There's a plethora of product review sites on the Internet, but they all have one problem in common: Responsibility. They're always "carefully testing products" given to them "expressly for that purpose," and where's the fun in that? Plus, they don't have nearly enough pictures or boobs and almost never use the word ball-crushingly' to its full effect.
Not only will I review products that appeal to you, the Cracked demographic, but I'll actually see how they perform out in the real world with that most difficult and demanding of scenarios: Trying to get some. First up, the breakdown:
Produced by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, the Lovecraft Collection of perfumed oils are all scents directly drawn from, or at least inspired by, the works of H.P. Lovecraft and the Cthulhu universe. There's a lot of good stuff to choose from here, like Azathoth, The Daemon Sultan, whose marketing copy reads: "Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood."
And while that sounded interesting (let's face it, nothing screeches like cedarwood) I'm a straight-up sucker for the classics. I had to opt for Cthulhu himself: "A creeping, wet, slithering scent, dripping with seaweed, oceanic plants and dark, unfathomable waters."
Simple, classy, elegant- who am I kidding? Words cannot describe the scent that is Cthulhu, for to describe it is to invite madness into this world. Although frankly, if somebody billed a scent as "Cthulhu-like" and smelling it didn't rupture the void between this world and the forgotten abyss, I'd ask for my fucking money back.
Shape Shifting Car
Technically speaking, the Peugeot Globule is not a product up for review. It's what automobile makers call a Concept Car, which basically means it's the car design equivalent of masturbation: often secret, not meant to be shared with others and frequently inspiring both shame and regret when it is revealed. But luckily for you my passion for a thorough consumer review is only rivaled by my passion for grand larceny. Let's just say I "acquired" a test model.
The Globule is comprised of four separate, distinct pods that can take one passenger a piece. They're each individually powered, so adding or subtracting a globule doesn't affect the power or performance of the vehicle, and are all held together in a flexible polymer coating that allows for on the fly adjustment. The design is as sleek and sexy as you'd expect a high-end concept to be, and the gel-like exterior and ribbed texture are perfect for the eight people on earth who have always wanted to travel inside of a buttplug.
As you probably guessed from that image, the Globule can shift its shape to accomplish a variety of purposes. For example, in parking mode all four pieces stack vertically, so that the driver's pod is the only part actually touching the ground. Clearly, this erect shape is perfect for fitting into tight spaces that would otherwise be uncomfortable for all involved.
Conductive Skin Ink
Bare is the first non-toxic, skin-safe conductive ink. It essentially transforms the human body into a functioning circuit component which, despite being the entire reason robots killed people in The Matrix, is actually pretty neat. Although right now, Bare is mostly used for performance art pieces (if you're not familiar with the art world, that's OK: "Performance Art" is what pale men named Heinrich call it when they strip nude and yell at passersby about stuff like "societal amorality" and "machine-emotion"). The conductive ink can be used for more utilitarian and entirely practical purposes like playing the naked lady piano!
In order to hock musician Calvin Harris's new single, Sony Music set up a human synthesizer using Bare-painted bikini models instead of keys. Mr. Harris performed his song by touching hands with each model in turn to complete their circuit, thus activating the conductive pad they were standing on and triggering their pre-assigned sound. That's right: Sony Music advocates using women like inanimate objects. So don't be surprised when Sony Pictures starts using whores as camera mounts and driving nails into their sets with the skulls of loudly protesting skanks.
Explosive Energy Drink
Inspired by the video game, Gears of War, the Imulsion energy drink is based off of an in-game liquid described as a "phosphorescent, highly volatile, low-viscosity fluid." In the game "direct exposure for any length of time" to Imulsion will cause subjects to "transform into highly explosive forms." That could all be metaphor, of course, for the aggressive edginess often brought about by high doses of caffeine, thus causing the drinker to "explode" at the drop of a hat... or it could literally turn your pee into dynamite. Only time and the ratio of ruined toilets to ruined relationships will tell. It should also be noted that, like all energy drinks, Imulsion has the consistency of expired cough syrup and tastes like somebody raped a lemon.
Another product not officially released for public use, the gel condom is meant to help stem the tide of HIV infection in developing countries. The Gel Condom is usable by both sexes, but it's mostly meant for women who might find themselves sleeping with men refusing to use a condom themselves. The gel works by shifting from a liquid to a solid when coming in contact with sperm, thus physically entrapping semen to be disposed of later. If it helps, think of it like Angelina Jolie: Full of noble intentions but really only good for a quick fuck and then should be promptly discarded before it starts to smell. Though it's invaluable for women, there's little added benefit for men over a regular condom. Although if you've ever wanted a Transformer for a penis, this is probably as close as you're going to get for now.
What? Don't front; we've all wanted our dongs to change into trucks at some point. Just own up to it. Don't make this weird.
