The 5 Weirdest Products on the Web, One Disturbing Night
There's a very valuable service going unprovided on the Internet today: Real product reviews for real people. Sure, there are myriad sites devoted to reviewing any number of products, but they always do so fairly and objectively, like bitches. Reality isnât âfair,â or âobjective;â itâs irrational, emotional, hate-fueled, about 6â2 and bearded. So this review will be in two parts: A quick impression of the product at hand, followed up by its performance in real world testing. Now, admittedly, the last time I tried a product review, I had skewed criteria. I was trying to gauge the products by their appeal to the opposite sex, but I completely forgot that the opposite sex is mostly appealed to through money.
Especially when they're prostitutes.
OK, I won't front: I'm really just hiring some whores and seeing how they like getting railed by fringe technology that I found on the Internet. First up, the breakdown:
Tat Augmented ID AppTAT Augmented ID application for Android uses facial recognition software to identify those around you and, by matching their faces to their online profile pictures, displays information about their various Internet personas. I chose this tool for this test because prostitutes will always tell you how good you did at boninâ regardless of the truth, mostly because they don't want to get stabbed in the back of an old Buick somewhere. But this time, for the sake of scientific accuracy, I need some way of tellingÂ if Jasmine is fleeing the clean spot behind the dumpster on MLK where we shared our love because she's coming down from a Benzo high and has to get to her dealer before the shakes start, or if she's just in a hurry to update her Facebook status from âhumpin' for bucksâ to âdesperately in love.â Alas, I can't vouch for the results at this point: After scanning my face, the app will only bring up Zach Galifianakis's LinkedIn and a Twitter feed named âDrunkChewbacca.â
Somewhere between these two extremes, dwell I.
Chariot SkatesChariot Skates say theyâre a ârevolutionary design that crosses boundaries into skiing and cycling.â But perhaps they could more accurately be called "tard-wheels for people with considerably less shame than rollerbladers." It is also worth noting that you can only stop them with manual hand-brakes, which cost extra (seriously, fucking brakes are not included) so obviously I didnât get them. But why am I buying these for a romantic interlude in the first place, you ask? The answer is in two parts: First, because weâre going to need some mode of transportation to get from the Applebeeâs where I initiate all of my whore mongering, back to the apartment I share with my dickhead roommate Doug, where I finish all of it. And second, because Iâve also bought two pairs of stilts to finally test a theory of mine: That if all little girls secretly want to
The ACRIt's a cock-ring with a built-in accelerometer that counts your thrusts per minute. Donât worry, thereâs no strange reason for this one. I just want to know if double-teaming a harlot with your robot doppelganger merely increases your thrust-count two-fold, or if the humps are multiplied exponentially. You know: Science.
And now, the field test: After a quick, screaming trip down the hill on my Chariot Skates (where, it should be noted, literally every single person I saw bellowed in rage and charged as soon as they saw how stupid I looked) I came to a stop by executing a textbook T-turn into the back of a Ford Econoline van. Since this is purely for research purposes, and Iâm being fully reimbursed for all expenses (read: I stole the company credit card). I decided to splurge on the finest lady of the night that $170 in overlimit fees can buy. And man, she was worth it: She was stunning. She walked into the Applebeeâs with all the grace and power of a drunken elk. After hesitantly approaching my table, every square inch of which was completely blanketed in quesadillas (company credit card) she introduced herself.
No, it's true: Literally every couple you see at Applebee's is comprised of one lonely man and one whore.âYou my date?â she asked, coughing with the utmost gentility into her armpit. âI sure am, beautiful. Whatâs your name?â I slid a platter of Rancho Poppers from the booth-bench, and motioned for her to sit. âIâm Twilight,â she answered. âAre you that vampire movie Iâve heard so much about?â âWhat?â She seemed dumbfounded; couldnât even answer a simple question. Probably had a learning disability. âI heard you got terrible reviews,â I continued, folding a quesadilla into another quesadilla and struggling to force my mouth around it. âListen, can we just do this? I got another job in two hours across town.â I reluctantly obliged, and we made our way outside. She didnât quite know what to make of my Chariot Skates, and muttered something quite rude about the kind of man that tries to pick up whores on Training Rollerblades, but after taking only a handful of intense beatings and two major accidents, we safely made it the three blocks back to my apartment.
"A hero, Twilight. That's what kind of man."Even though I had politely asked Doug to leave for the night by repeatedly spitting in his face until he ran for the chemical eyewash, he was still there when we walked in the door. I gave him the evil eye and the double finger, and escorted Twilight to my room. âNow, this is going to sound odd,â I cautioned her, âbut Iâm doing a little experiment hereâ¦â âHoney, you can âexperimentâ all you want, but after the game of dickhead roller-derby you just lost to the world out there, youâve only got about 45 minutes left. I'd get a move on.â âCool,â I replied, slipping into the bathroom. âI'll admit: I was worried this was going to weird you out a little bitâ¦â âThereâs nothing you got that I havenât seen twice today, baby,â she yelled from the other room. Though I appreciated the professionalism of that statement, she didn't do a very good job following through on it when I wheeled back into the room with my giraffe-skate legs and over-sized leather jacket.
Pictured: Your sexual arousal, if I know women.âOh god, Iâm going to die tonight!â she exclaimed, dropping to her knees in what I hoped was sexual awe, but honestly looked a lot more like regretful prayer. âWell, come on now, we don't have to do anything you don't want to,â I tried to put my arm around her reassuringly, but the wheels slipped out and I ended up stumbling head-first into the television instead. âNo. No, it's OK,â she began, though apparently speaking mostly to herself. âI can do this; I'm a professional.â âExcellent!â I took the momentary collapse to get a quick sense of the dong-strength we were dealing with. âBut Iâm only registering a Yellow on the Boner-scale here, and Iâm telling you right now that if we donât get to at least a green, I'm not giving you a positive Yelp review.â
Saved by the Bell, Quantum Leap, nipple clamps, drug abuse and the Internet: Yep. That's pretty much Robert.The doppelganger struggled to its side and got a half-mount on her calf, âmy field trip to the Large Hadron Collider,â it cooed seductively. My phone pinged, registering activity. I had synced the cock ring up to my cellphone, so that the experiment wouldn't be compromised if I got called away. âHa,â I laughed appreciatively, watching the robot do its thing, âweâre gonna set some thrust-count records tonight.â âI donât think I can deal with this on... on any emotional level,â she pleaded. âShit. Seriously? Ever since we got the doppleganger in play I've been at Erection Alert Purple over here; thatâs not even supposed to be on the scale! Look at this thing,â I said, offering her the dong monitor, âI think itâs developing god damn
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or find him on Twitter, Facebook and his own site, I Fight Robots or you can buy everything on this list, head down to the Chuck E. Cheese and just absolutely ruin somebody's birthday party.