Under any other circumstances, we’d consider a song devoted to your own prowess as an unstoppable fuck machine and world-altering lay to be a terminus — the John Mayer point of no return, if you will. However, if you’re the infinitely doable Marcus Patrick, we’d frankly expect — nay beseech — that you sing your own praises. Curious biological phenomena about for the esteemed Mr. Patrick — one-time boy bander, martial artist, model, go-go dancer, personal trainer, and soap star kicked to the curb from Days of Our Lives for doing a full-frontal in Playgirl — and no one is immune to their effect. It’s a medical mystery why his body rejects all form of clothing and rips Hulk-like of its own volition out of any garment worn longer than ten minutes. Is it a pheremonal stimulus that causes any and all orifices within a hundred foot radius of him to spontaneously dilate? Is it true that his image will emblazon itself Shroud of Turin-like into his bed linens? We too would wear our solipsism like body armor, have a chorus of hard body backup dancers flank us, and strut our way through a should’ve-been-a-hit Eurodisco track that sounds like Rico Suave by way of Savage Men… if we could pull off a Van Damme spin kick in white jeans.

Childhood.

In the pantheon of American myths, it ranks up there with the the pilgrims (assholes) and Intelligent Design. Glenn Beck can cry for his bygone formative years that never were, and Concerned Mothers can bitch endlessly about teenage wizards and slutty vampire slayers, but anyone in-the-know will tell you that there’s nothing truly safe or protected about being a kid. Children are just miniature adults, which means they can be deceitful, manipulative, greedy, and treacherous — I’d wager there’s likely a Rhoda in-the-wings inside every elementary school classroom — and if you’ve ever grown up with a Baby Jane of a sibling, you had a real reason to hide under the bed and perfect your best 911 call.

Even fairy tales are full of all manner of fuckery — Little Red Riding Hood had more in store for her from the Wolf’s Big Bad than just being eaten — and just as creepy children’s programming will often years later develop cults of scarred adults who get thrills from revisiting their childhood traumas, so too are children’s books far more than just lame pretexts for actresses to brand themselves authors. (read the full article)

The current boy-rape scandal in the Catholic Church is shaping up to be a Vatican Watergate. Like President Nixon, Pope Joseph Ratzinger’s fingerprints are all over a worldwide cover-up of child abuse at the hands of priests.

Back in 2005, the first wave of scandals broke in the United States. The immediate impulse of Vatican officials was to change the subject, as the Pope is trying (unsuccessfully) to do now. Blame was laid on “social change” and “homosexuals,” as if priestly abuse began in 1960 and gay men were unknown in a church where the clergy are forbidden to marry. At the time, our Senior Editor John Calendo responded to the tarring of all gay priests with the following post. (read the full article)

James Cameron did not produce Russian porn superstar Igor’s latest powerfuck extravaganza. Though it seems like special effects must be involved somehow. Could Igor’s cock really be that long, thick and permahard? Could he be as relentless a fucker as tight-muscled big-nipped bottom Ben’s moans tell us? Yes and yes!

In the newest flick in our Treasure Island theater, Igor deepfucks Ben’s throat before ripping off his black briefs. Then he turns into the Russian fuck machine from hell—or really a place deeper and hotter than hell. Igor’s ego is as big as his dick. This is not the kind of guy you want to go to the movies with. He wouldn’t want to see anything unless he was the star.

Your assignment: whip out your dick and study Igor in action in the Inner Circle now. Then find a partner (or a toy) to be your very own fuck machine (Russian part optional). Igor would stuff you himself, but there’s a long line. Plus he needs all that mirror time.

From the Barksdale Elementary school newsletter in Plano Texas:

First place in the annual school diorama fair was awarded to Canaan Taylor’s ambitious Intelligent Design-themed Invisible Hand: An Absolutist’s Case For Traditional Marriage and The Purchasing Power of Dinosaurs In The Edenic Free Market. Our goal to balance Leftist Academia with a more conservative perspective is in full effect, and that made this year’s competition a heated one. Katie Perkins’s second place entry King Kong Died For Our Sins was thought to be the front runner, but some unfortunate rumors involving her family — her parents are divorced, and it’s been said she has two Daddies now — cost her in the end. Third place went to Corey Hallohan’s Hijacking The Presidency: The Kenyan Connection, while Trinity Temple’s controversial Jeffrey Dahmer: Nihilism of A Gay Darwinian Atheist made a strong showing in fourth place.

