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.
"I see absolutely nothing wrong with this design, Jenkins. Though you are, of course, aware that my mental condition causes me to see nothing but penises, right?" 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 Inkskin-safe conductive ink. It essentially transforms the human body into a functioning circuit component which, despite being the entire reason robots killed people in
"I am a musician. Women are my instrument. No, for realsies; I'm not just being a dick here." 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
Of course my dick is a Decepticon. Did you think it'd be a good guy? 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.
"Is my vision supposed to be erased whenever I shake? Because I can't stop shaking…" 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.
Listen: If you're going to overcompensate, you might as well go all out. 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.
"Oh, so now you're too good for an old fashioned impromptu hobo orchestra? Talk about pretentious…" 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.
Pictured: Art. 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.
"That's right: I've just introduced you to the void, sugar. Wanna bone now, or after the creeping horror violates your soul's orifices?" "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.