KATSUNI — “I love everything about sex. It’s like having a great dinner.”

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LEXI LOVE GETS FUCKED — AND NOT IN THE GOOD WAY

Let’s just say (hypothetically, of course) that any number of you losers was a man of influence who owned a dirty, sceney little venue in Brooklyn’s hipster Mecca, Williamsburg. Let’s say you had a band coming to highlight a show at your venue, and one of the featured performers in that band was none other than the hardcorest hottie you’ve ever pleasured yourself to, then fantasized about later. Let’s say she was the coolest, most badass, most black-wearing, vinyl-sporting, dark-eye-makeuped rock chick in the porn biz, Lexi mothafuckin’ Love. And let’s say the band was none other than hard rock megagroup Team Cybergeist. And let’s say she was scheduled to headline a show, thus possibly bringing hundreds of degenerate fanbois and rock kids alike to your humble venue. It seems that, in this situation, any self-respecting owner or manager of said venue would do the following things to assure a great show, a full-fledged rock-out for the porn star, and an all around kickass night of entertainment. In order to ensure the above things, one would want to:

A) Communicate to the band beforehand the venue’s specifications as per technology and equipment.
B) Bend over backwards to meet any needs they might have (this is an industrial band we’re talking about here—they have tech needs).
C) Be nice to the porn star. She’s a porn star. She’s cool.
D) Keep out as much of the creepy rabble as possible. Porn fans can be weird.
E) PROMOTE THE FUCK OUT OF THE SHOW.

Common sense, right?

Apparently not at Public Assembly on 6th Street in Brooklyn, right next door to the Music Hall of Williamsburg. At Public Assembly, the idea is to not promote the show at all. To not tell anyone that a huge star of the Blue Screen will be performing. The idea is to not have what's needed for the porn star to even perform. The common sense there goes along the lines of: “Who cares if they can play their music correctly or use their vocalist’s computerized beat? It’s only a music venue.”

What the fuck. Seriously, the WHACK! staph had been salivating all over ourselves for weeks in anticipation of watching our favorite fap film spokes-star get up on stage with a bunch of hard-ass musicians and rock the stage. We wrote up an article about it and invited all you fuckers. We showed up early with cameras and note-taking devices, only slightly hammered because we knew we had to do good reporting! We were so fucking excited for the Team Cybergeist show last Tuesday, July 20, that we went the whole way out to Brooklyn, mostly sober. That's saying something.

But when we arrived we discovered that Public Assembly would not allow Team Cybergeist — a fanstastic industrial/hard rock/goth outfit sporting credentials from basically every major hard rock band in the past fifteen years — to bring in their own equipment on which to play, and did not even have the technology to hook up a computer to their sound system so headliner Lexi MOTHAFUCKIN’ Love could have her beat play for her performance of “On Broken Wings.” They didn’t let the bassist, Sally Debauchery, use her regular wireless bass. They wouldn’t let the band bring in their own drum kit. They didn’t even give the band a comped guest list, so the WHACK! team had to pay to get in! Motherfuckers, we do not pay to get in anywhere. It’s a damn good thing we love Lexi more than our mothers.

Public Assembly was also unconcerned, apparently, with whether people might have paid an inflated price to get into their badly-stocked bar or use their absolutely filthy, dark enough to make you wonder if that’s a rat or a paper towel in the corner bathrooms, and badly modulated sound system just to hear their favorite porn star sing (I did, and I know at least fifteen other people there did, too). They did not care if their headlining band, the whole way from Florida, could play their music properly. “I can’t believe they don’t have a computer hookup!” an unexcited Lexi told me backstage, shouting over the music. “The rest of the band came the whole way from Florida for this show, and they can’t even use their own equipment!”

Bassist Sally Debauchery shook her head. “I’m not even gonna be able to move around up there,” she told me sadly. “They won’t let me use my wireless bass, so I’m going to be tripping over the cables and shit!”

Band founder Angel Bartolotta, a fine example of a friendly, eyeliner-wearing hard rocker, just shook his head about the situation. Lead singer Yael Wirchek kept her spirits up by looking hot and being super nice to the WHACK! staph, which improved our spirits. But we were still pissed at the venue for treating our friends so shabbily.

Public Assembly didn’t care about the music, it seemed, and neither did they mind if a decaying mountain of man-flesh in the form of a tripping-out hippie in a diaper got into the venue, only to lie motionless like a beached drug addict on a backstage bench and stare at Lexi all evening. This creepy sonofabitch was eyeing our spokes-starlike she was a pack of mini donuts for a good half hour before the band took the stage. Upon their departure he immediately started creepily fingering the merchandise and was chased off by yours truly, at which point he melted back into the trippy night from whence he came. Alas, I couldn’t get a picture for fear his dilated pupils would steal the camera’s soul and suck me in through the lens and down into dude’s diaper. And I mean a diaper. Not like a Huggies or Depends, either, I’m talking a home-made, yellow-cotton, probably-just-a-t-shirt-tied-around-his-massive-pasty-loins disaster.

Also a fucking disaster was much of the show, no thanks to the venue. The bands were all, actually, pretty good, with the exception of Sister Kill Cycle, the first band I witnessed upon arrival. A sadder, less-inspired version of a Manson/Reznor lovechild sans makeup or any glimmer of artistic genius I’ve never seen. I’ll give the bassist a nod for his serious dedication to a sadly outmoded hairstyle (which probably took years of serious dedication to the Goth cause), and the very real “I-don’t-want-to-be-in-this-band” despair of the guitarist. Overall, though, the depression aimed at by any Goth band aside, this was the most depressingly bad show I’ve seen on a stage in Brooklyn in some time. And that’s really saying something. And while I’m always a fan of homoeroticism in rock music, stringy hair and coke bloat really take away from the excitement, as do the refusal of the band’s members to take Goth fashion further than the mid-nineties got it.

But, hell, I love me some Goth kids. They’re so sad and angry and adorable, they’re like hipsters without a sense of humor. I want to pinch their pale, wan cheeks and bless their black, shriveled little hearts. And I do adore some good fog machine action. So, good for Sister Kill Cycle and their badly written broken-hearted lyrics and unskilled guitar playing.

Taking the stage after the pasty debacle was local hard rockin’ group PANZIE, who put on a pretty fuckin’ impressive display of facial tattoos, hard rock fashion, and sheer charisma, not to mention some solid tunes. Aside from an unfortunately mustachioed drummer, the band was a hell of a lot more fun to look at than their predecessors, and their rocking out was several steps above, with talented performers abounding. Their local supporters turned out in good numbers — the crowd full of Brooklyn and LES goth kids in excellently badass outfits. I saw a guy in tight-fitting black pin-striped bellbottoms. Hell yeah, that’s my kind of crowd.

