It's no surprise that this band, named after a vibrator, penned a few ditties about pleasuring oneself. The song's titular orgasm addict is so out of control that his jeans are covered with stains, which raises an important question: If you were literally addicted to masturbation, would you really be giving your jeans an impromptu stone washing before hanging out with your mom? Wouldn't an addict be a little better at concealing it? It's not like alcoholics drink whiskey right before coming home and kissing their wives. They mix it in with their morning coffee so no one will smell it on them. Which bring us to another important question: God damn you dad, why couldn't you have just been an orgasm addict?
We're going to sidestep the obvious joke about Lily's age here, and get right down to what everyone's imagining while reading the above lyrics: Pete Townsend doing windmill strums with one arm, with his plonker stretched out in the other. Or are we the only the only ones envisioning this?
Tom Sizemore aside, seldom do people take such unabashed pride in spanking their dick around. Unlike Mr. Biggun, most of us would define ourselves by our profession or by our religion or as fathers or mothers. Ivor's taken a different tack here and, you know, good for him. But how does he know he's truly the best? Unlike Los Angeles youth karate tournaments or heavyweight boxing matches, rubbing oneself has no official competition or governing body. Ivor sound like he knows what he's doing, but until he proves it in organized competition, CRACKED will have to continue recognizing the monkey in this video as the official champ. We suspect that the Wall Street Journal will take the same position.