Friday, July 31, 2015

Hot Girls Wanted (2015)

Pandora's Box, Bikini-Waxed

directed by Jill Bauer and Ronna Gradus
starring "Stella May," "Lucy Tyler,"
"Brooklyn," and two whores named "Ava"

Sometimes, it's unwitting comedy that cuts the deepest — particularly as the chortles subside and the gaping stygian abyss you're left staring into mirrors the depth and circumference of a teen porn whore's hammercock-dilated asshole after back-to-back anal gangbang shoots. Don't laugh, chides the sober voice of that slo-mo realization looming like a thirsty Nosferatu over the recoiling damsel of your horrified mind: what you're looking at is a cultural self-indictment, a dispiriting gaze into a crystal ball that shows you brain-dead harlots as the flaming car wreck at the end of a road paved by an earlier generation's hopes and dreams; recipients of short-term cash and a lifetime's worth of regret as the vessels through which tomorrow's children — the very future of Western civilization — will absorb their values.

As I took in this Sundance Film Festival breakout about young girls "exploited" by the ever-booming online pornography racket, what I couldn't get out of my head, of all things, was that old shrink's bit about men having a "Madonna-whore complex" in regard to women. The complex nibbled mouse-like at the base of my mind as I watched Karly, 19, a.k.a. "Lucy Tyler," chirping blithely about her fear of committing herself to sex outside of porn, and then glowing like a new mom in the maternity ward over having done a "pop shot" with some manlet Dirk Diggler who told her she was his "favorite porn star." The complex grew hale, into the kernel of a fully-fledged thought, as I watched Michelle, 19, a.k.a. "Brooklyn Daniels," tell the camera about the extra hundred dollars she received for a Plan B pill after back-to-back "creampie" shoots, while treating the sixty dollars' change she got to keep after as a triumph akin to a Donald Trump real estate acquisition. The complex throbbed against the walls of my cranium as I watched Tressa, 19, a.k.a. "Stella May," relive the nuts and bolts of having had a golf ball-sized cyst on her fuck-worn labium drained. (Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to whip out her camera phone post-op, the better to give us the visual of her druggy-eyed agony.)

And as I watched Jade, 25 (and, thus, the "MILF" of the bunch), talk about her experience getting face-fucked for an ethnic-themed offshoot of the infamous Facial Abuse website, the complex effectively obliterated all other thought. The grimly uproarious highlight of the film — that unwitting comedy I mentioned earlier — is her being subjected to the Mexican-baiting insults of the Facial Abuse cameraman during her pre-fuck interview ritual. Then, directors Jill Bauer and Ronna Gradus elucidate without blinking — damningly — just what else she's willing to go through for a fistful of fifties: rivulets of spit cascade down her mascara-smeared face as she's called a "puta"; a stiffened cock jabs the back of her throat in imitation of Norman Bates' butcher knife; she turns to the camera to inform her invisible audience of inveterate keyboard decorators that she's a "fucking whore" as instructed; she slurps her own vomit off the floor, unhesitatingly and, also, as instructed. (But, hey, at least she doesn't judge anyone for their tastes, as she's quick to remind us.)

Wikipedia explains the "Madonna-whore complex" as follows: 
First identified by Sigmund Freud, under the rubric of psychic impotence, this psychological complex is said to develop in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes.
It also tells us:
In sexual politics the view of women as either Madonnas or whores limits women's sexual expression, offering two mutually exclusive ways to construct a sexual identity.
In other words, it's the same old dysgenic Frankfurt School song and dance: pig-headed chauvinism and, of course, a failure to grasp female complexity lead to men shackling The Fairer Sex with the ball-and-chain of "oppressive" gender roles. Of course, the men of our collective past had a much stronger acquaintance with unsavory truths than their modern-day counterparts. Traditional Man often found himself unwilling to do with his rosy-cheeked wife — the mother of his children, after all — what he'd do with a prostitute or some trollop he'd picked up in a bar. Contrary to common "wisdom," however, this had nothing to do with him placing his wife on some "saintly Madonna" pedestal. No, what Traditional Man suspected was that the feminine grace of his "better half" was little more than the flimsiest of man-made parchments stretched over the mouth of a yawning psychological void — a parchment held in place by strongly enforced social codes that "limited women's sexual expression" by sheer necessity.