When Team Cybergeist took the stage, with the beached hippie gone and the cheap PBRs kicking in to my system, I took the opportunity to snap a few blurry pictures and headbang my way to the front of the crowd. Team Cybergeist was, it’s not surprising to hear, the best band of the evening, even despite their equipment problems. Yael was hot as hell, singing beautifully, eerily, and powerfully in her little teeny skirt, and the band’s skill and performance experience shone through the less-than-excellent crowd’s apathy. Yael took some time to shame us all for not screaming loud enough or dancing, but when Nine Inch Nails’ “Head Like a Hole” came up on the set list, the crowd went wild as Lexi Love took the stage to dance and sing with the crew.

All around, I’d say the night was a success even despite the shameful apathy of the venue toward its performers. The crowd got into it, Lexi got some stage time, and the hippie from the abyss disappeared into the night after only mild creepitude. I’ll never go to Public Assembly again, but I would go see Team Cybergeist (and Panzie) again in a heartbeat. —Miss Lagsalot

I POOPED ON MY BOYFRIEND’S DICK — A Pro-Anal Tale

WHACK! Magazine proudly presents our first installment of puerile personal sex stories by our newest Staph Writer, Miss Lolly Gagger. Lolly is not only a big fan of our humble publication, but fap-tastic writer, a seasoned viewer of smut, and a first-rate degenerate of outstanding caliber. Also, she's a stone cold fox with a great rack! No joke! Ms. Gagger will be joining us with once-monthly personal Stories, and once a month with free and tube site reviews for your randy reading pleasure.



“Oh God, oh God…”
“Yeah, fuck that little ass, motherfucker!”
“I’m gonna come I’m gonna come… Aaaaah!”
Pant pant pant.
“Wait, what’s that?”
“What?”
“Is that — ”
“It can’t be. No…”
“Poo?”
“WHAT? NO!”
“You shit on my dick.”
“I SHIT ON YOUR DIIIIICK!”

Are you as turned on as I am?

The first time I thought about getting fucked in the ass I went right to my handy friend, Yahoo.com. “First time anal,” I wrote, giggling and excited, putting off the homework I had for eighth grade algebra. Boy, was I lucky! I found a site right away! For months and months afterward I watched thirty-second clips meant to entice old men in their basements toward membership. As I had no credit card, and my dad would have totally flipped if I’d stolen his from his wallet and he saw that shit on his monthly statement (“My daughter’s a filthy whoooore!” I pictured him hollering in sorrow toward the heavens), I was forced to watch the preview clips on repeat until my orgasm arrived. All the clips had a markedly similar narrative: some guys would drive up in their porn van to some young thang sitting on a bench waiting for the bus, or shopping at the local outlet mall, any low-income activity where she may be more likely to be lured toward the cash-filled anal van, and they would ask her if she’d ever taken it in the ass before, and she’d be like, “Fuck no! Hee hee hee…” and they’d be like, “Do you wanna? We got some money,” and she’d be all, “Uh-huh,” and get in. It was fucking hot.

Next thing you know, the chick would be in some well-lit room on a stained couch getting her oil leak plugged. The faces of the guys who drove this porn van were never seen, but the main ass-fucker had tattooed arms and a cock the size of Switzerland, though it was by no means neutral. That tattooed fucker loved ass virgins like his own mother, like no one should ever talk shit about them while he had anything to do with it, and he taught those girls how to take it. Giving them their first taste, as he pushed that huge schlong in a place I couldn’t believe it fit, he’d whisper with soft assurance in their ear, “Breathe, bitch. Breathe.” But those bitches just wouldn’t stop whining and moaning and they definitely weren’t breathing into their solar plexus as the tattooed man was clearly implying they should. I’d listen to him. I’d breathe in deeply, look up at my Ben Affleck Armageddon poster, imagine an experience of virginly buttness surrounded by muscular arms and dirty talkin,’ and my middle school vibrator would do its magic trick.

See, I’m just a sweet Midwestern girl. Where I’m from, anal sex is something you do so you don’t have to lose your “real” virginity before marriage. But my parents weren’t Catholic enough to pressure me to go down the anal path, so I never made it happen. A lot of guys in high school claimed to be grossed out by anal, which I didn’t get, because by then I was a First Time Anal preview connoisseur, and those dudes loved it! They braved the ghettos just to find candidates for butt cherry popping! But no, all my young boyfriends were too afraid of poop, even though I noticed that they so often spoke of poop positively in other contexts.

You can imagine that by the time a man came around who wanted to put it in my ass, I felt I’d found the once seemingly-mythological “one.” Neither of us even considered the possibility of poop. Anal sex was too fucking sexy and my ass was too good-looking (that’s right); there was no way that it was there for anything other than our mutual pleasure. The first time I did the anal deed with my true lover man, it was like losing my virginity again, painful and exciting, but this time with lube, and sweet-talkin,’ and not in a car with a shitty community college football player with a penis as skinny as a straw who growled like an ogre when he came. There’s a real intimacy to first-time anal that you just don’t see in the beaver pictures. I liked the feeling of submission, of doing something whorish. I liked the newness, I liked the challenge. I embraced the long held fantasy. Sometimes I thought of Ben Affleck. Perhaps I got too cocky. Perhaps I took it too hard, I drank too much, screamed “Put it in my fucking ass!” on one too many nights in a row, loosening my precious rectum. Because tragedy soon struck.

When my boyfriend put it in that fateful night, I knew something was wrong. I felt like I was pooping the wrong way. Like his dick was poop, wanting back in. Nature reared its ugly brown head, announcing its presence as gravity pulled the poo out of my ass and onto my boyfriend’s cock. At the moment of poo-lization, I screamed. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for the reality of my ass’s true function, and all I could think of was the stare of shame the tattooed man, if he even had a face above those arms and cock, would surely give me. I had failed him. When I saw the tiny piece of poo on the bed sheet as my main squeeze pulled out, I ran into the bathroom, humiliated. A million thoughts scrambled in my brain. How could this have happened? I’d been cockassed plenty of times by then. It was like out of nowhere Gloria Steinem had possessed my asshole and was pouring out spiteful manure onto my boyfriend’s demeaning rape-stick. Maybe that little turd was Susan B. Anthony’s cry from the grave, I thought, screaming, “THIS IS WHAT WE WOMEN HAVE COME TO?” And in my pulsing head I screamed back at Susan B. Anthony:

“Yes, Susan, you stupid whore! Women today can vote and they can take it however they like it! God bless motherfucking America and the sluts who like it where they shit!”

My boyfriend kept knocking on the bathroom door begging me to come out and take this situation like a man, but I was consumed with trying to understand the complications that had just arisen between the feminine sexuality of my body and its functions as a real human. I found myself in a state of Carrie Bradshaw-like pondering, like when she’s sitting at her computer shallowly thinking about shallowness. Like… Dear Computer of Nothingness, why does an ass have to shit when it’s getting fucked? Do all relationships between ass and penis have to end so sadly? Is a cock like Giuliani to the New York City that is my ass, and I’m just taking a deserved shit on the guy who fucked me? What I really wanted to know was… Would I always poop on my boyfriend’s dick? Is that just what happens in a relationship? Outside the door my man was still begging. I left the ghosts of suffrage past and went back to the bedroom to sit there thinking some more about myself as my boyfriend cleaned things up.

