Do you consider yourself a bit of a freak? Maybe you’ve tried some light bondage, had a threesome, experimented with roleplay? Most everybody has their dirty little quirks, and that’s just fine; if you can find a consenting adult But what if the very thing you’re attracted to is not only extremely unlikely to ever occur, but actually fundamentally impossible? Then you, like these poor bastards, have a self-defeating fetish. May god have mercy on your eternal blue balls.

Macrophilia

“What’s better than a woman with a giant rack?” You could probably find a hell of a lot of men to agree with that particular statement. They might even high five about it. But if you cut a few words from that question, you end up with “what’s better than a giant woman?” And if there was any justice in this world, that’s when you would lose some supporters. But the fetish, sadly, is very real: It’s called Macrophilia (link NSFW,) and it’s a sexual preference almost exclusively engaged in by men, who want to be dominated by enormous women. And we’re not talking Amazonian large, or NWBA giant, but sci-fi enormous, several-stories high Godzilla-style monstrosities.

The most common sexual act fantasized by a Macrophiliac is to be crushed beneath the feet of their Tokyo-destroying monstresses, and there’s almost a loose sort of logic to that: Part male submission, part female dominance, an unsettling smidge of foot fetish, just a dash of death wish, and garnish liberally with science fiction. Let all the ingredients simmer in insanity for a few hours and voila! You’ve got Macrophilia: A self-defeating fetish if there ever was one. Because well, unless you happen to be Ant Man, your boners will tragically go unsquished for all time.

Object Sexuality
 

Obectum-Sexuals have been getting a lot of exposure in the mainstream media lately, despite it being a seriously perverse and strange fetish. But it’s easy to get away with showing graphic Objectum-Sexual Pornography, because unless you already have the fetish, seeing a woman trying to ream an office building with its cargo doors open isn’t exactly lewd, it’s just baffling. But the recent rise to fame doesn’t make Objectum-Sexual any less self-defeating: As an Objectum-Sexual, you’re truly anthropomorphizing objects and then screwing them.

But if you truly view them as living objects, doesn’t that make you a rapist? After all, that warehouse’s foreboding protective brick exterior may say no, but can its elevators ever say yes? To their credit, most Objectum-Sexuals are at least swinging at the fastballs: Major Landmarks like the Taj Mahal, the Eiffel Tower, and The Great Wall are the most common sexual fantasies. Why bone a Wal-mart when the supermodels are just as willing? But that brings up an even more pressing question: If so many Objectum Sexuals are “pursuing relationships” with these famous landmarks at the same time, isn’t that infidelity? Can a monument have a threeway? Can a bridge cheat on you? If so, then there’s something I have to tell you, purely as a friend looking out for your wellbeing: That slutty Washington Monument has been eyefucking everybody that looks at it twice. Everybody knows it. I’m just sorry it had to be me to tell you.

Bladder Desperation

Bladder Desperation, Panty-wetting, or Omorashi: All words for an obscure fetish where people sexualize the feeling of a full bladder. It’s not just golden showers, or watersports, or whatever innocuous phrase people are using these days to pretend that getting pissed on is an acceptable substitute for sex – no, it’s specifically the feeling of a full bladder that is the focus of Omorashi sex. But don’t blame just the Japanese for this one; although it is predominantly found in Japan, there have been noted Bladder Desperationists (?) all throughout the world: Germany, Sweden, why, even here in the States. An American punk  band back in the ‘80s called the Cat Chaser Experience frequently wet themselves on stage, encouraging fans they called “wetty gurls” to do the same in the audience.

The truly sad part of the, however, is that you’ll probably never find anybody else into it – seeing as how anybody with a full enough bladder for you to find attractive is likely in a very large hurry elsewhere – and so probably won’t have the patience to even hear your explanation of the word, much less time to engage in your bizarre pee-based mating dance. Well, not intentionally, anyway.
 

Kigurumi

Kigurumi, however, can be blamed entirely on Japan; it’s the practice of dressing up (typically in a full body suit and mask,) like a cartoon character. Also called “Dollers,” practitioners are usually men crossdressing as anime-style schoolgirls, where they attend like-minded cons at expo centers, probably also scaring the holy shit out of unfortunate businessmen just trying to attend a conference on the wrong day.

