I was supposed to be writing a scathing Last Nail on Ed Powers, the black-sock-wearing amateur porn king who has introduced hundreds of former waitresses and runaway crack whores to a lifetime career (meaning some eighteen months) in Adult Films. It was going to be a nasty rant bitching about the fact I wasn’t smart enough to think that an ugly guy screwing teenage trailer trash would sell, but while “researching” Dirty Debutantes, Part 229, it – IT – appeared on-screen no less than FIVE times!! It was then I realized I had to answer a higher calling: I had to warn my fellow Man about His impending demise.
Trouble is; technically, I can’t slam this harbinger of Man’s doom. I am at a total loss to find anything lacking about the damnable device, because it works exactly as advertised. And there’s the rub (literally). How can I critique something so insidiously unremarkable that no one would ever suspect it could spell the end of Man’s dominance on this planet?
Seriously, guys. Just look at these specs:
· It’s a mere 4” in length.
· At its broadest point, it’s an equally diminutive 3 ½” in circumference.
· It’s a whopping 1” in diameter.
· It’s white in color.
…And, no, it’s not me.
Oh, did I forget to mention a single “AA” cell battery powers it?
Yes. It’s the one and only Pocket Rocket, and its insect-like buzzing signals the end of mankind as we (men) know it.
At a retail price of only $29.95 (marked down to $24.95 in most “bargain” Adult Boutiques), Doc Johnson’s Pocket Rocket represents the technological pinnacle by which all other adult toys are measured. Vibrating at an astounding 9000 cycles per minute, these clitoral cheese-graters have left Man feeling that he has about as much of a future as a daycare center run by Janet Reno.
We have met the enemy, and he is made in Japan.
I don’t know who invented this dime store shortcut to the female orgasm, but I hope the ingenious little bastard died of exhaustion between the bored thighs of a formerly satisfied lover while he choked on his own swollen tongue as he vainly attempted to breach the elephantine callus layer created by his own insidious contrivance. If sheer frustration alone didn’t kill him, I’ll bet the guy ended it all in a three way with a rabid squirrel and an electric eel once his lover gave him up for a lifetime supply of Eveready Double-A’s.
Most men could at least understand being cast aside for Peter North, Denzel Washington or even a Madonna look-alike, but it’s goddamned embarrassing to think that something this silly looking could replace our godlike physical and technical prowess without breaking a sweat.
Why couldn’t women have replaced us with a Steam-Powered Ultra Cherry-Masher 2000, or the awe-inspiring Deluxe Pudenda-Rooter Pro Mk. II? Hell, spend $1500 and get a Sybian, for God’s sake! It’s just so very, very wrong to see a grown Black man openly weeping in the corner of the gym shower because of a lousy four-inch piece of Japanese slave-labor-produced plastic.
Mankind can survive cell-phone-yacking single businesswomen driving their never-been-off-road Sport-Utes (if we’re fast enough), but we can’t be expected to keep up our end of the gene-pool maintenance if you insist on producing one of these buzzing button-sanders whenever the security drone at the airport detects “a battery-operated device of unknown origin” in your purse. Men can actually have their nail clippers confiscated as being a “threat” to security, but how can we be expected to propagate the species in the “Mile High Club Lounge” if you crush our delicate egos with the only piece of feminine technology that’s actually smaller than our cocks?!?!
“Yeah… I got your ‘threat to security’ right here, bitch!”
The Last Nail, indeed.
…I just hope nobody finds out I’m the one who bought it for her
in the first place.
“What’s the décor, early Mexican brothel?”
— Judi Dench in Chocolat