Pooping on my boyfriend’s dick was not my finest hour. Nor was it his. But I think everybody can take a little advice from the tattooed Swiss-wanged fellow who taught me how to ease into my own sexual animalism, when he wisely proclaimed, “Breathe, bitch. Breathe.” To women taking it in the ass everywhere I say, it’s just a little poop! Breathe! Take it in the rear like a porn star and go to town. Shit happens. —Lolly Gagger

POUND THE ROUND 6 — “There’s more to women than plump cheeks; they make wonderful cooks.”

POUND THE ROUND 6



New Sensations



Directed by Mike Adriano



WHORES

Sadie West, Bridgette B., Capri Cavalli, Gracie Glam, Katie St. Ives, Angeline Ash



I’m an ass man. Like, a hundred and ten percent, or more, if that’s possible. In fact, let’s just go ahead and say that I’m 200% an ass man, meaning that I would give up the opportunity to get busy with any other body part twice in exchange for getting down and dirty with a rockin' rump once.



Further, I am in no way worried about this facet of my personality or what it might say about the way I see women. Brian Bangs, in his recent article on this subject, suggests that coming out and declaring yourself an ass man (or a tit or leg man, presumably) is tantamount to declaring that you think there is nothing else of value to the fairer sex. Mr. Bangs, of course, is not alone in this idea; it is a popular one that we could trace back through the various incarnations of feminist philosophy. Brian’s fear of limiting himself, of falling back into demonstrably prejudiced patriarchal modes of thought, derives from the same theories that tell us that advertisements featuring pictures of models from the neck up are anti-feminist in their symbolic decapitation, their division of the threatening female form into small, easily handled pieces. But Brian and his girl power pals overstate the danger here; it’s possible to love pieces of women without losing your appreciation for the whole package. I mean, I’m an ass man, and I know that there’s more to women than just their plump, delicious cheeks; they also make wonderful cooks. And they can clean, too!



Now that you’ve got some insight into the philosophic underpinnings of my gluteal obsession you will understand how excited I was about the DVD I found waiting for me on the Ribald Review desk this week: Mike Adriano’s Pound the Round P.O.V. #6 from New Sensations. Three and a half hours of big bubble butts being used and objectified? Sign me up! It’s been almost a month since the last Big Wet Asses came out and I’m jonesin through my underpants over here for someone to film a slag from behind while rearranging the junk in her trunk.



(Seriously though, all feminist baiting aside, it’s a great day when I know I’m in for a glimpse of my favorite female body part, lovingly illuminated, lubricated, and brought to my living room in blisteringly realistic HD video. It would be a better day, of course, if there was ass in my living room in blisteringly realistic, well, reality, but I’ll take what I can get. We should all remember that we’re blessed there are women in the world as happy to show off their bodies as we are to see them.)



Anyway, I was excited. And I wasn’t disappointed. The asses, err, women, in PtR P.O.V. #6 are all smoking hot, especially cover girl Sadie West's. She’s got an awesome rear end, and possibly the cutest, tiniest pussy I’ve ever seen. Seriously, the whole thing, lips and all, is the size of like a quarter. It doesn’t look like you’d be able to get a pinky in there, but somehow Adriano managed to stuff his entire veiny, bulbous self inside. And she fingers her own asshole, which is just unutterably sexy. The movie should have started with Sadie’s scene, actually, because I find huge fake tits to be something of a turn off, and the star of the first scene, Bridgette B., is something like ninety percent bosom by weight. On the other hand, Bridgette rocks a hardcore all anal fuckathon, which, as an ass man, left me drained and helpless on the floor, so I probably shouldn’t complain.



(Speaking of complaining, does anyone want to engage in a little consumer advocacy with me? There’s a fifteen second clip of Katie St. Ives in this movie (starting at approximately 11:16:40) that I really want Digital Sin to release as a screen saver. Topless jumprope. 'Nough said.)

—Maxxx Peters

STEVE HIRSCH: Patriotic Pornographer Or Communist Conspirator?

Everyone knows the Cold War is over. What this article presupposes is . . . maybe it isn’t?

Any of you who have paused, taken your hands off your cocks, and read the news this summer will realize that this is not as ridiculous as it sounds. A sleeper cell of Russian spies was, after all, uncovered right here in America; ten Russians who had been living in this country for more than a decade, pretending to be good all-American stock brokers and millionaire real estate agents, all while secretly planning some dastardly Red property-sharing scheme. But that’s all been cleared up, right? Presidents Obama and Medvedev worked the whole thing out over those special “will only ring in case of nuclear attack” office phones, and the CIA traded the spies we caught here at home for a bunch of counter-revolutionaries the Russians have had locked up in gulag for the last thirty years. It was all very James Bond, with secret airfields in Eastern Europe and chartered jets passing in the night and all that, but it’s over now, right?

Wrong. There are still questions to be answered, the most pressing of which is, of course, why did the Russians include a whore in their sleeper cell? Anna Chapman just doesn’t make any sense; her presence on the KGB spy team violates all the basic principles of Russian covert organization, principles firmly established and understood by the entire global espionage/terrorism community since 1988.

Every team of covert Russian agents contains the following, and only the following, key figures: 1) the smooth talking comrade in charge, who speaks English without an accent and doesn’t actually seem Russian at all; 2) the hulking comrade enforcer, who gets his hair cut at Fabio’s salon and provides all the authentic Ruski flavor the crew needs while secretly pining for the day when he is finished killing American pigdogs and can return to his true loves, Shakespeare and the stage; and 3) the politically correct and oh so very Russian comrade technical expert.

This organization worked for the Russians through an extensive and surprisingly entertaining series of sequels; why would they change it now? No, Anna Chapman’s presence is proof that there is something else going on here, something that runs far deeper and is more insidious than your average international intrigue.

The government, of course, isn’t asking any questions; Obama seems to want to sweep this whole thing under the rug, which isn’t surprising. When has the government ever wanted the people to know the truth? Fortunately for lovers of honest, unbiased journalism everywhere, I, Maxxx Peters, am on the job. The truth is out there, and I swore to myself when I took this job that I wouldn’t rest until I found it.

* * *

After three quarters of an hour or so of back-breaking investigative research, I uncovered the following top-secret information, suppressed for years by both the American and Russian governments and previously available to only the most select circles of CIA and KGB insiders. I make it available to the public here for the first time: the Russians are working to develop technology that will allow them to match or even rival America in the area of artificial sexual stimulation. That’s right people; they’re trying to close the dildo gap.

