Special Victims Unit!

I hate bloggers. I hate their bloggy faces, their bloggy blog posts, their bloggy ways. I hate reading blogs, I hate reading about blogs, and I hate the word blog. Blog. Blahrg . . .

Why, hello dear reader! I didn't see you there.

That italicized stuff? Oh, that was just me grumbling to myself, a habit I acquired in my year or so off the porno beat ha-ha-ugh. That's right, Johnny's back. (I'd say I'm back like Aslan but then I'd be a-lyin'.) Once I had the honor of appearing amongst the escort ads in the back of the print edition of the Voice. Before long, I'd been demoted to online-only. After a failed attempt to replace me with the Johnnybot 1000--his crank kept giving out--I've been asked to return not as a print columnist, not as an online columnist, but as that most lowly, white-hot media phenomenon: the blogger. At least I still have my looks.

Seriously though, I was in a secret CIA prison in Romania. (Boy, do my nipples hurt.) Which kind of brings me to today's topic: special victims (and units). Abu Ghraib I've covered. Kill Girl Kill (VCA), directed by spunk punk Eon McKai (a fan of Fugazi's Ian MacKaye, mmm? Mmm? Mmm? Huh? Y'think? Maybe? Yah? Mmm?), pits inexplicably bruised, scraped starlets and dicks against one another in a hardcore Suicide Girls-style gonzothon.

But I am about to digress. There's some things you should know about my "blog," besides the fact that I privately refer to it as my boo. First, I am no longer edited by anyone. I can post whatever the eff I want, and no one will see it before it goes live. So I can do this:

fuihgerofngdfnvubnfgvibfgkvbpenis

Fuck you Debbie!

NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOODBYE

Second, I've decided that--after warning you that they are Not Safe for Work--to provide links to real actual boner fide porn. Oh sorry, porn. And maybe sensual wrestling. You'll notice on the right that I've provided links to clips and pics of some of my favorite porn stars, whom I've summarized with the snarky condescension you've all come to love, and which has become the thin thread by which my ever-dwindling dignity dangles. Also, you can now post comments below. I trust you will treat this privilege with the respect a column such as this one accords.

If you're currently at work or in the vicinity of wifey, I suppose you'll just have to let me tell you about Kill Girl Kill. What McKai has done is sort of well not really brilliant: Instead of burdening us with extended dialogue or acting, he let's the makeup tell the story. Veronica Jett, a petite spitfire/drooler with pierced nips, wanders around the city wearing a schoolgirl outfit and a black eye, then encounters a man who holds her hands behind her head and schlupts vigorously into her mouth &tc. Is the black eye a gratuitous, deeply unfortunate allusion to domestic violence, or punky effort at atmosphere? It's almost certainly intended as the latter; insofar as it may unintentionally be the former, it's as innocuous as the admittedly annoying goth-inspired name Suicide Girls. (Suicide is cool!) And there's another dimension: Later, an indie-dork with a bruised-up face explains what went down (in a bit of foreshadowing) to ultra-dirty gothpunk Katrina Kraven--something about being beaten by dudes who called him a "fag." Upon hearing that, Kraven sasses the very same, and the nerd grabs her hair and French's her American-style. As one who's for non-blondes (and having been called a "salad tosser" in the street), I'm partial to such genuinely nasty, pseudo-arty attempts at upending silicone valley, especially when they get me fully erect. As for the "blogosphere," I'm waiting for the slow hissing sound signifying the deflation of its hype. It should only take a tiny prick, and those are hardly in short supply.

 


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