My neighbor Webster defines a "sex toy" as that which fits in one's ass on purpose, and repeatedly, because it's fun. Webster makes his own wine in the garage, though, so don't quote him. Still, his heart is in the right place -- and that place is near your ass. Sex toys are generally meant to be used for fun times in and around your fun-time places. Seems reasonable. And yet, just as you can accidentally get your head stuck in a bucket and have to call 911 to get it removed and be reminded of it every Christmas for the rest of your life by Uncle "Never Had His head in a Bucket" Steve, so too can you run afoul of sex toys in most unpleasant ways.
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Have you ever been a lonely Argentinian farmer? Let this story serve as a warning for you and your insatiable, adventurous loins. Don't fuck a scarecrow.
"Don't fuck a scarecrow" was the last thing my father said to me before he finished the bottle of pills and left on his rocket bike forever. But it's sound advice, and it should have been heeded by Jose Alberto, who decked out his scarecrow with a wig, lipstick, and a big ol' strap-on wiener. Now, this sounds like a cool party waiting to happen, but it ended up as some kind of fearsome urban legend the local alpacas tell their children to keep them afraid of man. As it happens, Jose was a bit of a loner, and after he wasn't seen for a spell, locals started becoming suspicious of a weird smell at his place. The smell was Jose, sadly. He had died while riding his straw-packed lady friend in the living room.
"At least he died doing whom he loved."
At first, authorities thought there were two bodies, but of course number two was just Mrs. Crow packing a six-inch surprise. Jose probably suffered a heart attack, so the upside is he went out a happy man and didn't have to endure the shame of the really callous reporting that followed his demise -- including this quote from the NY Daily news, which referred to him as a "depraved sex fiend." Listen, NY Daily News, it's the right of every man and woman on Earth to fuck a scarecrow if they so choose without being judged by the media. Obviously, we know now that it shouldn't be done, but don't kick a man when he's down. Or in this case, when he's dead from fucking a scarecrow. He's in a bad way; he doesn't need anyone making it worse.
And don't miss the moment the NY Daily News tactfully mentions that he tended sheep with no further implication.
Remember when kids used to say "That's da bomb!" and maybe they were talking about the new flavor of chips made with picante cheese and trout seasoning, or like a pair of shoes that can calculate how much to tip a valet? Yeah, 2004 was a good year. Anyway, something that is not the bomb is anything you're meant to stuff in your bum. Or most things. Or this thing, at least.
A courthouse in San Diego was evacuated after one particularly eagle-eyed lover of all things law abiding spotted what they assumed to be an explosive device on a patio outside. Oh shit, they're bombing our legal system! Or not, because the bomb -- which had the appearance of a shiny, aluminum egg with a wire coming out of it -- was that other thing that looks like a shiny aluminum egg with a wire coming out of it. It was a vibrating egg, suitable for use in any hole you keep below your belt. Use it on the bus, at church, or, if you're being sued, in court. There's really no wrong time to set your nether grottos abuzz.
Okay, well not every hole.
About an hour after the device's discovery, people were allowed back into the courtyard. Suspiciously, no one came forward to claim the egg. I like to think that it rolled out of a pant leg when someone was having lunch, and they simply refused to acknowledge it in front of the others.
There's no denying the popularity of 50 Shades Of Grey, and I say that as someone who has denied it, tried to pray it away, and sought out the ingredients for the odd voodoo ritual to make it not happen. It just can't be done. That fucking terrible book exists, and people who are somehow literate enough to read it but not literate enough to know that it's the literary equivalent of a dank cave full of festering guano keep buying it.
Coincidentally, that's the same place that Christian Grey insists on exploring.
Anyway, since 50 Shades landed with a brain-dead splat on all of our faces, far too many people have become inspired in not-too-bright fashion to engage in similar, real-world nefarity without first researching the best ways to proceed. The result is that sex toy injuries have been on the rise since the publication of this terrible tome. In fact, the numbers went from about 1700 injuries in the year before the book was published to over 2500 the year after, marking it the greatest spike in sex toy injuries resulting in hospital visits since the 2005 Dildo Reckoning that you just can't get a physician to speak about on record anymore.
It's worth keeping in mind these are just the injuries that we know about because people actually had to go to the hospital. There are probably all manner of minor dildo fractures and paddle burns out there that no one is reporting, causing your friends and co-workers to sit on funny cushions Monday morning when they get back into the office.
This is one of the few times that "hemorrhoids" is the less embarrassing answer.
Who's injuring themselves the most with vibrators? Men, obviously. It's a sad fact, and literally all of us would have guessed it. Men reported 58% of the injuries -- and they were generally older dudes, with the median age being 44. I think it's because guys in their 40s and 50s especially grew up just before most of society started being cooler with being down with kink. They were on the cusp of it, but were probably still afraid of being called gay by their friends, so they're secretly jamming their asses to the brim with vibrators and ice cream scoops and Pop Rocks. And sometimes that shit gets out of hand and you end up at the hospital.