Suddenly it all makes sense; Anna Chapman’s inclusion in the sleeper cell, her bizarrely explicit Facebook photos, everything. She was sent to this country by her Red masters to steal America’s most valuable sex toy secrets and smuggle them out of the country as only a whore can; hidden in her voluminous ‘secret spy compartment.’ No one but a seasoned moral degenerate could have pulled off such a daring and lube-intensive secret mission; let us all be thankful that, rather than doing his job, some FBI lackey was cruising FB for jerk off material and stumbled across Chapman’s evil plot. Had she succeeded, who knows what damage might have been done? The Russians could easily have sold the Magic Wand, the Spingasm, or even the mighty Rabbit to rebels in Afghanistan; and then where would we be?

But you are wondering what the point is. Hasn’t Chapman already been deported? Hasn’t her scheme been foiled? Is the world not safe from sexually liberated suicide bombers? Well, yes, yes, and maybe (sexy terrorism is always a threat). But there is yet another chapter to this sordid story: Steve Hirsch has offered Chapman a feature deal shooting for Vivid.

Now, Hirsch is a big man in the American smut industry; clearly, he would have been high on Chapman’s list of targets, back before the FBI got wind of her. So what is the boss of the Vivid sex empire up to? Is he cleverly and patriotically trying to steal away the Russian’s top sex agent? Or is he consorting in despicably degenerate ways with the Communist enemy?

What do you think?

Is Steve Hirsch:

• cleverly and patriotically trying to steal away the Russian’s top sex agent?
• consorting in despicably degenerate ways with the Communist enemy?

Created on Jul 26, 2010

View Results

poll by twiigs.com

Remember, if you have any information whatsoever about any of this, it is your patriotic duty to report it here, through the very secure and Obama administration-approved WHACK! comment forum. God bless America, Joe McCarthy, and glorious democratic pornography. —Maxxx Peters

THE BREAKFAST CLUB XXX — “The cheesiness is well executed.”

Joining the WHACK! Magazine staph as a contributing writer this week is newcummer Victor Collins, a pervert extraordinaire from the deepest, dirtiest dungeons of Mount Vernon, NY. And we ALL know what goes on in Mount Vernon...



THE BREAKFAST CLUB: A XXX PARODY



New Sensations



WHORES

Faye Reagan, Andy San Dimas, Samantha Ryan, Syren Sexton, Brooke Van Bouren, Tessa Taylor, Breanne Benson, Levi Cash, Sonny Hicks, Chad Alva.



In a time where production value seems a thing of the past, New Sensations's approach to parodies is somewhat unexpected. In The Breakfast Club XXX, the costumes and sets are noticeably meticulous, and the stars closely resemble the actors in the original movie.



I wonder whether director Lee Roy Myers is in the right business. The Breakfast Club XXX features comedy scenes as long as the actual sex scenes. The traditional approach to porn parodies as I know them has been minimal effort toward accuracy or quality in the brief comedy interludes, with most of the focus on the stroke scenes. At times, this film appears more interested in the comedy than the erotica, which is all well and good if you're not in it to jizz it. I, however, being an avid fapper and fan of all things splooge, was a bit disappointed to sit through plot development and dialogue.



The action, like in the original, takes place in the library on a Saturday morning, only this time they're college students, somehow convinced to stay in detention as if they were still in high school. I suppose this switch in the plot was to avoid being accused of portraying minors. We all know, of course, how strong a stand the porn industry continuously takes against the idea of encouraging sex with underage girls. Fans of the original movie that happen to be porn lovers will perhaps get the most enjoyment out of this.



In juggling the porn and the comedy, both suffer in certain aspects. Although the film has a great look, the comedy scenes don't exactly take you to a time and place that equals the original 1980s Midwest setting. Dialogue includes phrases and sayings that were not in use at the time of the original movie, although the cheesiness is well executed. The film has some great looking stars, and there are

some great closeups. However, the positions and angles are limited, and at times the shots look crowded, with several body parts obstructing the view. This is most evident in a scene including three girls on one guy.



It was an impressive effort balancing porn and comedy, although I do not foresee most viewers appreciating the extensive comedy scenes. The non-sex scenes have typically been of secondary interest to the viewer, so I'm unclear why so much effort was put forth in this direction. Perhaps Lee Roy Myers, director and co-writer, has a similar dream as Burt Reynold's Jack Horner character in

Boogie Nights. That dream is for the viewer to stay and finish watching the movie after it's masturbatory uses have been exhausted. In both cases, it looks a pipe dream.



--Victor Collins

GOODBYE TO THE BIGGUNS — A Farewell to Our Fapping Friend

If ever there was a beloved brotha whose words of wank wisdom touched the hearts of thousands and helped to steer the self-abuse of his legions of lecherous followers, Leroy Bigguns was that brotha. A rising star on the raunchy writing staph of WHACK! Magazine, our dearly loved, deeply disturbed, poignantly perverse, slightly obese, but ever so sweet Bigguns has passed on to a better place. Bigguns is now with the big-titted angels of South Park Heaven, most likely partying with Chef and a bevy of beautifully bosomed, fat-bottomed girls.

Bigguns was discovered in his home last week after several weeks of unnerving silence in the Bigguns Blather column. He’d been dead for only a few hours when a visiting hooker… er… we mean… friend found him face down on the floor, apparently having fallen victim to a raging case of explosive Chlamydia — a chronic and very rare condition he’d picked up on a visit to his favorite brothel in Birmingham and had been battling valiantly for some time. According to police and autopsy reports, the Chlamydia had finally made its way from his groin up to his head and had actually reached his eyeballs, causing them to burst forth dramatically from their sockets when he reached his last — and we hope, most intense ever — orgasm. The disease gets its “explosive” moniker from this last, tragic, killing swoop of ocular explosion.

Bigguns will be remembered, however, not for his ignominious death (which, it has to be said, might be gross but is pretty fuckin’ bad ass, too) but for his noble, knob-knuckling life. Bigguns, a 1987 graduate of Shelton State Community College in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, with an associate’s degree in refrigeration and air conditioning technology and continuing education certificates in wellness instruction, barbering, and emergency medical technicianship, was a true pillar of his Southern Baptist community. He attended weekly Sunday services at his local church, where his deaconship was just recently revoked, alas, when the minister got wind of his work here at WHACK! Magazine.

We here at WHACK! are heartbroken to have heard of his early and tragic passing, but we shall always remember “The Bigguns” as we first met him: face down in a pair of giant titties outside a Wu-Tang show where he’d been picketing the downfall of black culture with a local chapter of the NAAGM (the National Association for the Advancement of Gospel Music). Seeing one of our own in his anti-hip-hop motorboating frenzy, we brought the Bigguns into the fold of our own, WHACK!-y cleavage, and never looked back. He will be remembered for his words of wisdom in Bigguns Blather, teaching his readers everything from proper gay club etiquette to the best in live action Smurf porn to calculating the vaginal mileage of your average tramp. Truly, a more inventively depraved mind has never been seen, nor a more avid consumer of Southern-style barbeque or big brown beavers.