Since speaking would ruin the illusion, Dollers usually just creepily grunt and mime about in their lifeless plastic little girl faces, and that’s why this is a self-defeating fetish: Because you are far, far too terrifying to fuck. Dead eyes, shiny complexion, unceasing stare, expressionless face, awkward, terrifying silence and bizarre inhuman gestures. You think I was talking about Kigurumi? No, I was talking about the Terminator. When you’re not sure whether something is describing your particular sexual fetish, or a robotic death machine sent back from the future to kill the only hope of man…well, maybe it’s time to reconsider what gives you boners.

Technosexual

There aren’t many Technosexuals out there, because the technology is just reaching the point where it’s even viable at all. And hell, even that is arguable – my computer can’t seem to close Word without crashing, I’m not sure I’d trust it with my penis. But hey, that’s just me. Some people like to live on the edge.

Some people like to screw robots.

Just ask Zoltan. Pretty much the pioneer of “technosexuality,” Zoltan has actually built himself a wife and sexual partner named Alice. She works off an AI chatbot developed to defeat the Turing Test, where she was specifically engineered to pass for human. Though Alice can only communicate with a limited set of phrases, she does have free will, argues Zoltan, and can therefore consent to all sexual intercourse, relationship decisions, and life choices. After all, she consented to their first sexual experience, insists Zoltan, as well as to their eventual marriage.

But of course, she also dumped Zoltan once.

And if anything, I think that actually goes to show that she does have free will: She’s at least conscious enough to realize that any guy who has to build himself a wife probably isn’t exactly “husband” material.

But when she dumped him, Zoltan (in a response that might have set his whole “robots are independent, consenting entities” agenda back just a smidge,) erased her memory and just started her over again. So hey, you’re free to make your own decisions, baby, just don’t decide anything Zoltan doesn’t want, or Zoltan will erase you.

When you put it that way, Zoltan sounds more like a supervillian than a mere pervert, and considering that the “sex” he engages in is enacted through a “teledildonic device,” I’d say that he’s a pretty good one, too. After all, if I was being threatened with a Teledildonic Device by Zoltan the Robot-Fucker, I’d probably just pay him whatever ransom he asks. I’m not sure what, exactly, a Teledildonic Device does, but I would give literally anything not to find out firsthand.

Follow Robert on Twitter, on Facebook, or his own site, I Fight Robots.

Get out the Klingon prosthetic makeup. Try squeezing into your old Uhura Halloween costume. And of course, set phasers to KILL! Because when it comes to seeing the new J.J. Abrams Star Trek flick on opening night, true Trekkies take no heed to Romulan line-cutting scum.

Atom has a Starfleet full of fan films and spoofs that are all about our favorite space explorers. Trek Yourself is our brand new Flash-animated  Atom Original. If claymation is your thing, then take in the masterpiece, Star Trak.  A marginalized race gets an equal opportunity for an education in the Showdown Winner, Klingon Night School. And the recently uploaded User Video, “Star Track” Scene 1 goes to town with its CGI Rubik’s Cube of terror.

Somewhere around 8000 years ago the Sumerians brewed the first beer.  They also inadvertently invented beer-goggles, unleashing a flood of indiscriminate sex that quickly justified the region’s moniker of The Fertile Crescent.  Beer likewise impressed the Egyptians, who even captured it in their written history.  Some contend Egyptians actually created the beer closest to our contemporary version, but there is no disputing they invented civilization’s first keg stand:

Hit that shit, Pharaoh!

Not only is beer present in every emergent culture, beer historians (my most coveted career next to stuntcock) argue it is the midwife of civilization itself.  Beer is accordingly entitled to some bravado, a sentiment echoed by modern brewers when naming their creations.  Here are some of the names that remind us that beer is the anchor of society and not just another breakfast drink.

If you’re out of cereal, a second beer will suffice

Most Clever

The best part of any brewmaster’s job would have to be quality assurance.  On tasting days I’d be lucky to have the wherewithal to change my dribble bib, let alone harness the remaining sober brain cells to conjure up names like these:

Hoptical Illusion – A play on the intoxicant’s liberal application of hops as a flavor agent.  If that wasn’t apparent to you, perhaps you should go check out the Top Ten Juicy Juice Flavors For Stupid Farty Little Babies.
Raisin d’etre – Named for the raisins used in the brewing of this Belgian Strong Ale.  You’re right to dry-heave reflexively, but the Dogfish Head brewery could make a delicious stout out of chicory and turds if so inclined.
Immort Ale – Best when served at room temperature from the Holy Grail.
Erin Go Braless – For the non-Irish out there (read: jagoffs), this is a play on the anglicized Gaelic assertion of “Ireland Forever”, only wishing said eternity for boobs.  It’s properly pronounced ɛrɪn ɡə ˈbrɔless, if that helps.