And now to the second half of the review: How do these things perform in real life or, more importantly, how well do they facilitate your pussy intake? Well, thanks to extensive Photoshop manipulation and a technique I call "fantasti-lying," I was able to attain the assistance of a very attractive young lady for the night's experiment (though she seemed quite uneasy when I referred to our prospective date as "the night's experiment"). I started off our evening by boiling some water and burning off my tastebuds before downing six cans of Imulsion. If there's anything Sex in the City has taught me, it's that women love energetic, confident, violently explosive men, and the Imulsion certainly gave me all of those things in spades. After the fifth can or so, the world began to vibrate at a frequency exactly counter to my saccadic eye movements, tinting my vision with a parade of angular lines--an effect somewhat akin to that of a half-erased Etch-A-Sketch.
I then generously applied some of my newly acquired Cthulhu oil. After the first whiff, I heard the distant scuttling of tiny legs, and thought I caught the peripheral movement of something pink and be-tentacled. Excellent. The void was breached! What better way to set a mood? Chicks love dangerous guys, and if they get wet for a motorcycle I expect a goddamn monsoon for bringing forbidden knowledge of the Old Ones to the table.
Gross, Robert. Come on.
I stepped out to the Peugeot Globule, which I had left in its phallic parking shape, rammed between the orb-like shells of two VW Bugs. I had to walk 16 blocks to find a spot with two bugs parked back to back, but when I saw the silhouette of the Globule's massive, erect shaft jiggling softly between the two short, round vehicles, I knew it was worth it. I mounted my automotive dildo and drove out to pick up my companion.
I greeted my date cordially, who appeared to be somewhere between disappointed and skeptically furious upon first seeing me. When I led her out to the car, she was clearly hesitant about entering through the somewhat sticky, gel-like doors, but eight quick shoves and some vaguely threatening language later, and we were on our way. She seemed to perk up a bit when she noticed the fancy French restaurant we parked in front of, but her mood fell noticeably when it became clear that we were actually heading for the alleyway behind it. By the time she realized the alley was full of hobos shuffling absentmindedly in place on conductive metal disks, she seemed downright crestfallen.
Well, what did you expect? I didn't exactly have the kind of funds needed to hire two dozen stunning supermodels who wouldn't mind becoming electrical conductors for the day; I had to make do with promising Government Cheese sandwiches to the residents of a local shelter. After I convinced my lovely escort that this was not, in fact, a no-holds barred impromptu hobo-gangbang, but actually a piece of performance art, I began the show. It was a brilliant, emotive piece, that wove a tapestry of painful detail depicting the tenuous nature of human connection, and how it is being systemically destroyed by the ever-increasing gap that technological communication is engendering in our youth.
She wanted to know why I high-fived bums in alleyway to the tune of Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" for 45 minutes.
God, art is wasted on the audience.
I started to explain in the most patronizing terms I could manage that what I had done was an important social commentary, when a scruffy, angry man who introduced himself as "Billy Grills" began loudly demanding some sort of ridiculous sandwich payment. When I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, he inexplicably became irate. I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I lost my composure, and that harsh words were exchanged. I am shamed to admit that clumsy, furious blows were thrown. I am downright mortified to admit that I may have spit in his face several times. When the last, particularly juicy mouthful contacted his lit cigarette, a massive explosion wracked the air.
So apparently Imulsion wasn't a just metaphor after all.
He screamed and ran frantically about the alleyway, trying to put out the inferno that raged where his face should be, while I yelled out helpful fire safety advice.
"Stop, and look both ways!" I yelled. "Reduce, reuse, recycle!"
When I noticed my date attempting to flee into the night, I was forced to make a hasty, ungentlemanly exit. I would have to remember to at least send the man a "Sorry I Spit Your Face on Fire" card. Exploding saliva is no excuse for poor manners, after all.
I managed to catch up to my lovely doe-eyed shock victim on the street, and noticed she was visibly shaken. Now, I am not a heartless man, so I did my best to comfort her, and hugged her reassuringly. After a minute of sniffling, she seemed to calm down. She looked perplexed all of a sudden, then pulled away and asked me what scent I was wearing.
"Madness," I told her, and smiled knowingly as horror crept across her face. Hells yeah! She'd totally do me now that she knew what a bad boy I really was.
"Don't worry," I continued, holding out a handful of slime, "it's safe, I brought protection. This is a gel condom. It's like a shapeshifter that goes inside your cooch."
As she bolted away into the fog, swatting at the half-seen shadowed tentacles, I couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong. Then it dawned on me: the Imulsion! Of course she was worried!
"Wait," I called after her, "Is this because my semen is a Class-2 High Explosive? Don't worry! I'll shoot it out the window!"
But she was already gone.
I didn't quite know what to make of the night. Clearly something had gone wrong but--from my jiggling anal-bead transport to the dark scents of the Forgotten Gods to my Cock Decepticon--everything had worked exactly as I'd intended. Though I have to give high marks to all the products involved, I was still inexplicably left ending my date like every single other romantic experience I've ever had: Furious and unsatisfied. Luckily I still had a wounded hobo, an unsatisfied erection, high-explosive semen and a score to settle. The night wouldn't be a total wash.
You can pre-order Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead on Amazon, or find him on Twitter, Facebook and his own site, I Fight Robots for more tales of madness and second degree sexual assault on the homeless.