Rest easy, Bigguns. We hope your head is forever nestled in a pair of big, black, bulbous boobies (Ella Fitzgerald’s, perhaps?) in the clothing-optional choir loft in the Sky.

JULY 2010!

Whoroscopes for July 2010

Predictions and advice for perverts of all signs and stripes, by our smokin’ hot psychic, Madame Simone du Boudoir!


Aries
March 21-April 19

Whores The past few months have been completely over the top in your work life, especially with the recent eclipse on June 26, starring cardinal signs Aries, Libra, Cancer, and Capricorn. Things have been moving fast and furious, and you may have gotten in over your head in a few scenes you signed up for in the heat of the moment. Most of them were fun anyway, but you may have found yourself in a bit too deep, like in that twelve-midget gangbang you did recently. I mean, midgets are one thing, but tranny midgets with strap-ons on their heads? Too much, Aries, too much. Take some time off with this month’s solar eclipse on the 11th to focus on home, family, and your own torn-up crotch. Slow down!

Mopes The month of July is shaping up to be a romance-and-relationship one for Aries porn pricks, and weirdly enough, it looks like the usually hard-headed hard-on providers will go a big softy for their significant others! Isn’t that sweet? What once was a fuck-and-run situation seems to be morphing into a more goal-oriented relationship, and Aries cocksmen will be looking for a commitment from their partners. Soft-hearted sex stars are adorable, Aries, but do remember that women don’t usually date porn guys because they want to settle down with their big boners—be prepared for her to cut and run when she realizes you don’t make nearly what you said you did and have only an eighth grade education.

Fans With Saturn in opposition to Uranus this month, now is a good time for you to get rid of old home-related items and usher in newer, more, um… modern things. Like, say, for instance, that life-size cardboard cut-out of Carrie Fisher in her Jabba the Hut outfit. You know, the one with splooge stains from decades ago all over it? Sexy, yes, but improving your living space? No. Carrie hasn’t had boobs that perky since the mid-seventies, Aries air-guitar heroes, and she’s not exactly driving lots of traffic through your bedroom. With this month’s solar eclipse focusing on moving forward with your home and family, we think it’s time to give the cardboard “wifey” the old heave-ho and try for a more, um… real version. At least get a sex doll. That’d be 3D and a step in the right direction.


Taurus
April 20-May 20

Whores Taurus twats will be feeling a need to spend some time alone this month working on a big private project, which we think is a great idea. After two big-time eclipses in less than a month, many people of many signs are feeling a little worn out, and with big plans like you’ve got for that Monster Cock All-Holes Gangbang next month, now is the time to spend some serious time getting ready. The process of readying ones orifices for violation by engorged phalluses can be trying and very un-pretty, so do it at home, alone, where you can stretch your throat out with over-sized zucchinis in peace. Good luck, Taurus, and godspeed!

Mopes Uranus, the ruler of your house of career fame, will be retrograde from early this month until December 5, which means that although new ho’s and new holes are always fun to try, now might be a good time for Taurus twat tamers to focus on further developing already existing work relationships. We hear you’ve had some great chemistry developing with some of your regularly-humped whores, and you may be able to create some of the most intensely sexy scenes of your life if you focus on these tried-and-true tricks for a few months before venturing into newer vaginas.

Fans While Uranus is retrograde during the next five months, your personal life will be trying to balance itself, and it looks like it’s getting a good start already, Taurus dweebatrons! It looks like you’ve been working on improving relations with your family, and it’s actually been working. Perhaps you’ve finally been awarded visiting rights! That would be a huge victory for a guy with as creepy a past and as long a rap sheet as you’ve got, Taurus, and we hope you don’t blow it! Remember, only chaperoned visitations are allowed, you reprehensible reprobate! Don’t rush things! Trips to the park and the carnival are a few years away yet. Nobody’s forgotten yet about the last carnival trip, with the clown and the cotton candy debacle. Take it slow.


Gemini
May 21-June 20

Whores With Mars in Virgo shining the spotlight on your home sector, this month is a great time to clean up the old home structure. So, Gemini, now’s the time for a tune-up! Get that hair did, those nails fixed up, them boobs a-lifted, that tummy tucked—the whole nine yards! It’s summer, it’s a good time to clean house, and even the stars are telling you get a few more collagen injections in those distended lips. You’ll look somewhat like a cartoon alien when you’re done, but hey, novelty sells these days, and nobody’s got the plastic look down quite like you do!

Mopes We know you’ve been wanting this for years, Gemini, but although we’ve tried to warn you against it, it looks like you’ve finally scheduled that threesome scene with your pornstar wife and that sexy young up-and-cummer. Good for you! But we’d recommend trying to either move it up to earlier this month, or push it back till mid-August, because the end of July’s opposition between Saturn and Uranus shows that you may feel like you’re being pulleded in two different directions, yet unable to fully satisfy either side. This would be, to out it mildly, a terrible time to try to fuck your wife and another woman on camera—prick problems could arise (or, not arise, if you get us), and domestic disputes could skyrocket. Remember the cardinal rule of carnal camera careers: porn bitches be crazy jealous! Be careful, Gemini!

Fans After last month’s solar eclipse and the very likely resulting financial difficulties, Gemini jack-offs like yourself may have resorted to some seriously fucked up money-making schemes. Far be it from us, dear Gemini, to criticize creative money-making schemes. I mean, shit, we’re broke as hell over here and we could really use some of your get-rich-quick credentials. But, please, do be careful. Robbing bitches you roofie at the bar after having your date-rape way with them might be a recipe for extra spending money, but it looks like more of a half-baked, one-way ticket to the slammer from where we’re sitting.


Cancer
June 21-July 22

Whores This month’s solar eclipse on July 11 will be backed up by support for Cancer cooze from Jupiter, Uranus, and Mars, and that’s excellent news! These are three big-time planets, all lining up to support your plan to move on to bigger things! In your line of work, Cancer coochie, that means you’re moving on up from the typical pornstar fuck fare to the real big boys—we’re talking Shorty Mac, Sean Michaels, Manuel Ferrara… the kings of the crazy-huge cock. We support your move, Cancer, and we think it’s about time you started banging redwood-like rods, but do take things slowly enough to avoid serious internal injury, darling, and be sure to use lots of lube.

Mopes The solar eclipse on July 11 is an excellent turning point for Cancers, because this friendly eclipse will occur in your very own sign, making it a powerful and effective time to turn over a new leaf. For many people this might mean a move or a career change, but we’re thinking for you, Cancer cocksmen, it’s time for a stage name switch! You’ve been going by a rather unimaginative moniker for a while now, and with this eclipse supporting you in every way, a change to something more imaginative might be just the impetus your career needs to launch to the top! We recommend some kind of rip-off of a sports car first name and a euphemism for “giant throbbing boner” as a last name. “Lamborghini Meatstick” sounds good to us.