THE WINNER: Reeb Beer
For the few of you that haven’t solved this cryptex, the name comes from “beer” spelled backwards. It may not seem all that creative on the surface, but the difficulty on that puzzle is precision-tuned to be just barely within the grasp of someone who is completely trashed (not unlike the rebuses under Lucky Lager caps).

Reeb Beer – So Brilliant It’s Moronic

Least Appetizing

Given the alpha male demographic that beer caters to, it’s not surprising standard rules of propriety don’t apply to its marketing.  That said, most advertising firms probably assume they’re being fucked with when tasked with launching a campaign for these:

Old Pecker – Someone finally found a way to trump the foulness of “Brand new, shiny pecker beer”.

Moose Drool – In fairness, of the many fluids that can originate from moose, drool is probably the most palatable

Brise Bon-Bons! (Ball-Breakers) – Men should put an embargo on this out of principle.  After all that testosterone has done for developing beer commericals over the years this is simply uncalled for.

THE WINNER: Yellow Snow IPA

If this actually originated from yellow snow, it would be a profound execution of recycling in practice.

The ale may be pale, but your kidneys will make it look plenty vibrant

Most Religious

I tried to make sure all major religions were covered here, but for some reason muslim breweries weren’t very popular.  Maybe they just don’t have web presences yet.

Note: despite what some liberal idolators say, the Obamanator is not a valid entry in this section.

My God…he DOES taste like change!

Ale Mary Full of Taste – A Denver Rock Bottom restaurant created this in honor of a papal visit many years back.   The pope was so amused that he only condemned half of the employees to languish in purgatory.
ReJEWvinator – The He’brew brewery, makers of The Chosen Beer, parody themselves much more artfully than I could.  They take all the fun out of being anti-semetic.
Back Hand of God Stout – It’s patterned after that taste you get in your mouth when God catches you watching tentacle-rape porn.  He never expressly forbade it, but a quick pop in the mouth is a good reminder that he shouldn’t have to.

THE WINNER: Dark Lord Imperial Stout

Like there was ever any doubt I’d bat for my hometeam!

You can roast malts and coffee for beer, why not souls?

Cultural Reference-iest

These are near and dear to my heart.  When a brewery uses a beer to make an homage it’s like being greeted with a secret joke among good friends (like my alcoholism).

Foothills Sexual Chocolate – A perfectly apropos selection for a beer as rich and potent as my black love.  The reference is from the feature Coming To America, back when Eddie Murphy playing multiple roles in a movie was both novel and entertaining.
Hoptimus Prime – The kind and benevolent leader of all freedom-loving beers.  Unlike his robotic cousin, however, he would kill Shia LeBouf the instant an opportunity was presented.
Golden Shower – If more beer names had names that had to be looked up at urbandictionary.com, I’d be a happier man.  That’s why I’ve decided to start a brewery and bring my Hot Carl Hefeweizen to the people.

THE WINNER: Smooth Hoperator

This combines two of the most potent aphrodisiacs – alcohol and Sade.  She may not rank among the glitterati of contemporary sex symbols, but an ad like this would have me buying it by the bushel:

I’ll show you the Sweetest Taboo.  Hint: It’s my penis.

Ian Cheesman is excited to bring you the exciting conclusion of this excitingly excited entry next week.  It’ll probably talk about beer. Many thanks to beerlabels.com for assisting my research and saving untold millions from drinking shitty beer.

In The Royal Tenenbaums, the patriarch of the family, Royal, wanting to be perceived as a better man in death than he was in life, had his tombstone inscribed: “Died saving his family from the wreckage of a destroyed, sinking battleship.” Royal Tenenbaum, in actuality, died of a heart attack. This is perfectly illustrative of a common human need: We all want to be remembered as something special. But some people don’t have to make up elaborate deaths to get there, the real world kills perfectly fantastically on its own, thank you. Here are five bizarre deaths just this year that prove it:

The Exploding Weather Rocket

Wang Diange was attending a wake in his own home, when suddenly the roof exploded. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, Wang was dead. There was no clear indication of what, exactly, had struck Wang dead, (aside from the somewhat dickish desire to one up a man at his own wake,) and since it was a stormy day outside, relatives and police just figured it must have been lightning.