Listen, men over 40: Take your time. Ease whatever you have there into your ass carefully, and make sure you have an exit strategy. You don't want to have to rely on a resident at the hospital to glove up, squirt your ass full of mineral oil, and use forceps on you. Unless that is your game plan. I'm not judging.
This story is a little over-the-top depressing, but if someone dies at the hands of a dildo, it's my job to share that with you, so that you might dildo the right thing and dildon't do what this guy did.
Fuck, I should write safe sex ads.
So, Sam Mazzolla was a bit of a free-spirited fellow. I say this not knowing him, but only knowing what I read about the man. For instance, he owned exotic animals, and made the news when one of his bears mauled someone to death. Not the best way to get the spotlight, but it happened. And then something maybe not worse, but equally bad, happened. As bad, but extremely, way, superfly different.
Sam was found dead in his home. This is the scene for you (it's a little hard to fully wrap your head around it at first): He was face-down on a waterbed, wearing a leather mask that had the eyes and mouth zippered shut. Over that was a metal sphere made of two pieces that closed on his head. The cause of death was the dildo in his mouth that he ended up choking on. Sam couldn't have stopped himself from choking, as he was bound to the bed with chains, handcuffs, and padlocks. And at this point, you're thinking, "Well then someone else must have been there!" because who can shackle and padlock themselves to a bed? Well as it happens, someone did help Sam start this little tableau, but then they left.
Why stay to star in a Law & Order: SVU episode when you can just watch one on your DVR at home?
According to the story police were given, Sam was shackled to the bed by one person in anticipation of a third coming over, so he was basically setting the really uncomfortable mood. But things went awry when that third person never showed, and Sam ended up asphyxiating. Let that be a lesson to you folks out there: If you're trying to make a sexy surprise for someone, make sure it's not potentially life-threatening. That really takes the wind out of your sails.
When you go out for a drive, do you bring anything with you? A favorite eight-track? A warm mug of cream of mushroom soup? Warm mittens, because there's no heat in your 1965 Ford Fairlane? Those are all good choices -- also, someone please buy me a new car. But one thing you may want to leave at home from now on is your rabbit vibe. You know rabbit vibes, right? A little vibrator? You apply it to your lady rabbit hole? Yeah.
An extremely bored British commuter was driving along in her Mini, possibly disgusted by the dreary British scenery, when she rear-ended a fish truck because she was too busy administering to her own fish truck to notice the other one parked in front of her. FYI, "fish truck" is 2015's Best Received Vagina Euphemism, and you're all free to use it at your leisure.
Narrowly edging out "ovarian water slide."
Two exciting things you can learn from this story: Fish trucks are actually things (but probably only in Britain, because who else in the world would ever need a fish truck), and they have really good security. After they were hit, the owners of the truck were in no way worried, because they had already outfitted it with rear security cameras. Why? Why did they do that? We don't know. But when they checked the footage of the accident, they found the mini driver with one hand on the wheel and one hand conducting her own persona fox hunt with the rabbit in the most precarious hiding place imaginable. She buttoned up quickly after the accident, but the tape doesn't lie. It just shows you masturbating while you drive.
This story makes me uncomfortable in the soul and in the penis -- but mostly the soul. It seems a hapless fellow by the name of Andrei was just burdened with poontang. He had a girlfriend, but it just wasn't enough. He needed more. So far, not an atypical story. But unfortunately for Andrei, his girlfriend was not down with him putting the bad D to other ladies, so she had to settle the score. And in Russia, where this happened, you settle the score in only the most insane, terrifying way possible. Andrei's girlfriend filled his penis sleeve (it's a thing, look it up) with fiberglass insulation.
Gary Ombler/Dorling Kindersley RF/Getty Images
"It looks like cotton candy; what's the worst that could happen?"
If you've never experienced a handful of fiberglass insulation (especially what we have to assume is the low-budget version readily available in Russia), know that it's kind of like holding the bastard child of steel wool, a cactus, and pure, unfiltered hatred. While it's great for sealing in warmth in walls, it also tends to leave an abundance of sharp, nearly invisible fibers in your flesh that just dig right into you like microscopic snake fangs hungry for your childlike screams. Now take that, and put your dick in it.
"Hey, honey, read this. The guy has even hotter tips than Cosmo."
So Andrei was taken to the hospital, and is probably still crying to this day. Is this story actually true? I don't know. I want to both believe and not believe it, because there's something inherently appealing to me about the idea of a dude jacking off with fiberglass. It really hits you in the Chuck Palahniuk zone of the brain. On the other hand, I'd like to hope no man ever had to experience that. But hey, we all know about it now, so that's something.
Hey, we're not here to judge. Rub your parts together however you want. Just make sure that when you use the "nut crusher" in 15 Real Sex Toys That Will Give You Nightmares you use protection (by protection we mean a medical kit). Don't even get us started on the "Death By Orgasm" in 10 Sex Toys That Make Your Weirdest Fetish Seem Sane. You've been warned.
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