Fans Cancer, don’t ask us how we know this, ok? We don’t like destroying hopes and dreams, but we’ve come upon some astrological intelligence that pertains specifically to you, and we don’t want to see you get taken for a ride. Just listen, ask no questions, and do as we say: With Jupiter and Uranus backing you up this month, your hopes for a real, live woman to fuck may be higher than ever, but it looks like the “kidnapped princess from Ukraine” who’s been sending you e-mails under a false name and asking you to fund her escape from her captors to come live with you in America… well… it’s a scam, dude. Princess Katarina isn’t a princess, she’s a big hairy Russian guy who can’t believe you’re considering wiring money to his account and is about to buy a whole shit-ton of stock in a Thai sex-trafficking company. You’ve been warned.


Leo
July 23-August 22

Whores With Mars still in Virgo, your expenses are still on the rise, but when Saturn, the taskmaster planet, leaves Virgo on the 21st of this month, you’ll finally feel a little less stress about the situation. This isn’t to say you’ll be rolling in cash, Leo lustbuckets, but you’ll feel more confident in spending it, so let the shopping spree begin! Time to get your hair and nails done, your spray tan resprayed, and all those shoes you’ve been eyeing for months! Don’t be surprised if you overdraw your account or max out your cards, or if you can’t pay all your bills this month, but who cares! You’re a porn star! It’ll work itself out! …right?

Mopes This solar eclipse on the 11th coincided with a new moon, which means this is a perfect time for Leo lads like yourself to start a whole new life, hopefully involving less crack. Yes, we know you’ve been hitting the pipe hard, Leo, and so does most of the industry. Up till now we haven’t mentioned anything because, yeah, having unlimited energy on the set is a good thing, but after a certain point, addiction starts stamping out sex scenes, and we have a feeling you’re about to plunge headlong down the path toward peddling your ass for gay tricks town if you don’t take a few weeks to detox and learn how to get a hard-on without a hit.

Fans Unlike those sad Cancer sods sending money to hairy Russian bears under false pretenses, it looks like Leo blubber-lubbers like yourself are actually looking a possibly real long-distance love-affairs this month! July 26 is looking very promising for personal news coming from abroad, where you may have met a broad on an internet chat room who may actually be into your flabby ass! Congrats, Leo! Do be aware that most of the pictures and stats in these BDSM chatrooms tend to be ten years out of date and at least ten pounds underweight, but hey, beggers can’t be chosers, and considering your last lay was longer ago than when your new love actually weighed 120 pounds, we say take what you can get.


Virgo
August 23-September 22

Whores The eclipse this month on July 11th occurred in Cancer, and lit your eleventh solar house of friends, communities, clubs, and social media. This could be a great time to harness the power of your horny tweeting, but it could also, if used unwisely, spell trouble. Look, Virgo, we know your fans love knowing exactly where you are, what you’re wearing, what you’re eating, and the state of your vagina at every moment of the day, but some of them might love it a little too much. Be careful. If you see a slovenly, overweight, Mountain-Dew chugging degenerate making a beeline for you from across the manicurist’s parking lot a few minutes after you tweet your location, and you end up in the back of a blacked-out windowed van with MY RPVN on its license plate, don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Mopes The past few months have been difficult for Virgo vagina vagrants like yourself, with Saturn pushing you along at a grueling pace, but it seems that clouds are finally beginning to clear! You’re not out of the woods yet, though: you may be having a bit of a problem with your equipment these days, but don’t worry. Hard work and discipline will have your cock ready for action soon and you’ll be proud to say you overcame (hehehe… came) such a hard (hard) situation. Seriously, all you can do is practice, practice, practice, and fuck as often as you can. Tall order? Yes. Worth it? Definitely yes.

Fans As your recent purchases of huge TVs and advanced gaming systems on an unemployment check budget has proven, you are abysmally bad with money. It’d be one thing if the honeys were packing your living room to watch romantic comedies with their heads resting on your gut, but since you’re the only one using the 74” flat panel to jerk off all day, we have a bone to pick with your spending habits. (Although, we must say, the laser hair removal from your chin-mole was a great investment.) With Saturn moving into your second house of financial management this month, however, now is the time to start learning not to devote your entire government cheese on stupid shit. Try taking a class in financial management, or hiring an advisor to help you out. Seriously. Or else you’ll end up broke and alone, and isn’t alone bad enough?


Libra
September 23-October 22

Whores This month is the beginning of something new and exciting for all Libras, and it looks like the end of the month—around July 26—will be pivotal in starting a domino effect of changes. On the 26th, Saturn and Uranus will have a squabble, and this planetary tiff will be reflected in your depraved life, as well, probably in a serious dispute between you and your deadbeat former mope of a boyfriend. He’s been living off you for a while now, and you may finally realize that your time is way too valuable to be lavished on this jealous loser! Start dating within the industry if you want less jealousy, or just go gay! Your PR could use some more lesbian intrigue, anyway.

Mopes As specific as this might sound for a Whoroscope, the eclipse on July 11 seems to have bumped a woman into a leading role in your professional life. For most people, that would mean their company’s restructuring has given them a new female boss, but for you it seems much more likely that you’re going to be starring in a few BDSM scenes where you’ll be subbing for a seriously deranged dominatrix with a fetish for cat-o-nine tails and ball gags. All we can say is, have fun, and remember that goddamn safe word!

Fans Don’t get too excited by this, Libra losers, but it appears that the weekend of July 24-25’s full moon in Aquarius will make you… alluring. To the opposite sex. We can’t really wrap our heads around what that means. I mean, an alluring porn fanboi? What would that be like? Perhaps just a dab of cologne rather than B.O. or buckets of Preferred Stock? Maybe a fashion choice that doesn’t involve full moon and panther T-shirts? Or at least no Cheesy Doodle stains on said wildlife shirt? I don’t know, but whatever it is, you seem to be working it later this month, so… You know… Work it.


Scorpio
October 23-November 21

Whores You’ve just come through an intense period of workaholism in which your career took leaps and bounds forward, Scorpio. You’ve moved up from back-alley gonzo work into a few features, and you’ve morphed from the queen of DVDA into a demure, sex-kitten DP diva. Good job! Way to show your blue blood and high class, Scorpio sluts! Now it’s time to take a load off, let your bruises and torn inner tissue heal, and do some Kegeling by the pool. Let yourself unwind and go back to hit and hump ‘em hard in August.

Mopes Huge American Cocks in Tiny Bangkok Holes? Yes, please! You’re their new star! Put on your travelling pants—or lack of pants—and grab your passport, bubs.
Travel seems to be a big theme in your chart this month, and it’s focused on commercial work, so by all means, accept that offer to star in “Monster American Members in Tiny Thai Twats #13”! You’ll get to see the world, and a whole lot of tight Asian pussy, and make a pretty penny to boot. It’s a mope’s fondest dream! Just be careful you don’t hire any tranny hookers over there—we hear bad things about the Hep C.