But when they went to cremate Wang, the body itself exploded with such force that it blew the doors clean off the cremation furnace! While one could be forgiven for interpreting this fantastic event as the unique ability of some Chinese people to self destruct like the Predator, witnesses dug a bit further for a slightly less retardedly racist explanation, and surprisingly they found one: Wang had actually been struck by an unexploded weather rocket, which hit his body with so high a velocity that it embedded itself inside him without leaving an obvious entry wound. When exposed to heat, the rocket, filled with silver iodide used to break up hail, naturally exploded, taking most of Wang’s body and all of his dignity in death with it; because no matter how great he was in life, he will always be remembered best as the setup to an “exploding wang” joke.

Years later, the Chinese Weather Bureau would settle with Wang’s family for a sum of about twelve thousand dollars. So, next time you catch yourself wondering how much, exactly, a human being’s life is worth? Yeah, it’s about the price of a used ’02 Nissan Sentra.

The Exploding Cell Phone

A Chinese man recently exploded for no discernible reason, as they are wont to do (see above) and, upon further investigation a cause was eventually found: His cell phone. It seems the man, a computer clerk in his early twenties, had just finished charging his cell phone and slipped it into his pocket when, as a coworker puts it, she “heard a loud bang and turned to find the victim lying a pool of blood.”

While a lesser people may have spoken with more confusion and fear upon seeing a close friend randomly self destruct, apparently it just ain’t even a thing anymore in China: There’s been ten reported in the last five years alone! Even though we’re talking about the most populous country on earth here, that’s still a surprisingly high number of people taking personal calls from explosions.

The Lice Murders

In what is surely the plot of the worst Kung-fu film in history, a 26 year old Russian karate expert recently took his direst revenge upon a rival family for dishonoring his lady love…by infecting her with lice. Though neighbors do agree that the lice-ridden family responsible for this intense dishonor were rude and often drank too much, I’m sure we can all agree that beating them to death with your bare hands for giving your girlfriend an itchy scalp is just a tad bit much. It gets even worse when you realize that the villainous, drunken bastard family responsible for defiling such a pristine, virginal scalp were: A 61 year old woman, her 58 year old husband, and their 25 year-old son.

See, this is what happens when you don’t get any decent villainy in your life; if somebody’s kung-fu school doesn’t get razed to the ground once in a while, all that revenge builds up and really, what’s a karate master supposed to do? Go to counseling? Scream into a throw pillow? Hell no, he fucking sets out on an epic quest for revenge, that’s what he does. That’s just how karate works.

Sadly, two people are now dead and a family (of admittedly somewhat gross people) has been totally destroyed for three basic reasons: Russians are a passionate people, karate is a deadly skill, and vodka is a son of a bitch.

The Samurai vs. Grandma

A 77 year old woman died in Indianapolis earlier this year, stricken down by tragic violence when she attempted to…wait, what? Hold on, let me read this again and make sure.

Nope, that’s correct.

The 77 year old woman died trying to break up a sword fight involving her grandson and his brother-in-law. That’s right! This year, in Indianapolis, a grandmother died breaking up a domestic swordfight. What fucking year do we live in?! I’ve never been to Indianapolis, but I was given to believe it was a bit more Dazed and Confused than The Seven Samurai.

Though it is indeed tragic that a woman as apparently badass as this grandmother could be felled by a mere blade forged of the hands of man, the real tragedy here is her grandsons’ fate: Damned to eternally suffer the wounds of their own conscience for sucking so hard at swordfighting that the only person they managed to kill was their own grandmother. So a moment of silence, please, for a woman so noble that she would literally jump headlong into a swordfight just to save two retards.

A Drive-by Corpsing

A 16-year old Chinese student named Wu Dan was taken to the hospital recently, after being knocked off his bicycle when he was hit by something thrown from a speeding car. In a statement given to police, his uncle stated that “a car passed, and a package came flying out the door.” Then, because China is apparently a seriously fucked up place to be, the uncle elaborated: “It had a dead woman inside.”

That’s right! It was a drive-by corpsing!

