLAND ever saw this coming, huh?
A Personal McMessage(s) from McBeardo to McYou
Ran Dumbness
As of Monday, March 29, 2010, I will be officially re-employed. Mas detailos unveiled then.
In addition, this blog will revert back to being a regularly updated concern. Somehow, I can only do stuff at all if I have too much stuff to do.
****************************************************
After some grand bombast re: re-relocating back to Brooklyn with Lady McBeardo, it’s clear that she and I shall remain in Chicago for the time being.
And I can kvetch about various aspects of what it’s like to reside in Actual America, but this burg has provided me with the tippiest of top-notch friends, along with more fun, better experiences, and dirtier stories than New York and L.A. ever did.
Of course, I’ve evolved into less of a volcanically unconscionable schmuck since I moved here, which may factor into that pleasant reality somewhat (and for those of you who have only gotten to know me post-2003: just IMAGINE what that must have been like).
****************************************************
Drive-In Me Loco
So April 2010 kicks off my eighth year as a Mid-Westerner.
Oy.
Help Lady McB and I celebrate by joining us at the Cascade Drive-In next Friday. It’s kicking off the 2010 season with a double-feature of Clash of the Titans and Cop Out.
That’s significant one-two combo for me as Clash will be projected in mere two dimensions whilst unspooling at indoor venues in 3-D and Cop Out bears the imprimatur “A Kevin Smith Film.”
As a kid in the 1970s, it galled me to no end that such a thing as “3-D movies” existed back in the ’50s and that, somehow, some despicable animals in Hollywood STOPPED making them.
My reasoning was that if you COULD make a movie in 3-D, why wasn’t EVERY movie in 3-D?
Then came the “Super-Vision” 3-D explosion of 1982 (Friday the 13th Part 3, the House of Wax re-release, Revenge of the Shogun Women) and airing of competing red-and-blue 3-D classics on local New York TV (Revenge of the Creature on WPIX, Gorilla at Large on WOR, respectively).
After repeatedly reinserting both (crossed) eyeballs into the sockets of my apocalyptically aching skull, I then kind of understood why 3-D had gone the way of malt shops, sock hops, and Coca-Cola as morning-after contraception.
Still, much as I vowed to watch any film that was ever shown on an airplane wherein I sat as a passenger (as a result, you can talk to me about the cinematic canons of Sandra Bullock and Jennifer Aniston any time), I pledged that if a movie was available in 3-D, then in 3-D is how I would see it.
Alas, 3-D doesn’t work at the drive-in. So Clash of the Titans will trash my pristine record.
I take comfort in knowing that the movie was shot in 2-D, though, and then converted, like the (dreadful) Alice in Wonderland, so the 3-D is guaranteed to make one long for the superior technical delights of Earl Owensby’s Hot Heir (1984).
Plus they’re making a lot of new 3-D movies. I don’t think anybody’s making any new drive-ins.
Cop Out will be my first non-television exposure to the pox of Kevin Smith and, given the comfort/captivity of car-seat viewing, likely the first effort of his of which I will voluntarily endure more than 45 consecutive seconds.
That the wit who afflcited us with Zack and Miri Make a Porno did not also write Cop Out functions as all manner of massive consolation.
(”I got it!…STAR WHORES!” Puke.)
****************************************************
Render Unto Seizures
Pay your taxes, everybody.
All of them.
Every time.
Sparing you the details (and sparing myself any further attention that might be drawn via public monkeyshines), just take my word on this.
Don’t be like me and believe everything will be all right if you just change the radio station on April 15th when they kick off a Workforce Rock Block of “Taxman” by The Beatles, “Sunny Afternoon” by The Kinks (“The tax man’s taken all my dough”), and (as I really heard once) “Taxman, Mr. Thief” by Cheap Trick.
****************************************************
Clash of the White Man
Armond White versus J. Hoberman is the greatest happening in film criticism since 1979, when I stumbled across Sneak Previews on a UHF public TV station in New Jersey. 
Need I even mention which team I pull for in this Armageddon-amplified dust-up over the precious feelings of Noah Baumbach vis-à-vis a retroactive abortion wisecrack?
Mr. White is the sole element sustaining The New York Press—the first entity which ever paid to publish my foolishness—and he’s black and gay, and he hates liberals (which is not, you dummies, the same as being “conservative”).
