Chat Roulette is an adventure.

It’s an expedition in human behavior, namely in what people will do to each other when every inkling of accountability is absent. In its essence, Chatroulette.com is speed-dating over the Internet, except it is unspecific to gender, everyone knows that the end point is not love, and nobody gets a second date. There is no login or registration required; you simply visit the site and click play, and enable your webcam. The server instantly hooks you up with another user - a stranger from anywhere in the world – whose live face appears on the video section of your computer screen. You can chat in a dialog window or by microphone.

The most important portion of your screen is the prominent next button, which you or the other person may click at any time to immediately be whisked off to a new stranger.

When users encounter ordinary people they’ve never met in a community they don’t have any ties to, raw behaviors emerge. There is no one to call you out on rudeness after you next them, so cruel comments will be coupled with blatant rejection. There is no one to ruin your professional reputation, no one to charge you with a misdemeanor for indecency. It’s impossible for strangers to cuss you out or shame you for being a prick if you next them before they can respond, so no one can stop you from accosting elderly women, children and the deeply insecure.

Your tactfulness with rejecting someone or patience with uninteresting encounters is completely up to your own conscience. The anonymity and randomness of the game means that there are no social consequences beyond having to re-set your internet connection if your IP address gets banned by a moderator for indecency, if any moderators even exist. You can do pretty much whatever you want – and people do. (read the full article)

Handsome Buenos Aires boys Gerardo and Pablo have the onscreen chemistry of a classic movie pair. By classic movies, I mean the kind they showed in seedy 1978 post-Deep Throat XXX theaters.

Let’s take a moment to credit these groundbreaking adult theaters for the “pants around the ankles” look that remains so popular today.

Back to our hung and muscular Maximo Latino theater couple. The real-life plot is born-top Gerardo seduced his new buddy Pablo into fucking and sucking on camera. Gerardo flat out told Pablo he’d only play on film. See the spunk-filled result in the Inner Circle now. And while you’re at it, give the “pants around the ankles look” a try for yourself.

It’s not the infamous Go-Go Eddie’s fault he’s an insatiable fuck toy bottom slut. After the thousandth deep fuck, a certain button was pushed in him that just can’t be turned off. Our Treasure Island theater is happy to take advantage of his predicament by filming (and bringing you) the resulting sexual carnage.

This bonus scene from the modern bareback classic Bone Deep brings in four eager, huge-dicked fuckers to take care of our hero Eddie: Calvin, Ray Dalton, Sean Hunter and porn legend B.J. Slater. In a cameo, Trey Maddox adds the proper etiquette, serving as um—how to say this?—cum maid, cleaning up cocks and rimming as needed. What a prince!

See Eddie and his buds at their best now in the Inner Circle.

Rugged Everyman Rush Limbaugh’s Fifth Ave. double-wide is on the market. For a mere $13,950,000, you too can now live like a fucking fairytale emperor in a ten-room palace and bitch endlessly about Blue State excess while you enjoy all the homespun high end boutiques, five star restaurants, spas, salons, art galleries, and gourmet markets the Big Apple has to offer:

Pre-War Penthouse Condominium with Fifth Avenue address. This full floor pristine 10-room residence features expansive Central Park and Reservoir views, four terraces; two of which face the park. This is a grand and gracious apartment with direct elevator entry to the central foyer. The expansive public rooms encompass the west wing. A double living room w/ fireplace and flawless views of park and reservoir; a wood paneled library; large media room w/western terrace; kitchen w/breakfast room and reservoir views; large dining room with 2 terraces. The eastern wing is comprised of 4 bedrooms, all w/en-suite bathrooms, one with terrace. His and hers dressing rooms and baths (each with oversized tub and stall/steam shower). Enormous picture windows throughout enhance the views and provide abundant light. Renowned artist Richard Smith has hand painted mural ceilings and walls throughout. Moldings are hand painted gold leaf. Floors are herringbone mahogany, foyer entry floor is patterned Italian hand-cut marble, and walls are upholstered in silk Damask. There is a separate windowed maid’s room w/bath on the third floor and additional private storage in the basement.

Because like divorce, drugs, gay sex, and wealth, effete superfluity is wrong only when Liberals do it.

Out of runway.

It’s a personal saying — not quite a mantra, not quite an idiom — that I regularly resort to when I’m wont to describe a certain feeling of dread finality that comes over me — that sinking realization that your back’s up against the wall, of feeling the house lights dim, of sensing the final curtain about to drop down.

Charlie Crist is officially out of runway.

The once-popular Florida Governor was riding high just a scant year ago, his Republican good ol’ boy cred in a conservative state deemed enough of a momentum to let him cross the finish line of his Senatorial bid in a comfortable jog. In 2008, he was in the top running to be John McCain’s VP prior to McCain opting to play the Penguin to Sarah Palin’s Catwoman in a campaign equivalent of a schlocky supervillain tag-team. Prior to that, he was Florida’s Attorney General under Jeb Bush.

A lot can happen in a year.

Crist’s campaign coffers are now so in the red that they might as well have a DNR. Teabagger rival Marco Rubio, the son of Cuban exiles with a conspicuously ethnic “o” at the end of both of his names — proof positive that the Tea Party can’t even manage coherent consistency in reviling the very type of person it was organized to detest — has been bracingly outdistancing him in polls. (read the full article)

“Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer…. Maybe self-destruction is the answer.”
– Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

It’s a state of emergency up in Vancouver — and everybody’s going down!

The CBC broke a story this week about the Canadian Government scrambling to respond to the Great Vancouver Olympics Condom Shortage by shipping an auxiliary supply to the masses of sex-mad Olympians who’ve descended on the city, and tongues everywhere began wagging about the epic Sex-In that must be taking place up north. The 100,000 rubbers already distributed to roughly 7,000 athletes apparently proved insufficient in keeping dicks secure.

With the headline sounding like a gimmicky porn plot come to life, the mental imagery it conjures up is on everyone’s mind, whether they’ve been tuning in or not: a collective groan of ecstasy can be heard for miles as all those lithe, sinewy, flexible bodies undulate and contort in every sexual position imaginable, from reverse cowgirl and the rusty bike bump, to the pile driver and the rabid kookabura. Are there Ciao! Manhattan-style pool orgies going on? Snowboarder daisy chains with slangy moans of “Duuuuude! Fuck my ass like a Botwoker!” ? Triple and quadruple deckers in the ice rinks? Is it just like the Kama Sutra, only with endorsements?

It sounds fucking amazing, but because I’m not a joiner and my inner cynic has a hair-trigger bullshit detector, I’m calling shenanigans. And I’m not the only one. (read the full article)