Fans Well, well, Scorpio sticky-fingers, look who’s finally back! It would appear, given your chart, that you swore off the self-servicing a while back and have been delaying gratifying your gut-wrenchingly disgusting habits for months, for whatever reason. We’re assuming some sort of intervention or rehab program was involved, but you seem to have come out the other side chaste and changed. Now that you’ve got your “Not A Porn Addict” diploma on the wall… time to start Whack!ing it again! Fuck yeah, Scorpio! Draw the blinds, fire up the DVD player, projector, and free sites, break out the hand lotion and toilet paper, lube up the toilet brush (we don’t judge), and have a good, long, drawn-out stroke sesh. You deserve it.


Sagittarius
November 22-December 21

Whores The past few months may have seemed like a never-ending test of your resolve to master the most difficult positions in the Kama Sutra, Sagittarius, and we salute your hard work! It’s not easy to stay up till the wee hours standing on one’s head with a dildo precariously teetering atop your sky-high slit, but you’ve kept at it. Your diligence deserves a deep drilling on camera, and Sagittarius, we think you’re ready to take your new skills out of the dark bedroom and into the bright lights of Porn Valley. Congrats, you made it, kid! Show the world “The Milk and Water Embrace” and change the porn world forever!

Mopes Saturn has been touring Virgo since September 2007 and has been putting you through the astrological paces. Happily, it will finally leave Virgo on the 21st of this month, and the rewards of the lessons it’s taught you will finally be reap-able! All that waiting in line at gangbangs and bukkakes, all the stand-by waiting in case the real cocksman didn’t show up, all the last-minute pop shots you’ve delivered when the regular talent couldn’t, all the empty bank accounts… Your time has come, Sagittarius! You’ll soon be moving out of mope territory and into the realms of real woodsmen! Just keep up the positive attitude—and your boner—and it’s free sailing through seas of sweaty pussy, full-speed ahead!

Fans The eclipse on the 11th in Cancer was a solar new moon eclipse, and it seems perfectly angled to deliver a boat load of cash to long-toiling Sagittarian suckers like yourself. We can’t see where the money will come from, but perhaps your divorce settlement—miraculously, given your history of sexual dysfunction and deep-seated psychological issues—may end up in your favor. Or perhaps the hefty investment you dumped into new sex doll technology will start paying you back dividends. Whatever the case, Sagittarius, just try to use the money for important things like housing and food—not porn. Well. Ok, maybe just a little porn. Or a moderate amount of porn. Yeah. Moderate. That’s less than 20 paysite subscriptions or DVDs. Swear it, Sag!


Capricorn
December 22-January 19

Whores Lucky for you, the eclipse on the 11th of this month was far friendlier to Capricorn cooch merchants than its twin last month on the 26th. That’s excellent news because it looks like a perfect storm of all your “suppressed” issues (we use the quotation marks because you’re about as good at hiding your psych problems as you are at keeping your legs closed) will finally come a-bubbling back up into your life, and there’s no escaping them this month. But, because of the friendly light coming from the eclipse, it’s very likely that you’ll be able to find a therapist who will do you a world of good. And by “therapist,” we mean a trained psychologist of some sort, not an even bigger dildo to keep at home. That 34 incher you got last month was quite big enough, and if it didn’t diddle the daddy issues out of you, nothing short of psychological help will.

Mopes This month’s new moon solar eclipse in Cancer on the 11th emphasized your partnerships and oppositions, which means that the crazy bitch you’re living with may just be in a position where you can talk her down from the lawsuit she’s been threatening over your attempts to bring barnyard animals into your personal sex life. Look man, we don’t judge your private, off-screen sexual habits, but you’re going to have to use a hell of a lot of creative reasoning to talk her down from this one. Luckily, the stars are on your side this month, so you’ve got a good chance. Just remember, slapping the bitch around won’t help your cause any. Rational, non-violent discussion might.

Fans Saturn is finally due to exit your ninth house of family relations on July 21, and it’s about goddamn time. They’ve been hounding you for years about your antisocial self-gratification habits, but it looks like they are about to give up and finally stop talking to you completely! Thank GOD, right? You can finally jack off all fucking day if you’re so inclined, and we say more power to you! But do be warned, with the cutting off of conversations, so will come the cutting off of financial support, so… Might wanna start looking for cashier positions at the 7-Eleven


Aquarius:
January 20-February 18

Whores Your finances have been, well, unpleasant for some time now, Aquarius, but if you can get through this month, your prospects are looking way, way up! If you can just keep your hooking rate up for a few more weeks, and get as much steady cheap-ass gonzo work as possible—and if you can keep your cooch from falling out of your body in protest to being worked over by the wangs of so many weirdos—you’ll be home free in August. Good luck!

Mopes The ninth house, where Saturn is headed at month’s end, is about meditation and reflection, and this means you may start putting in some serious work in this area. A Buddhist boner? Why not. Zen and Tantra are fascinating and could lead to some original how-to videos. A cocksman of your status and sexual stature could have a huge impact on the porn world’s take on tantra if you work this right!

Fans The eclipse on the 11th of this month was the perfect time to start a new regimen of healthy habits, Aquarian creeps, so now is the perfect time to live up to your New Year’s resolutions! You heard us: no more Mountain Dew! We wouldn’t recommend going cold-turkey, though, we hear it causes dementia and erectile dysfunction, but we’d say have it down to a two-liter a day by month’s end and you’ll be on the path toward recovery.


Pisces
February 19-March 20

Whores The July 11th eclipse could have brought you into intimate contact with a new and very special person who swept you off your feet and taken your breath away, Pisces pussies! Of course, by “swept you off your feet” we mean “drilled you in pile driver on camera,” and by “taken your breath away” we mean choked you with his cock until you passed out. Hardcore! You may have just found your soul mate!

Mopes The eclipse on the 11th was a great time for Pisces pricks’ creative endeavors to take off, so now, all we have to say is: Oh, great, another mope with another shitty garage band. We’d love to say it’s great to have more than one talent. But you’re a mope which means you have no other talent which means your band sucks. Yeah, your girlfriend told us that.

Fans At the very end of this month, Mars and Uranus will be having a hell of a fight, which will spell serious financial setbacks for you, Pisces. Be careful with your cash this month, because you don’t want to end up short when August hits. Remember, rent is due EVERY month, and you are on your landlord’s last nerve with your constant midnight trips to the 7-Eleven for more Cheetos, and your never-ending mail-order porn habit.

BUTTMAN ON THE STAND — “It at least solidifies the court system’s view of obscenity trials: a waste of everyone’s time, money, and attention.”