What he feared was that, underneath it all, his wife's essential nature was little different than that of the streetwalker or bar trollop. He recognized that women, like willful children, constantly sought to test boundaries they never had any stake in preserving; that they required the vigilance of an unwavering father figure — first, their actual fathers; later, their husbands — to keep a lid on their basest Eve-like inclinations for the sake of all involved. He knew that allowing his wife or daughter even a taste of the licentiousness and debasement she craved would, in time, spark a degeneration to her true unrefined state: an animal existence defined by craven hypergamous instincts, low impulse control, and a babe's preoccupation with short-term gratification. He knew that keeping this reined in was crucial to the maintenance of female fidelity and, thus, the ability of men to see women as wives and mothers; that it was absolutely essential to the propagation of the species, to the survival of his own cultural traditions, and to social cohesion as a whole.

Of course, post-Sexual Revolution™, post-the wholesale trashing of valuable social instincts like "slut-shaming," we've forgotten what our grandfathers took for granted. We've hardly a more lucid — a more dishearteningly "red-pill" — testament to this than our slowly-boiled-frog acclimation to the mainstreaming of porn as "just another" route to money-making and feminist self-expression. Take a gander at any of various sites like the ones our Hot Girls Wanted "stars" sell their long-term viability for; or, more to the point, browse the glut of sites boasting homemade submissions. Surf through the endless "selfies" and blowjob-in-a-parking-lot vids starring tomorrow's mothers from Anytown U.S.A. Watch as those "better halves" of the future drink piss, giggle through seminal face-squirtings in fitting rooms and public restroom stalls, sword-swallow over the cries of their unattended babies, and spread their razor-bumped gashes in macro close-up, not for the hundreds of dollars per video that "Stella May" and "Brooklyn" rake in, but for the fast-food validation of compliments and upvotes — the "how do you do?" of the social-media attention-whore era. Acquaint yourself with porn-for-recognition types like reality-TV single mom Farrah Abraham, who found the spotlight afforded her by MTV's Teen Mom series unbearably dim, so she figured making a "celebrity sex tape" with adult-video stud James Deen would brighten her profile. Make a list of pornified "I needed money for college!" Pollyannas and watch your paper run out: "Duke University Porn Star" Belle Knox, deposed Miss Teen Delaware Melissa King, ASU freshman and Backroom Casting Couch student ID-flasher Elizabeth Hawkenson, and numerous other randomettes shocked (I tell you, shocked) that the internet didn't keep their videotaped detours into Whoreville a secret.

Initially, Bauer and Gradus wanted to examine the porn-viewing habits of young men in college — undoubtedly, we'd have seen a finger-wagging jeremiad about "objectification" of women among today's youth. But what they discovered was the jizz-biz ubiquity of 18-to-21 year-old girls-next-door from strip-mall suburbias far and wide. Confronted with quite the rebuttal to the official narrative of women as beacons of chastity and common sense, the directors abandoned the original premise. Instead, they devoted their film to finding the culprit behind why a girl like Karly prefers sex with strangers for money since she imagines it to be magically free of the complications brought on by sex in relationships. ("Everyone's happy!" she says of the shoots.) The tone of the doc — in its calculated even-handedness, in its painstaking care not to show nudity or explicit sexual details — is every bit as solicitous over the well-being of girls it considers duped and naïve as producer Rashida Jones is when she expresses her doubts to interviewers that the "girls who are crying when they're being, you know, 'raped' on camera are always . . . acting and performing."

However, the culprit they unearth is none other than the girls' own greed and stupidity — their complete inability to think ahead or see beyond the pay from the next shoot. You watch Rachel, 18 and barely more than a week in the industry, crowing about the nine hundred dollars she just made for five hours of "work" and proclaiming that a-girl-gotta-do-what-a-girl-gotta-do-to-be-famous, and it's kindling for the raging fire in the pit of your gut that tells you women are such shameless, unthinking whores when left to their own devices — yes, even the "girls next door," even ones at the peak of their youthful ability to quicken pulses and land good-hearted men at the crest of their vitality and eagerness to love — that they'd rather make short-term cash for destroying their lives on camera than work an unglamorous job that offers neither fame nor attention. (The film throws in a clip of Belle Knox's CNN interview: her cretinous grin as Piers Morgan calls her "the most infamous student in America" says it all.)