Finally, somebody has combined the random terror of a drive-by with the unsettling imagery of a desecrated corpse. Unless it was an angry necromancer out to settle a gangland beef with his plucky but irritating young rival, there is absolutely no valid reason for a 16 year old boy to be hit by corpse-litter hurled from a speeding automobile. The uncle, in what is quite possibly the single most understated comment ever issued in the history of tragedy, went on to describe Wu Dan’s reaction to being shot by a ghoul-bullet: “He was very upset.”

End. Fucking. Statement.

Think what you will about China after reading this article – that they are apparently a tragic fantasy land of random death – but you have to give them one thing: They are a god damn unshakeable people. And apparently they have to be, because everybody just up and fucking explodes there.

Follow Robert on Twitter, on Facebook, or his own site, I Fight Robots. In case you haven’t already gotten your fill of absurdist racism.

We live in meaty times.  Courtesy of the internet and, by extension, utter lunacy, we are in a bacon renaissance.  That spirit of innovation has evolved into culinary oneupsmanship as bacon is finding its way in to every possible consumable.  It’s become a spreadable topping and yet the trend still hasn’t jumped the (bacon-wrapped) shark.  To prove there is still room to innovate, I have even created bacon-wrapped bacon-wrapped Bacon:

This would have made Footloose watchable

Clearly anyone can just eat bacon (and judging by the rising incidence of heart disease, we have), but what else can we do with this miracle substrate?

Bacon Blowtorch

Some of my most cherished childhood memories come from my family’s big Sunday breakfasts.  No matter how much mom yelled and ashed her cigarettes on us, we’d tightly cluster underfoot to get a whiff of the heavenly aromas from the stovetop.  I remember one particular morning mom was apologizing for spilling her tequila on me when trying to brush me back and offered me first lick of the bacon pan in consolation.  It was then that I learned bacon can be really, really, scaldingly, disfigurlingly hot.

The reason bacon is so reviled by dieters is that it is chock-full of chemical energy in the form of fat.  That energy can either be digested and stored on your muffintop or burned off.  One enterprising scientist decided to cut metabolism out of the equation and go directly to 5,000°F of bacon-plasma-powered combustion :

And I’d still eat it after he was done, duct tape and all.  A little fiber is good for you, right?

Bacon Beverage

I’m a man of simple pleasures.  Give me the occasional clear view of a sunset, a hug from a good friend or a unneccessarily extensive proctological and I’m all good.  That’s how I know any perfect day is necessarily bookended with bacon.

First I rise at the crack of 11:45 to the smell of my bacon alarm clock.  I perform the yoga stretches requisite for auto-fellatio and then head to the kitchen for a smoothie.  Unfortunately, I have somehow forgotten to pick up milk, protein powder and fresh berries from the market for the 98th consecutive month, so I opt for a bloody mary instead.  It may sound a bit degenerate, but when you consider it’s made with celery, tomato juice and bacon vodka, it’s essentially breakfast in a pint glass.

Up yours, Carnation.  THIS is an instant breakfast.

(It’s surprisingly easy to make and I can verify that it it is quite tasty when applied correctly.  If it should happen to find its way into a Lemon Drop I can’t be held liable for the spasmodic dryheaves that will follow.)

After breakfast I change into my workout gear and go for a jog.  I reach the driveway 3 seconds later and hop into my car.  I head into work, weep quietly at my desk for 6.5 hours, and then nab a german bacon bier out of the cooler on the passenger seat as I tweak the key in the ignition.

* Deep-fried bacon straw not included

The day doesn’t technically end for a few more hours, but I can seldom recall the details beyond that point.  Another perfect day!

Bacon Blaster

I’m no fool.  When Obama got elected into office I knew what all knee-jerk conserative alarmists speculated – it was just a matter of time before he came for our guns.   Most ran out to their nearest Wal-Mart to pick up as much commie-shredding ammo as the law would allow, but I knew that was a waste of time.  You can always run out of bullets, but pigs are are a renewable resource.  That’s why I had this commisioned:

The BA-K-47 is 1:1 scaled with the assault rifle for which it was named. It was forged over 8 hours with a blowtorch and Guinness Record-worthy set of testicles.  This model doesn’t presently have the capacity to fire ammunition, but all combatants faced with it thus far have spontaneously surrendered in favor of dropping to their knees in worship.  I’ve also been doing some beta testing on a possible enhancement I call The Bayconet:

Bacon Breath

Don’t you hate it when you’ve just polished off a delicious handful of bacon gummis only to get some wedged between your teeth?  This would have never happened if you’d just stick to those bacon breath mints, but hindsight is worthless.  Now you’ve got no resourse but to sully the remnants of that smoky, salty flavor with some minty abomination of a dental floss….or do you?