We can all agree that the Texas Board of Education — which wisely opted to not consult any of those biased historians, sociologists or economists when casting its votes — deserves our praise and gratitude. Don McLeroy said it best: “We are adding balance. History has already been skewed. Academia is skewed too far to the left.”

Equilibrium achieved.

Can you do no wrong Supernatural?

An epic road odyssey for its beleaguered pair of brothers on a Hellbent mission to take back from the night from an army of demons and fiends, Supernatural has been a helluva ride: Mom killed in a fire of demonic origin, Dad becoming a shotgun-wielding wreck bent on avenging her death, sons Sam and Dean drafted for Ghostbuster duty as children and dragged all over Tarnation, and the family business becoming their responsibility when it all finally falls apart. Toss in some time travel, apocalyptic plagues, Devil’s bargains, damnation, resurrection, the War In Heaven, and the Mouth of Hell about to open up and consume the world, and you’ve got the makings for one of TV’s most beloved sleepers.

Who’d have believed that a gem of a series like this headed up by two vagrant orphans living off truck stop food and credit card scams managed to survive on a network populated by wealthy, slutty prep school twats and graceless celebutantes? It’s enough to make you believe in a little magic. Through five years of sacrifice, suffering, and a lot of miles on the odometer, there’s been nary a narrative misstep, nothing in the way of selling out to false comfort. The Winchesters haven’t seen the sun since ‘83.

With Hell On Earth literally imminent in this the show’s fifth (and rumored to be final) season featuring its most ambitious and fearful story arc ever, the Winchester Boys — sensitive, strapping Sam (the Top) and butch, thick-skulled Dean (clearly the order-barking Power Bottom) — have officially become cult pin-ups. (read the full article)

When plaid devotee (and perverted pornographer) Jake Cruise took a trip to the Czech Republic, it was strictly for the men. But there was so much Czech meat to film, he needed an assistant. And in an All About Eve twist, his assistant turned out to be a jackworthy star in the making.

Czech native Jason Novak is tall, blonde, built, smooth, uncut and hung. Damn and yum! And according to Jake, we can add intelligent and charming to the mix. Yes those do matter.

Jake manhandles Jason like it’s his last homosexual moment on Earth. In a Jake Cruise theater marathon session he jacks, sucks and rims our man Jason. For his part, Jason brings the viewer along by making some nice eye contact with the camera. See, I told you he’s a star!

Guys like this are one in a million. Okay, maybe on Czech craigslist, they are two in a million. See Jason Novak get homosexualized in the Inner Circle now! Porn this good needs a witness.

“I’m a dancer!”

Such is is the defiant, armored response of Showgirls’s vituperative Nomi Malone, her all-purpose deflection that she’s something – anything – more than a fifty dollar whore, a skid row stripper, a trailer trash refugee, and a girl born into the gutter.

This is a chick whose life fuel is teeth-gnashing, acrylic nail-brandishing desperation channeled to claw herself out of a hell not of her own making, and if anyone deserves to roundhouse her way up from the pavement to the penthouse, it’s her.

Nomi is your Venus.

Common sentiment is that you can’t really succeed in intending to create a cult film. Bad is just bad, but BAD – as in “Ja-mon! You know!” (to quote Michael Jackson by way of Trash Goddess Elvira) is like a solar eclipse: we may technically understand the phenomenon, but there remains something otherworldly and unknowable about it. Cult movies and figures aren’t born so much as they are adopted like the least pet shop window-presentable member of a litter, which makes Showgirls with its amped-on-all-cylinders heroine the unruly, in-heat kitty bent on biting the hand that feeds it and slinking off to the alleys as the hackle-raising Queen of The Night. (read the full article)