You watch Tressa — the picture of average, a former cheerleader and pizzeria waitress who'd planned to go to Texas State University until she came across a Craigslist "modeling" ad — and your painfully logical male brain struggles to piece together how a girl goes from asking families "how was everything?" as she rings up their pepperoni-with-mushrooms for five to lying ass-up on a bed in cheap lingerie and sweet-talking a face on her laptop screen as the camera registers her uncleanliness by zeroing in on a box of douche in the corner. You take in this cringe-fest of diminished brain-cell count — Rachel "freestyling" about her cock-snorkeling to the beat of the miscreant hip-hop blather that's soundtracked many a Western girl's descent into craven self-annihilation; the girls' held-back-three-times-in-special-ed insistence that full-blown stardom is theirs for the taking; "Brooklyn's" moony-eyed declaration that, someday, rapper Drake is going to wife up her used-by-more-losers-than-a-Honda-Civic-at-Budget-Car-Rental stinkbox — and what's really funny is the sympathy for self-made trainwrecks that the filmmakers and Rashida Jones hoped to steer us toward.

Frankly — as Karly coos that she's treated like a "princess" by the fringe-dwellers who fill her Hot Pocket with their future-criminal DNA; as you note how gutter-skank plain these claimers of men's dollars are, even under troweled-on layers of greasy Missouri-stripper make-up that still can't hide their bad skin — you begin to hope that there's some stash of secret "fun time" videos with Uncle Bob that these family-disgracers "starred" in as little girls, or some hints of their acquaintance with Peru's most exportable delicacy that the filmmakers yanked out of the rough cut and shunted away. The part of you that still wants children someday, that still wants to believe in exceptions to the rule, makes you scour each frame for signs of some external factor — God, there has to be something — one could blame for these everyday girls' ninety-degree lurch into degradation that would have puzzled Caligula. But your gut tells you it ain't so; the lack of any such signs within the film tells you: it ain't so.

Next thing you know, you're in the downer second half of Boogie Nights: Rachel's coming to the world-shattering realization that "in the amateur porn world, you're just processed meat"; Karly's musing that it can't be good for you to have this much sex with a bunch of random guys as she prepares a douche — I sense a motif — at the kitchen sink. On his DVD commentary for that Altman-esque stoner's wander through the San Fernando Valley underbelly of the disco years, director Paul Thomas Anderson mentioned what he called the "'you know' girls": starlets he'd encounter on his visits to porn shoots who, when he'd ask what they thought or felt about what it was they were doing for a living, would mumble an "oh, you know..." that trailed away into a giggle or a staring-off into the distance. His prediction: that someday, all the pent-up rage behind those "you know"'s would come bursting forth in a paroxysm of long-simmering realization directed either at others, as in his Rollergirl character's roller-stomping of some college kid's head, or at themselves, as in a Shauna Grant/Savannah/Megan Leigh special right through the brainpan.

Sentiments identical to Anderson's haunt your head like an XTC chorus over the vacancies in these dimwits' eyes as they twirl their hair and utter banalities meant to disguise the reflection they cast every time they walk past a mirror: that of the inevitable shit-broke porn girl's slide into stripping and hooking; that of a future dark night of the soul spent clutching a crack pipe while making tearful calls home at F. Scott Fitzgerald's three o'clock in the morning; that of the one-time AVN Awards Best New Starlet nominee sucking black dicks for meth money in a ghetto motel room while pretending not to hear as D'Shawntray asks her "what up" with all those slash marks making latticework of the insides of her forearms. For girls imagining a sisterhood of the spunk-slurpers — some honor among skeeves — there's only the film's unflinching lesson in female nature: the crabs-in-a-barrel treachery of ostensible slut camaraderie, wherein vapid fuckholes try to numb the throb of having murdered their souls by puffing up each other's delusions of desirability, by nudging other girls down the same destructive path they've traveled.