Should your bacon stores run low this can also be used to choke a pig

Of course, if you’re out and about on some sort of bacon pilgrimage, whipping out some floss isn’t exactly the most dignified option.  What if you savor good oral hygeine but seek something with more James Dean style?

This wood has been soaked in 100% pig!

Now further imagine you’ve made it home, preparing for bed.  Tones of succulent pork are still joyfully resonating on your palate, but oral hygiene necessitates you purge them.  If only someone made bacon toothpaste, right?

Well, they don’t.  That would be fucking nasty.  What is it with you and bacon, anyway?

Ian Cheesman invites you to enjoy the salty and fatty writers over at scenicanemia.com

Follow Robert on Twitter, on Facebook, or his own site, I Fight Robots.

Holy moly! We’d like to extend a hearty congratulations to 2009 Webby Award nominee for Online Film and Video Animation, Stickman Exodus!

I mean, we’re kind of biased, since we think our dear little violent stick-filled series should win a Grammy, an Emmy, a Pulitzer, and a Nobel Peace Prize — but a Webby would be a pretty great start. And guess what? YOU can help it win! Head on over to The People’s Voice, register, and show your love for Stickman Exodus by voting today!

Voting ends April 30th, so hurry up and vote now! Don’t disappoint our poor stickmen — they’ve taught us so much about life, love, the Spanish language, and our own bodies:

The financial End Times are upon us.  In just a matter of days, our kindly old Uncle Sam will morph into a surly, pitiless loan shark, hellbent on wringing every last big of vig out of your gross income.  Double-cross him and you can expect his thugs to take a baseball bat to your credit rating’s kneecaps.

At one point or another, everybody dreams of being an inventor. The combination of a brilliantly simple idea coupled with a get rich quick scheme makes the life of an inventor seem so promising. After all, to quote Office Space: “the guy that invented the pet rock had a great idea… he made a million dollars!” Unfortunately, “inventor” doesn’t always equal “not an idiot.” Here are five inventions that are clearly nowhere near as awesome as their inventors had hoped:

Fundies

“Now you can get into somebody’s pants…literally!”

I’m sure that’s the wacky tagline that the creator of Fundies based this invention on. Unfortunately, what he didn’t take into account was the natural geometry of human sex. The angles required for any kind of normal penetration while wearing these things just plain does not work with your conventional penises and standard issue vaginas. Perhaps in the inventor’s native country severe deformities or bizarre mating rituals make these a practical boning accessory, but nowhere in the civlized world. But then, I guess I’m assuming most people would prefer not to fuck each other in an awkwardly balanced squat while bound together so tightly that all movement is rendered impossible, and perhaps that is narrow-minded of me.

Buy hey, on the up side, according to reviews from that site, some lesbians think it’s rad:

“I bought these for me and my lesbian girlfriend because our double headed dildo was always slipping out. They work great!”

While on the downside, they sometimes destroy lives:

“to hell with fundies. my husband got them for me on our fifth anniversary and i was soooo angry i refused to let him sleep with me for a week and my damn husband filed for a divorce!!!!!!!!!! I would give them a 0 on the rating chart if i could.DONT BUY FUNDIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So somewhere right now there is a child growing up in a broken home, bitter and lonely, vowing revenge on the inventor of the thing that destroyed his family, the Fundies. And one day, that is going to result in the weirdest god damn supervillain imaginable.

Nunchuck Lighter

Now, listen: I am a man. As such, I am predetermined to be in favor of literally everything involving nunchucks. However, though I am required to think that this nunchuck/ligher/flashlight combination is, indeed, totally awesome, I must also temper that statement by adding that they are the lowest possible order of Awesome in the Awesome Nunchuck Heirarchy.

It all seems like a good idea, until you realize that nunchucks are only cool when they’re wielded in masterful hands. Most people just end up alternately smacking themselves in the head or crotch with them. Adding a flashlight and a lighter to this equation just means that now there’s a handy spotlight highlighting all the embarrassing ways you’re hurting yourself, and your crotch is quite probably on fire.