Dear sweet Jesus. One would think that the John Stagliano obscenity trial held last week in Washington, D.C. would carry with it a certain amount of gravitas on the part of the government. John “Buttman” Stagliano was to be tried for breaking Federal obscenity laws via internet and mail in two of his movies and one movie trailer, viewable online. The charges leveled were numerous and covered everything from use of the U.S. mail system to violating D.C.’s “community standards” of prurient obscenity, and the subsequent trial was seen largely by the media as the ace up the sleeve of the U.S. government’s belated push against obscene pornographers (the task force assigned to doing away with seedy smut was established by Dubya in 2005, but took a while to get rolling). Paul Little, AKA “Max Hardcore” is already behind bars, and Ira Isaacs was similarly put through the wringer. Stagliano, however, as a larger name in the porn industry and the head of one of the most successful companies in Porn Valley history — Evil Angel — was to be the biggest-horned deer head in the center of the anti-smut brigade’s wall display of de-balled sleazebags.

Frankly, I was nervous. I don’t like the idea that the obscenity laws in question, based on Miller v. California in 1973, are — it has to be said — obscenely vague and apparently easy to apply willy-nilly. The main three criteria the government set forth back then for a jury to legally declare a work obscene are: that “the work depicts/describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by applicable state law”; that, “taken as a whole, [the work in question] lacks serious literary, artistic, political or scientific value”; and that “the average person, applying contemporary community standards would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest.” Hell, if you ask me, most David Lynch films fit nicely into those guidelines — especially the part about serious artistic merit. But alas, it was Buttman who had to bear the brunt of the government’s prudery, and though Stagliano did not direct or perform in any of the movies in question, nor was he directly responsibly for their shipment or display online, he was, alas, a figurehead that would look awfully nice hanging next to Max Hardcore’s pride on the Guvment Wall O’ Filth-mongers.

One would think that the government, in pursuit of such large game, would have devoted some time and energy to the task. Would have prepared a water-tight case (or at least as water-tight as a case persecuting a man who had little to do with the material under examination on flimsy charges can be), paraded out expert witnesses galore, and generally done their best to send this evil example of a film executive from the bowels of boner-bearing hell to prison for a damn long time. They had a whole year and a half to prepare their case, and one would expect them to have used that time wisely! These pornographers must pay for their prurient personal interpretations of artistic and sexual expression, entertainment, and free speech! The rest of us poor, defenseless, US citizens are falling prey to their degraded visions and we’re paying the price of draining our balls to sexually stimulating, sometimes off-the-wall performances by consenting, professional adults! How DARE they? These filthy scumbags deserve to be locked away for years for sending fetish movies across state lines, even if they weren’t the ones who directed, acted in, or mailed those movies. Right? …right?

Well, maybe not. Maybe nobody actually thinks they should. It would appear that the government’s best prosecutors don’t really give a shit about whether Stagliano gets thrown in the slammer or not. Perhaps they enjoy his films in their private lives, which is understandable, as it's high quality smut indeed, and if they don't enjoy it, then very little, aside from an utter lack of seriousness about the case to which they were assigned, could explain the gross mishandling of the evidence these prosecutors were to present, the badly managed witnesses they could barely bring to the stand, or the jaw-droppingly apathetic methods they used to present their case. They were laughingly unprepared at almost every step of the way, and in the end they simply bungled it so badly that it leaves no doubt in my mind about the government’s level of concern over pornography’s obscene presence in our midst: nobody gives a shit.

Except maybe for Judge Richard J. Leon, who seemed ready and willing to hand Stagliano's head to the wolves on a silver platter: he got to work by first denying the use of expert witnesses on both sides (two had been proffered by the defense to provide artistic and scientific testimony about the merits of the films), then ruling that the jurors did not need to actually watch the entire movies in question in their entirety (a ruling that goes directly against the Miller laws this trial was to be centered on) and then only allowing them to watch parts with the TV screen turned away from the courtroom and using personal headphones to listen! Such behavior, it seems, presupposes the indecency of the material and offers to the jury a strong anti-porn bias from the get-go, putting the good judge’s impartiality into a dim light indeed.

And yet, with the judge on their side and the infuriatingly vague obscenity laws egging them on, the prosecution just could not seem to get their shit together. Before things even got started, prosecutor Pamela Satterfield maintained the government’s determination to level charges against Evil Angel Entertaintment, Inc., a company which no longer exists and which didn’t at the time any of the films in question were produced. (This would be akin to charging Stalin for crimes against humanity now, i.e., ridiculous.) Then, things actually got rolling, nothing improved. First, lead prosecutor Satterfield tried to define “prurient” as “lustful,” a definition which is not only patently wrong, but which has already been deemed inappropriate by a court in Washington state. Then, the prosecution team spent an undisclosed (but sufficiently long for reporters to have mentioned it in their coverage) amount of time trying to figure out how to work the DVD player in the courtroom. Let’s just let that sink in for a second.…

Ok, moving on. When prosecutors finally got the damned contraption to work, their copy of the trailer for Fetish Fanatic 5, which was to be used as evidence in three counts of the indictment against Stagliano, was so flawed the sound would not work and the video froze. We may as well admit we always suspected government employees to be behind on technology, and we realize that burning a DVD can be tough, but really? They’d not made sure it worked before bringing it into the courtroom? After the judge, according to AVN's Mark Kernes, "thundered...'You've had a year and a half to get ready for this case. [...] This is not an acceptable way to do business," he proceeded to throw out two and a half counts of the indictment. But, naturally, the opening statements the prosecution had already made focused heavily upon those very counts. For a group of people who supposedly frown upon filmed coitus, these prosecutors seemed hell-bent on fucking themselves over in from of a courtroom full of people.

Later on, the prosecutors they couldn’t find their third witness and had to rest their early. The witness was “on his way” to the trial but hadn’t made it yet when his turn came. If porn sets were this badly managed, you’d have mopes sticking their cocks in potted plants and forgetting to cum. Seriously.

Then, just to leave everyone present in no doubt whatsoever that the government was mishandling hard-earned taxpayer dollars, the prosecution proceeded to bring to the stand a police detective who maintained he he’d recently re-watched the videos because the lead prosecutor had told him to, by order of the judge. The judge denied giving any such order, and Satterfield agreed that said order had never been passed down, which, as AVN's Mark Kernes pointed out, presented the puerile prosecution with quite the conundrum — if the witness was wrong about the judge’s order, then his entire testimony would have been null and void, because he’d have blatantly lied on the stand. If this were the case, yet another puncture wound more gaping than Belladonna’s asshole would have been blown in the government’s case. Yet in order to figure all this out, prosecutor Satterfield would have had to take the stand herself and thereby give up her ability to try the rest of the case.

Thank god, for the sake of everyone's sanity, the prosecution was ready to give it all up and rest its case by Thursday afternoon, but the defense had had enough of their bungling bullshit and moved to dismiss on Rule 29 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure. The judge, being possessed, thankfully, of a brain larger than the prosecutors’ combined, dismissed all five remaining charges, stating that the prosecution’s evidence was “woefully inadequate.”

And, with one fell swoop, pornographers across the nation breathed a sigh of much-needed relief. This in no way guarantees that the government won’t go on more wank video witch hunts, but it at least solidifies the court system’s view of obscenity trials: a waste of everyone’s time, money, and attention. —Miss Lagsalot