And for girls imagining celebrity-enticing fuck-flick glamour? As a male performer tells us in the film, the staying power of industry cooter — like the low-quality skipjack it often resembles in both texture and smell after enduring the paid-fuck equivalent of six rounds with Mike Tyson — is blink-and-it's-no-longer-fresh: one to three months (worst case scenario, he says), a year tops. Riley — the former loser who became, in his words, "the shit" by putting up porn girls in his bare-walled Miami home and providing them with drive-thru nourishment (and probably dick) — frets about Tressa needing to shed pounds in order to fit the "teenybopper" look the biz sells, even though she isn't technically fat. "Brooklyn" describes her first shoot — getting "macked on" by some older "creeper" — as "kinda gross." Rachel works a teen-seduced-by-a-friend-of-the-family scene and sits there awaiting her call to perform in an "I FLA$H FOR CA$H" T-shirt, so doctor's-waiting-room glum and quiet that her "co-star" comments on it. Apparently, she's just come to that "processed meat" realization on the drive to the set — the depression on her face marks her as about ten shoots and twenty grams of nose candy away from one of those on-camera, life-didn't-pan-out-quite-the-way-I-thought porn-chick meltdowns relished by the same crowd that yanks its cranks to girls lapping the money shots of half a dozen men out of a doggie bowl or the Facial Abuse gag-and-vomit stuff.

Rachel complains later that there was nothing sexually arousing about the shoot, as if her personal enjoyment were the adult industry's raison d'être. "It's all about the guy getting off," she laments while squinting as if the light bulb that just clicked on in her head were too hot for the minuscule space it occupied and were beginning to sear her cranial walls. In her merciless self-assessment — the only such honesty we see in the film — she scripts the exit line for a whole subculture of predestined balcony-divers: "I'm dumb as hell and I need five hundred dollars and I'm just gonna get this random dude that I would never have sex with in real life..."

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At some point, Tressa stumbles upon the thoroughly Descartian presupposition that her parents might find out about her porn work. But it's an unconscious ratting-out of what her true intentions were all along — typically, for wenches of her perfidious bent, drifting into a policy of laissez-faire-with-the-derrière for all the world wide web to see was only either a cry for her family's attention or a "fuck you" shouted at them through the bullhorn of public prostitution. You wonder: exactly what kind of uncaring, distant father is she spiting by renting out to a rogues' gallery of pelvic battering rams the birth canal through which his grandchildren might make their entrance into the world? What kind of repressive, eternally disapproving harridan of a mother-from-Carrie is she distancing herself from by devolving into as much of her slatternly, come-one-come-all opposite as possible?

The film follows Tressa back to her hometown in the suburbs of Austin, Texas and what you find is a perfectly average pair of portly all-American support-givers: a mother who flips longingly through a yearbook filled with reminders of the small-town cheerleader her little girl used to be while sighing through all the interests — the now-lost opportunities — that she'd hoped Tressa would pursue; a nice-guy father who claims to be proud of Tressa no matter what (he has yet to find out about "Stella May") and who's clearly patterned his little chicken-fried snowflake after himself in sharing with her his love of the outdoors and in teaching her how to peel off buckshot and rock a mean pair of cowboy boots. One never doubts that her father's afflicted by the same side effect of the decades-long castration of Western men as most every other post-millennial dad, i.e. the wholly misguided compulsion to be more of a "friend" to his daughter than a disciplinarian, to not put his foot down too hard lest he limit that much-vaunted self-expression of hers and drive her to resentment and spread-eagle rebellion.

And yet — damned if ya do, dads, damned if ya don't — there Tressa is: spread-eagle for posterity via the era-spanning permanence of digital video with a resentment of her solidly middle-class, two-parent home that she can't even articulate. That's a middle-class, two-parent home from which she says she needed an escape. It's a middle-class, two-parent home that any fly-covered, malaria-hobbled Juanito from some brown-water shanty town on one of those late-night save-the-children commercials would give his malnutrition-deadened left arm for. We're talking a middle-class, two-parent home that represents a better start in life than half the kids right here in the U.S. of A have had, that represents one more parent than yours truly grew up with, for that matter. Whatever her father's mistakes, he and men like him have been the backbone of the world's greatest civilization since Thomas Jefferson got fitted for his first powdered wig — they're merely playing the hand they've been dealt in a game that they're only beginning to understand is now fundamentally rigged. Pamper your princess and give her lots of love and encouragement, they said, so he did. Don't undermine her with your views of how a woman should be, they said, so he didn't.

And how does Tressa thank him? She acknowledges the hurt that "Stella May" causes her family but brushes it aside as she refuses to let anything stand in the way of her yen to make money in as warped a fashion as possible. ("Nowadays, sex doesn't really mean anything," she'd informed us earlier.) She invites Bauer and Gradus' camera to push in tight on her mother's mortification as Mommy discusses her accidental introduction to terms like "BGB" (for "boy-girl-boy" shoots), or as Tressa offhandedly lies to her that the guys in porn don't come inside you even if it looks like they do. (Apparently, Mommy never figured out what "creampie" meant.) Tressa's mother tells her that she's gone from "positive to negative" and Tressa maintains that maddening "you know" of a non-reaction; she assures her mother, as if it were some genuine consolation, that they're tested regularly for STD's and her mother just shakes her head, silently asking her Lord Above what she's done to deserve this.