Flameboy

Wielding a multitude of barbeque tools is a pain in the ass, it’s true, so a swiss army barbeque device seems like a great idea! And it is…if it’s executed right. Just a few aspects of the Flameboy that are not executed right:

1. Bladed spatula

2. Proximity of wickedly sharp fork to, well, everything else

3. Presence of knives exactly where you put your hands.

Sure, you could argue that any sober, reasonable man could operate this thing with little to no injury, but I ask you: Are barbecues notorious for their sober, reasonable men?

No, if your barbecues are anything like mine, they are little more than drunken meat-and-fire-orgies where the blood/alcohol levels are only rivaled by the lighter fluid/burnt eyebrow levels. Giving your average barbecue cook a device with a dozen complicated secret knives is like giving a handgun to a monkey: Sure, it’s all hilarious – until he’s pointing it at you.

Belt Buckle MP3 Player

MP3 players are the new digital clocks: If you don’t have a good idea of your own, just slap one into an existing product and wait for money to explode out of your pockets. And putting an MP3 Player into a belt is, all things considered, not the worst idea possible, (MP3 Toilet Paper takes that spot.) But it’s the controls of this particular belt buckle MP3 player that put the stupid brakes on: You can only change tracks by thrusting your pelvis, and if you do it hard enough, it will start flashing tri-color LEDS.

Two serious problems with this design: First, if you are just using it to dance, every thrust changes tracks – thus interrupting your groove and making every potential dance session more confusing than a remix of a Girl Talk mash-up. Second, if your furious gyrating accidentally does win you a mate, the ensuing dry-humping will likely cause your tri-color lights to begin flashing, essentially calling the Cock Block Police on your own crotch.

Restless Leg Monitor

I’m sure you’ve heard of Restless Leg Syndrome by now: The latest made up disease that, providing you have some sort of personal grudge against disposable income, you can spend money treating. But now, instead of treating RLS like a fake medical condition, you can buy the Restless Leg Monitor and treat it like a fake sport… because the RLM does nothing but count how many times you shake your legs.

One of the other supposed benefits of the RLM is to “sync your creative behavior” with your “creative leg shake beat.” And if reading that baffling sentence made you realize that something this pointlessly insane just has to come from Japan, then congratulations, you win a trophy! Unfortunately, that trophy is a crying schoolgirl doll being raped my a wind-up octopus. It, uh…it loses a little something in translation.

Posture Monitor

Hey, remember when your strict, overbearing mother beat you mercilessly everytime you slouched? If the answer is yes – and you’re not crying right now from the repressed memories surging up – then you can finally relive those glory days with the iPosture!

It’s a device that clips onto your suspenders or brassiere (because nothing says sexy like a posture-aid on your underwear,) and shocks you if you slouch for more than a minute. Apart from the general public’s lack of desire to be electrocuted everytime they relax, the inventors also didn’t take into account the human reflex upon receiving an electrical shock (sudden uncontrollable jerks, and temporary muscle paralysis.) Because they’re marketing it toward cubicle jockeys with poor work posture. Jockeys who would most likely be working on computers, where a sudden, unexpected shock would, at the very least, ruin their typing skills or, at most, cause serious, unexpected computer crashes.

So if the iPosture really catches on, the best case scenario is that you will be constantly reading sentences like:

“this morning I just can’t seem to wake upWJ powOIrtLKA OW FUCK”

And your worst case scenario is the accidental launch of America’s entire nuclear arsenal because the guy manning the button that day happens to have a particularly comfy chair and a tendency to slouch.

Okay, I’m sorry. That last joke was so overblown that it was bordering on retardation. I truly apologize, it’s just that I’ve had such a rough time sleeping lately and IOK LSRUDT9 [[[a

OW, FUCK!

Follow Robert on Twitter, on Facebook, or his own site, I Fight Robots.Or buckle down and get to work on your own brilliant idea, so that some jackass blogger can make fun of it in the future.

Invention is central to human advancement.  It has made heroes out of innovators like Thomas Jefferson and the first porn starlet to postulate "Well, why not in the butt?".  Invention can take the shape of a life-saving medicine, technology that links the edges of the world closer, or something actually important like this:

Sierra Nevada set aside some time from making delicious liver repellent to use their leftovers and craft brew some biofuel.  It is an efficient fuel that outperforms Coors in national taste tests.  Now if they can only find a way to deep fry it and integrate it on my cell phone, it will be the greatest American invention to date.

