Yes, inside that unassuming shell lies a bona fide, rapidly spinning electrical sander vortex, ready to repeatedly rotate-brush any and all nearby dicks to oblivion. I guess that can be seen as a good thing if you're very literal-minded about polishing your pole, but for the casual masturbator that shit is just overkill. Oh, and because dong-flaying tornado machines only score a solid 6 on Japan's sliding scale of insanity, the Cyclone is also Bluetooth enabled so you can rig it to move in synch with, say, the play-by-play of last year's Super Bowl. Why would you ever want to do that? I don't know, because I'm not the one who's contemplating shelling out $300 for a customizable dick sander.

The actual watch is just a part of the TimeToSquirt system. The real meat comes in the form of a 200mb, password-protected guide that you can download from the product page after you've made the purchase. This tome contains Mr. London's ultimate hand techniques, which the website describes in a manner that makes me feel I'm not qualified to discuss this thing, for fear that someone, somewhere gets an internal injury for misunderstanding my words. Here, I'll let the website explain:

Via TimeToSquirt

Yeah. Basically it's all about memorizing the manual, and that stupid watch is just a glorified traffic light for your action hand.

I'm not saying the system is entirely without worth. Its aim is to bring pleasure, and some women have gone on record saying that these climaxes can actually be quite powerful. However, I am saying that no matter how magical Mr. London's hands may be, a goddamn wristwatch is the absolute worst way to put his techniques to use. If you don't see the problem here, try wearing one to bed come next Bone Time and surreptitiously glance at it every 10 seconds. Unless your significant other is really into hate rodeo, I promise it won't take two minutes until they push the eject button.

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"Honey, you don't understand. I wasn't bored, I was just using a cheat code to turn your vagina into a fire hose."

Back in the early 1990s, when "cyber" was a word no one sniggered at and hoverboards would surely arrive any day now, the world was introduced to the concept of teledildonics. Created as an umbrella term for the scientific research of long-distance fucking, it was both the most accurate description for dicking around the computer ever invented and the best excuse to dick around even more.

Well over 20 years later, the hottest shit in the field of distance boning is a device known as LovePalz, and I'm guessing if those early 1990s scientists would have seen it they probably would have called it quits, opting instead to find cancer cures or whatever.

LovePalz consists of a male and a female unit that you plug into your respective computers. Then you fuck them, and they basically respond to whatever is going on with the other unit, thus creating an illusion of screwing a piece of plastic in a fashion that is somehow more meaningful than usual. I could go on and on about the specs and haptic achievements of this product, but come on -- that's not what you really need to know about LovePalz. What you really need to know is what they look like when they're operational:

Hahahahaha! Isn't that just the most adorable thing ever? One of them churns. The other flops about. Together, they fight crime.

What the product website carefully downplays (but the user blurbs actively suggest) is that the product is also used for the nascent art of quite literally fucking yourself. Which, come to think of it, is totally like 98 percent of all the possible reasons anyone would ever purchase this thing. After all, cloning technology is expensive.

Still, at least there's a chance that one or two of these were sold to people who are actually using them for each other's benefit. There's no way the same can be said about ...

As you may have noticed from the previous entry, I have a tendency to believe that at the end of the day, people just want to screw themselves as hard as they possibly can. I realize this is a pretty heavy attitude, and I'd be happy to adjust it ... if it wasn't for the fact that things like the Glance app keep proving me right.

You may have heard of Glance in January, when it made its debut under its original name, Sex With Glass. In one fell swoop, it managed to combine the worst facets of all the realms of geek dickery: It was designed for Google Glass, it gave the platform a giant middle finger by actively advertising the sex aspect in its very name, and its whole point was face-swapping the person you're fucking with, well, you.

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"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
"No."
"Me neither."

For that is the whole point of Glance, whether they admit it or not (they can't, because for a supposedly cool company Apple has some serious issues about sex). When you make an app where the whole point is swapping viewpoints with another person, you know full well what that shit is going to be used for. They even hint as much on their website:

Moments are more beautiful when we experience something we've never seen before. Glance makes even the simplest experiences more special, surprising, and delightful.

Take note of that vaguely Camembert-like stench wafting by your nostrils, for that is the smell of innuendo. Well, that, or the smell of your partner's taint, playing a harmonious tune with the view of your own, enjoyed through their Google Glass. Is that an image you would cherish? Because it's not an image I'm going to cherish. Get your pasty, Google-Glassed asses out of my living room.

And in case you're curious, I can save you the price of the app by saying your O-face looks like this. Everyone's O-face looks like this.