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Of course, it isn't long before one of the girls is comparing her "ordeal" to that of a rape victim — today's get-out-of-jail card for imbecilic Western whores seeking rescue from culpability via the Captain Save-A-Ho of our current mandate from on high, which holds that blaming a woman for the ill effects of her own life choices is tantamount to gassing her at the Dachau of some patriarchal fascism. It's like a virus in our national cupcake batter supply that's spread from girl to girl: Tressa blames her choices on her "sarcastic asshole" of an ex-boyfriend right before she casually mentions that she's now fucking his roommate; Rachel and others pout and sulk in their finest Veruca Salt imitations over the gall the jizz biz has not to have reconfigured itself into the fantasy of independent-grrrl empowerment that they expected it to be.

I suspect Bauer and Gradus were forthright about the exploited-angels theme they were going for; it materializes from their subjects' lips the exact second it begins to sink in that they've filed their lives away in the circular bin. Yet, the filmmakers contradict this premise with what their cameras capture, with the very factoids they serve up to us. We're assured that up to forty per cent of online pornography depicts violence against women and that graphic girl-"abuse" banner ads appear on many mainstream porn sites — "We're more places than McDonald's," says Jade — and yet, somehow, we're expected to buy the idea that our prick-dazed little Twinkies in stripper heels hadn't an inkling of how sleazy the industry would be. With just a couple of clicks, on the kind of smartphone you'll find glued to the hands of every girl in America, Rachel and Jade watch Belle Knox purring that she's a "feminist" who loves to see the misery in starlets' eyes as they're manhandled, then they watch her get strangled like a chicken in the hands of a farmer who's just had an argument with his wife — and yet, our coequals in intellectual ability and solid decision-making put on their best womanly about-faces to whine that, somehow, aspiring Sasha Greys don't know what they're getting themselves into.

What it adds up to is yet another crystal-clear exemplifying of women's follow-the-leader-even-if-it's-off-a-fucking-cliff imperative. Like some kid who tries out a figure-four leglock on his little brother because he saw his favorite wrestler do it on TV, a bunch of apples-of-someone's-eye — poster girls for what the old folks called "monkey see, monkey do" — decide to imitate strip-club-in-the-hood rejects they've seen getting skewered by convict dick on They dive headlong into it against the urging of all common sense and then wonder why their tongue-cleaning of men's exit hatches, or why a wizard sleeve packed with more swimmers than the beach in August, doesn't lead to some lavish life of Cristal in the jacuzzi and platinum-selling rapper husbands that not even the promotional puffery surrounding the porn biz has ever promised.

Of course, there's never any paying of piper bills for our Tressas because, no matter how close their debauchery's brought them to scraping hell's rooftop, there's always the cushion of beta supplicators — those chicken-hearted appeasers unlatching the gate for the stampede of our lipsticked barbarians — ready to lay themselves down and break their fall. Observe Tressa's consequence sponge of a boyfriend — he of the doormat's constitution that lets her tell him when to shave his beard, he of the clumsily rehearsed rationalizations that his walking sperm bank is merely a "hustler" and a go-getter, he of the guilelessness that has him sit next to his baby doll and tell the camera how he'd only fucked previous girls but, with his little porn star, he makes looove. And observe the respect that she shows him in response: she marks her ninety-day industry sell-by date by slipping into bondage work and lecturing him that he's going to have to be okay with her getting tied up and strangled for money for the next few years. Even Tressa's mom takes him in as if he were some unidentifiable insect that she'd spied crawling out of the bathtub drain: she asks him point-blank how he can date someone like her daughter.

Buyer's remorse casts a pall over the lovefest — he bitterly recounts his humiliation at a party they've attended because every guy there, he imagines, has likely jerked off to his future ex getting "punish-fucked for money." He nearly summons the scrotal mass to tell her the truth about herself — please tell me there's still some difference between me and a common hooker, she begs — but, luckily for Tressa, the call of the white knight is far stronger, apparently, than the need for self-respect or the drive not to stick one's dick in a petri dish of bacteria. Staring down the specter of life without the validation of a girl who can't do any better than him, he retreats back into his cuck-boy safe zone: "You're not a prostitute to me..."