J. Hoberman functions as the crappo-di-tutti-crappi at the decades-past-dead hobo-pants-liner that chose him over keeping Andrew Sarris and David Edelstein (and, by extension, Jules Pfeiffer) on board.
And again: this donnybrook arose over Noah Baumbleccccchhh.
Thus: White Power! … ARMOND WHITE POWER!!!
****************************************************
Dreck Pistols
And now I am censoring myself.
The piece that was here explained the photograph at left and used the photograph at the lower right as a punchline to a punchline.
Unfortunately, I can’t fathom a way to pull this gag off without inviting headaches and hostility from more conceivable corners than I can stomach divulging. 
I think this may be an example, as mentioned above, of how I’ve evolved into less of a volcanically unconscionable schmuck.
Or it could just mean that, at last, menopause is upon me.
Either way, write to me and maybe I’ll send you the bit I just pulled out.
It’s pretty fuckin’ funny.
I am a pretty funny fuckin’ guy, you know.
mikemcpadden-at-gmail-dot-com
McBeardness Rising (at a Middle-Aged Pace)
The Grand McBeardo Enterprise continues chugging al
ong mightily, albeit in a manner that’s been keeping me off the blog-bowl of late.
This sterling outlet for your Internet needs will resume again as a competitive concern in April, after I’m back to work full time (more on that also … in April, no foolin’).
Randomly:
• I am full-blown obsessed with Jean Shepherd.
• Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland is a dumb, dreary slog made danker and dingier by its 3-D appearing to be an afterthought.
Technically, the experience comes off as a throwback to the mud-screen bewilderment of Treasure of the Four Crowns (1983), minus the Dionysian resplendence of Tony Anthony.
Burton’s upcoming stop-motion Addams Family could be cool, though (please note the use of “could” as opposed to “should” or “will likely be” or “is destined to fly in the sloppy, at-once-slap-dash-and-too-drawn-out face of the man’s post-Edward-Scissorhands track record”).
• John Huston’s Brando-Liz-Brian Keith-Gorgeous Young Robert Foster Army base closet-homo freakout Reflections in a Golden Eye (1969) is a new favorite.
I’ll be reading the Carson McCullers source novel once I’m done with Jimmy McDonough’s impressively obsessive Tammy Wynette bio.
While riding a horse naked.
• Grindhouse Releasing is inflamed with greatness via Gone With the Pope .
Also, DO NOT MISS their midnight screenings of the only Evil Dead that matters tearing up a groovy theater near you all spring and summer.
• Last week, I bought an iPhone speaker device in order to listen to WOR’s overnight Joey Reynolds Show— a tragically unsung wee-hour spelunk into gutter-rung NYC show biz glory not known since Joe Franklin signed off WOR-TV—only to learn, immediately, that Joey Reynolds had been fired.
As they say in The Sixth Dimension: Ah, banana oil!
(It has also just occurred to me that Jean Shepherd broadcast overnights on WOR, too. All this means something. You tell me what.)
Linksploitation: March 3, 2010
Huge McBeardo news brews for March 29, 2010. Without being specific, I’ll be staying in Chicago for the foreseeable future. Lucky mid-west!
Mr. Skin unveils the 11th Annual Anatomy Awards for the finest 
skin-chievements in celebrity nudity. (Mr. Skin)
*
Porn scribe Gram Ponante interviews the director of retro-slasher Sprit Camp (2009). (Gram Ponante)
*
Josh Alan Friedman’s ultra-rare 1984 interview with Godfather creator Mario Puzo. (Black Cracker)
*
Deep inside The Eerie Midnight Horror Show. (Movies About Girls)
*
11 Horror Movie Plants With Whom You Should Not F. (Evil on Two Legs)
*
I have always joked that no one person has ever seen both Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring and Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left, and therefore we’ll never know how much the former influenced the latter. Tenebrous Kate says I’m wrong. (Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire)
*
Panic in New York, Menagerie Breaks Loose. (Monty on Movies)
*
Download The Apple soundtrack. Rock your Granny 
Smith off. (Vinnie Rattolle)
*
Los Angelenos, see the ONLY Evil Dead that matters this Friday (March 5th) at the Nuart. (Grindhouse Releasing)
Gone Fistin’….
