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      Joanna's Angels 3: Douchebag Resurrection

      February 1, 2011
      From the column 'Skinema'


       


       

      Dir: Joanna Angel
      Rating: 10
      Burningangel.com


      What could be sadder than a bunch of awkward and insecure porn fans leering at girls from a distance at a convention in Vegas? A landfill’s worth of cocksure Jersey Shore douchebag extras thinking every porn chick at a convention in Edison, New Jersey, wants to fuck them.

      There was a time when I’d take the uncomfortable creeps and weirdos any day, because I felt at least they still had some semblance of humanity—as opposed to Guidos, who I think should be taken out to the farm and shot. Then I had my eyes opened.

      A few months ago, on the way from the Edison convention, the very sexy and funny Burning Angel girl Jessie Lee was in a near-fatal car accident that caused her to break her neck and back and momentarily be pronounced dead. I live in the town over from the hospital she was rushed to and the next day I found myself transporting a carload of tattooed porn sluts to visit her. I tried to make jokes about how many sluts, like clowns, we could fit into a Subaru. I suggested that perhaps we should stop by my house and pick up my HD camera because despite Jessie not being able to move I was sure her vagina still worked and we should probably take advantage of this opportunity to make an authentic paralyzed porno scene in an actual hospital. For the sake of science and art I volunteered to play the doctor and to be the one to have sex on her.

      I was trying to lighten the mood.

      I made all the girls cry. There was so much dripping mascara in my car it looked like I was taking a load of zombies to the zoo. Tough crowd.

      We looked like the Bad News Bears of smut as we walked up to the security desk for our name badges. There was so much animal print, hair spray, and smeared makeup. Tits were nearly popping out, and the click-clacking of high-heeled shoes foreshadowed our entrance. Dressed in a chicken costume from the neck down (I thought it would make Jessie smile), I looked the most normal.

      When the elevator door opened, the ghost of Marlon Brando’s last days exited. He was in a muumuu, and he slid across the floor leaving a wet trail like a slug. The smell of his unwashed dick cheese had turned the air around him green, and his face was fat and bloated. If there was ever any cheek or chin definition it had spread and melted to make the world’s ugliest pancake.

      He moved past us and we piled in. As the door closed I asked if we’d just gotten on the elevator to the Island of Dr. Moreau.

      The question made everyone uncomfortable. Then someone admitted they recognized the sloth; he was one of Jessie’s fans. He had somehow found out what hospital she was in and snuck in and watched her sleep all night while she lay unconscious in a temporary coma.

      I tried not to imagine him doing anything more than “watching” as she lay defenseless.

      If you’d like to donate to Jessie’s recovery fund, go to helpomgitsjessielee.com.

      CHRIS NIERATKO
      More stupid can be found at Chrisnieratko.com

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