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The loudest, heartiest laughter, of course, tends to be that which corroborates the maxim, "We laugh, that we may not cry." So it is with the guffaws men use to deflect the sobering realizations thrust upon them by web porn's wiping away of empowerment-narrative make-up from the crone's face of true female "liberation." Moms-of-the-year exhibiting fellatio artistry in full view of their childrenthis, Freud, is your "women's sexual expression" sans limitations. The by-now routine, and utterly nonchalant, porn-girl admissions to rutting on camera behind the backs of their boyfriends and fiancesthis is your "girl next door" without fear of social shaming or repercussions. Starlet Mia Malkova's mother accompanies her to a "blowjob audition" shoot and watches with laser-like focus and obvious arousal as her pride 'n' joy strips down and swallows the mini-me's of a man she just met — this is your civilization on fire as you titter and snort and five-finger-Mary your way through sights our ancestors could never have countenanced.

White girls whose smiles in a corner Starbucks would leave your mind abuzz with possibility, now anally defiled by "Mandingos" who appear as if they'd just gotten out of the big house, and it looks as if the world's longest turd has slipped out of her ass, changed its mind mid-way, and then keeps trying to go back in — this is your marriageable young women flinging their God-given worth and fertility, the very bloodline of your people, onto the raging bonfire we've made of every adherence to structure and order, of every bow to tribe and tradition that gave meaning to human existence. The unmistakable rapture on the face of a girl so adorably tiny, so inexpungibly button-cute, that it kills something inside of you to see her swan-dive into a glory hole-gangbang setup with the altered consciousness of a shaman in a trance — this, men, is your woman unfettered: the smirking whore beneath the mask of the Madonna. It's enough to make men from Santa Monica to Putin's St. Petersburg ascend to rooftops and shout unto the heavens: Back! Back, thou strumpets! Back to thy kitchen-shaped cages, thou eternal strangers to honor and self-respect, thou unknowing tools of satanic intent! Back to cowering in ecstasy under the boots and whips of thy fathers and husbands, thou destroyers of beauty, thou looseners of civilization's bonds, thou depraved niggers of womanly impudence!

A perfectly attractive girl flushing her sexuality and her life down the drain — a girl who, in a sane world, would be in a college classroom poring over James Joyce or practicing for her ballet recital — is the most depressing certainty the world has to offer. It's like watching someone knife a Vermeer or bash a puppy in the face with a mallet, like hearing some boob on his cell phone in the middle of Saint-Saëns' Piano Concerto No. 2 — it's a flagrant disregard for God's handiwork, an offense to the very existence of small perfections, a demolition for demolition's sake of something meant to bring just a pinch more joy and serenity into this slaughterhouse for hope and optimism we call a world.

Weak or nonexistent fathering is to blame — the culprit behind the culprit, if you will — but therein lies your fundamental difference between the sexes. A man without a father in his life still has a fairly good chance of accomplishing something, of eluding the downward slope of self-abasement and horrifyingly stupid decisions in the name of money he'd just blow on a Scarface mountain of pixie dust, anyway. Conversely, a woman without a father is, instantaneously and without question, on a rocket-fueled collision course with the grimiest moral dumpster in her vicinity, without even the possibility of any other path or perhaps a divergence into something a mite less spirit-depleting. It's as if something just clicks within her little monkey hindbrain — something dark and unknowable, some primitive suicidal urge. It's as if not immediately spreading one's legs and fucking the biggest scumbag one can find the second one is of legal age were anathema to the female brain; as if ruin myself in the wildest, most spectacular manner imaginable! were programmed as the psychological go-to for every girl starved of a trice's worth of notice. That "Madonna-whore" isn't the hobgoblin of puny male minds, it's the head and the mouth, respectively, of the river of Western female progression.

©2015 Scott Is NOT A Professional Film Critic


Anonymous said...

Scott, i cant believe how negative you`re being about something that essentially represents "THE FUTURE FOR ALL OF US" ! ! !, like those people 150 years ago who were scared by horseless carriages, flying machines, electricity, and the telephone, all things that represented the future then in exactly the same way, its an exact parralel ! ! !.

Anonymous said...

Excellent blog. Creatively written and emphatically poignant discourse on the state of our young women.

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