I Warned You Ten Times of These Things

Sexy how?

How does she do it on command like that? Ipecac?

Returning, and/or the Bane of Every Anal Masticator

The Pridesack has fallen under many woes. We editors may be to blame, but lives often unfold without the constant analysis of rigged glory holes or re-posting semi-nostalgic videos whose links have long since been inactive. For this, the lethargy of the 20-something lifestyle is to blame; the rigors facing us seem innumerable and much more relevant than the filth we accumulate underneath our fingernails from the interwebs.

To recapitulate the newest face of agony that, a couple months ago, went unnoticed by the Pridesack, I must write the obligatory post on 1guy1cup. Upon seeing this video, I felt compelled to ring up Merriam-Webster and ask if the word "pariah" could ever, in any manner, be used to describe a 3 minute long video. On a website where anal prolapsing and tentacle rape have become part of the polite vernacular, this video bleeds its way into a shitty pile of abject terror, marked only by the eerie mise en scene of our protagonist's complete silence.

The footage (probably obtained via his mother's Nikon Coolpix) is standard fare until the jaw-shattering *POP*. From then on, our (ex)-Xtube user physically displays all of the subtle precursors to a sudden vacation from updating his insertion channel, reading his favorite newspaper on the latrine, or just generally walking with a fucking normal stance.

I would love to see the inner battle he fights with himself when he first debates eating Mexican food after this ordeal. If this little burlesque show of horror has taught me anything, it's that sometimes a life will go on, but diet habits won't.

Can YOU find Lucky's pot of gold?!

Dear Raymond:

I thought I would give you a nice little surprise by cleaning your bedroom today, what with it being your 36th birthday and all. I figured it would be nice to scrape away the stalactites of dried mucous from the underside of your puzzle desk. It's also getting warmer out, so it's about time to haul down from the attic your wrap-around print wolf tee-shirts and organize them by color and state park. Just a real nice, nice surprise. That's all. Needless to say, Mama was appalled when she found videos of you relieving yourself all over our yard, prized dwarf Hinoki false-cypress, and high-end, custom-aged masonry. And what in god's green earth have you done to my measuring cups?? What am I to do with you? Heavens to Betsy this is surely not how your father and I raised you. Jesus wept. I want you out of my home by Monday morning, Mr. Rainbowman211. By the way, you also have to urinate on this photo of your poor, bloated-with-grief mama.

regretfully,

~Mama

MTV Funds The Donkey Show

I do like Vice magazine, although in my defense it's obligatory. I'm 20-something, listen to self-important "independent" music, wear pants that feel more like leggings (three days out of the week, at least) and affect (occasionally, after drinking and in most social situations) the smug armchair nihilism of one who has overindulged in Chuck Palahniuk novels. So yes, I'm their audience, doing my abject doggy paddle through an ocean of snark-infected Evian just to fit in.
Following this self-conscious apology, what I mean to say is that even for those of you who aren't familiar with the criticism of this particular publication (which is now a channel, or something) there's this little gem (IN WHICH A MAN FUCKS A DONKEY!!! WARN'D!).
If for some reason your mouth feels a little bit dry but still kind of bitter, (like you just swished some cheap coffee around an hour ago and then spit it out and then like, ate three or four tortilla chips) that's just the taste of corporate come (MTV owns Vice)- feel free to like, beg them to text you some time. I mean, they won't, they're too busy trying to stay relevant [SEE ABOVE] and you're probably just too not-lame-enough to be suitably ironic (adVICE: dress like you need help dressing yourself).

"Man, you are the best."

I am a man with ghosts. Ghosts of my past. Skeletons in my closet. Corpses stacked to the roof of my libido, putrefying the bedroom every night. That may be a mite bit heavy-handed. I like to think of them less as piles of pungent corpses and more as an entire banquet hall filled with countless clones of my 86-year old Uncle Ted. The one with staph-infected cracks in his hands. The one who asked me if I was familiarizing myself with the female gender as I was changing my 2-month old niece's diaper. The one who I always denied being related to in any way growing up. It's been this way forever. I don't quite remember where I was when I realized that muscular, agile men in peril hatch out entire broods of butterflies in my stomach every time. Whether its their arms turning to lead (again) and their inability to conceal their suddenly visible penises or their need to pull off some Mega Man-caliber maneuvering, inexplicably jumping from one ledge in a large metal room to another, my manhole just gets so... achy. I need them to encourage me in near-robotic voices, the more nondescript the better. I need them to part their lips for my baby bottle full of strange seminal fluids and then reward me with a hearty thumbs-up.
Yep... it can be awfully lonesome sometimes trying to fulfill these obscure-as-shit desires. Wait. Oh fuck. I almost forgot about THE INTERNET! Oops. Internet: The gumbo of fucking.

Genital Subincision, or as I like to call it, the Half-Bobbit.

One of the most disturbing facts about this phenomenon is that is doesn't have a lengthy wikipedia article, which would imply that it doesn't exist. I, however, have the language of pixels on my side. And if the absence of contemporary information on inverting your penis doesn't frighten you, it's oddly comforting to know that even the traditions that require it don't really explain why it's performed.

This article should do it. I, for one, am enthralled with the simple name of the "Clip and Cut" procedure. Surely sounds like something I would do to my genitals, especially without medical training.



Of other interest, there is currently a website that allows you to rickroll people's phones. I know most of the people who troll this god-awful site must also know about it, but if I'm even educating one more person I would say it's a valiant effort. I do believe you're only offered one rickroll per 30 minutes, so choose wisely.

rickroll.prankdialer.com

Has it been a very long time yet?