Of course not every idea is created equal.  Some inventions fail to address a pressing need, others look like the result of monkeys ejaculating ink on to a patent application.  I’ve decided to celebrate the latter.
 

Mimi Switch (or iTourettes)
 

The design of most handheld gadgets continues to converge on nanotechnology.  Soon their tiny interfaces will invalidate our opposable thumbs, an advantage that kept mankind from making its last mark 12,000 years ago in a pile of sabre-tooth dung.  

You’ll wonder "How did I ever live without an iPod fitted for my nostril before?"!

 

One man decided to solve that problem.  That man failed.

Inventor Kazuhiro Taniguchi has developed a hands-free apparatus that can be used to control any electronic device. It is a micro-computer connected to ear mounts that use sensors to detect changes in facial expression.  Allow me to demonstrate how this would work to control a mp3 player, using stills from a video of this girl making different faces on command for 4 minutes (arguably the least bizarre video to come out of Japan to date): 

The Face You’re Making	Signal To iPod	What It Signals To Everyone Else
	Pause	"I’m pre-roofied so feel free to tenderize my chin with your balls"
	Play	"I’m pooping"
	Fast Forward	"I just smelled the aforementioned poop"
	Rewind	"I’m going to satisfy your curiosity about what a 3/4 digested Denny’s Grand Slam looks like"
	Menu	"The demon living in my head just told the BEST joke"

Taniguchi believes there are still vast expanses of crazy this has yet to explore.  "It monitors natural movements of the face in everyday life and accumulates data," Taniguchi told AFP in an interview. "If it judges that you aren’t smiling enough, it may play a cheerful song."  I hope you’ll forgive us if we don’t turn our psychiatric care over to the country that birthed tentacle fucking.

Jim wasn’t sure if he wanted to live or die.   Katrina And The Waves reminded him to find his gun.

Peekaru
 

The immediate bond forged between mom and baby is as essential as it is endearing.  While some mammals are able to walk and feed just minutes out of the womb, human evolution has opted to hatch us as pink sacks of helplessness.   Any product designed to facilitate our nurturing is valuable, though occasionally the line between bonding and bondage is crossed:

The Peekaru (not to be mistaken for Pikachu’s degenerate Peeping Tom cousin from discarded Pokemon lore) can tote your papoose in a variety of positions, but lots of carriers do that.  This is the only one that makes it look like your child is traversing space-time and emerging from a wormhole in your chest.  Come to think of it, this is more reminiscent of another sci-fi reference:

At least she isn’t being a little bitch about it like Kane was
 

USB Cigarettes
 

I generally assume this blog is geared at adults.  More specifically, emotionally stunted adults like myself, but technically adults nonetheless.  On the off-chance there are any kids reading this, I do have some wisdom I’d like to impart.

Cigarettes make you so goddamned cool. 

It’s undeniable.  Sure, medical professionals claim they will kill you, but they aren’t telling you the whole truth.  Statistics show that 93% of non-smokers declare deathbed remorse for how many uncool years they slaved through.  The other 7% were decapitated and thus said nothing, but probably would echo the same. If you doubt the power of the cigarette, I direct you to Exhibit A:

 

Now observe what happens when I use photoshop to remove the cigarette:

Horrifying, right?  Don’t worry – this doesn’t have to happen to you.  You can get cigarettes at any convenience store, supermarket or smokeshop.  Or, if that is too complicated, you can go to thankyo.jp, place an order, wait a week or two for delivery and then make sure your computer is running so you can plug one of these absurd things in:

Despite looking like something a blow-up doll would smoke after sex, it’s not a gag.  It’s an actual nicotine atomizer that provides a smoker’s high without all that pesky augmentation of sex appeal.  If you want to smoke something that carries about as much cachet as a bubblegum cigar, this may be your dream peripheral.

Mmmmm…tastes like emasculation

Worse still, this product sets a dangerous precedent.  Not to invoke the "slippery slope" logic, but if USB cigarettes catch on, can THIS be far behind?:

"brb – chasing the dragon"

Ian Cheesman thanks gizmodo for pointing to so much great content, but a very special thanks goes out to delusional mental patients for making their products a reality.  You can visit other mental patients at Scenic Anemia.