Pardon the skinterruption…
Big things are a-brew behind the scenes in McBeardoland, particularly on the career track.
More will be revealed in time, but this blog has to take a backseat for the next little while.
While U Wait…
• Grindhouse Releasing is an inferno of smashingness of late. Catch their midnight screenings of the original Evil Dead (1982)—the ONLY Evil Dead, as far as I’m concerned—as it splatters all over a groovy theater near you during the next few months.
Also keep your eyes open and your mind in the upright about-to-be-blown position for Grindhouse’s restoration and revelation of Duke Mitchell’s Gone With the Pope (1976).
• After several years of miserable midnight schedules dominated by The Princess Bride (1987) and the christfuckingawful Goonies (1985), Chicago’s Music Box Theatre is back on track with a spring line that brings grindhouse/arthouse outrage to nearly every weekend.
Among the gems are Forbidden Zone (1980)—which is McBeardo’s one and only favorite movie of all time—along with Don’t Go in the House! (1980), The Warriors (1979), Human Centipede (2009), UHF (1989), Risky Business (1983), and Night of the Comet (1984).
The Music Box Sci-Fi Spectacular in April also boasts Q: The Winged Serpent (1982) with writer-director Larry Cohen in attendance. Along with me.
EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT CONTEMPORARY MUSIC I LEARN AT THE GYM: PART ONE
An investigation to music videos I witness while huffing atop various exercise machinery. Sweating. And seething.
For decades, it seemed, you could roll your eyes in disgust anytime some simp bellyached: “Thank fuckin’ God for punk for coming along and saving
us all from pompous prog-rock like Yes and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and ….”
And that’s usually where the list ended because that’s as much of the prefabricated pontification the speaker had bothered to mentally rehearse.
First, it’s a ludicrous notion both musically and factually and, second, for at least the past 20 years, that endlessly recited fallacy has served as an immediate indicator that the speaker is out of touch, out of step, and really … old.
Now it’s: “MTV – fuck! What does the ‘M’ stand for? Do they even SHOW music videos anymore?”
The short answer is: “No, MTV does not show music videos anymore.”
The more precise answer is: “No, MTV does not show music videos anymore. And welcome to the Year of Our Lord 1996. You desperate fossil.”
Red Box Double Feature #1: BLOOD CREEK (2009) and ASSASINATION OF A HIGH SCHOOL PRESIDENT (2008)
Like it or leave present reality: The Red Box is the 21st Century Deuce, our modern day equivalent of a row of rundown, lit-up theater marquees advertising the latest and most lurid low-budget exploitation offerings.
And, very much in the spirit of the storied haunts of 42nd Street and Chicago’s Loop and Downtown L.A. and The Block in Baltimore and hundreds of drive-in screens across the landscape in the glory days of grindhouse cinema, The Red Box is open all night and charges only a buck to get in on the action.
And, thus, as I did in days of yore while hopping from the Selwyn across the street to the Harris and then downtown to the Variety and then back up to Cine 42 (and so on), I’m running through my Red Box options two at a time, devising double features of the 
freshest fodder from our various trash film factories.
And, as is always the case, most of these movies will be overwhelmingly lame and largely worthless. But you’ve got to learn to love the sleaze-movie spelunk, not just the maniacs, bloodsucking freaks, holocausting cannibals, and medical deviates you luck into once every 10,000 trips downward.
The first-one two punch is a pretty much a blow right where it stings, but does not swell. But onward we go.
REVIEW: Frank Henenlotter’s BAD BIOLOGY (2009)
BAD BIOLOGY (2009)
DIRECTOR: Frank Henenlotter.
CAST: Charlee Danielson, Anthony Sneed, Mark Wilson, Tina Krause, Jelena Jensen.
SITE: http://www.myspace.com/badbiology
“I was born with seven clits.”
And so, with that clam-dinger of an opening line, Bad Biology kicks off with a metaphorical bang that is followed, in short order, by a more literal one.
After explaining her mutant mons Venus, the speaker, Jennifer—played by Hollywood-worthy pretty Charlee Danielson—picks up an unsuspecting sex partner, mounts him on the floor and puts her poon-of-many-protrusions to work on him. The guy dies, Jennifer immediately whelps out a monstrous infant and, admonishing us not to judge her, takes off in search of more carnal prey. Read More
