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Wild On Sex Vol. 3
Nov 30 2005
Wild On Sex Vol. 3
Dir: Jewel De'Nyle
The box cover says "Shot on location in Montreal, Canada, with the nastiest lesbos ever!" but I think they mean the other kind of nasty. Not the nasty where it's like, "Ohmygod! Did she just cover her pussy with honey and lay next to an anthill?!?" This is the kind of nasty that all you need is one look and you want to upchuck. Which leads me to believe that this film was shot anywhere but Montreal, because from what I've heard, Montreal has the hottest strippers in North America. Then again, I mostly hear that praise from Canadians, and how much can you really trust a Canadian? They haven't got a clue what's going on. Look at Vice, for instance. Have you ever noticed how shitty the fashion sense is of most every female that works for or reads Vice? Even the DOs have gone from tongue-in-cheek to "Dude. Furry boots are awesome. No, seriously. We love them." I have trouble believing anything I read in Vice, and I think it's because the magazine stems from Canada. I'm an American, for fuck's sake, but because of association I even question my writing in this column. I get the finished magazine at my shop, and I go right to the porn reviews (because that's consistently the best shit in Vice) and after reading it, I'm like, "This guy is full of shit. Can he be any more up on his own tits?" Then I look at the byline, and it's my name, and I get bummed. I pretend that a different Chris Nieratko wrote it. A Chris Nieratko who is a total asshole. It's funny how your country of origin can make you think like such an elitist cock. Had Vice been started on American soil, I think I'd read each and every page with a different mindset, probably in the same way a priest reads his weekly copy of God Times. This looking down my nose on Canadians is a fairly new thing for me. In the past, I simply acted as if Canada didn't exist, that all territory north of New York, Michigan, or Washington state was just unpopulated wilderness where the bears and elk ran the show. That changed a few months ago when I tried to enter Canada to go to a skateboard contest with the Zoo York team in Montreal. At the border, I was stripped, searched, held, and interrogated because of a few possession charges that are over 10 years old. And three DUIs in the last four years. And an assault-on-a-police- officer charge (he was so undercover, it doesn't even count). The charges aren't important, regardless of how big or small they are. The fact is, I am an AMERICAN, which means I have an all-access pass to anywhere I want to go on the globe. And here's Canada trying to tell me to turn my ass around and go home. Canada! It's like Puerto Rico North; they have no say in world politics, and they definitely aren't the boss of me. Does Canada even have a guy in the United Nations? I bet whenever the UN meets, they don't even call Canada. And if Canada calls the UN and is like, "Hey, what are you guys doing Friday? I heard you were getting together," I bet the UN is all like, "Yeah…I was going to call you, but I've been busy. Yeah, you should come to the meeting," then the UN gives Canada the wrong address. My attitude toward the border patrol quickly passed when the thought of having to find a way back to New Jersey on my own hit me. Then I began to beg. And lie. I explained away the DUI, saying that September 11 (which had just passed) was two years of sobriety for me and that Canada need not worry because I was no longer the troublesome man I once was. That wasn't a good enough lie, so I dug deeper and explained, "My wife and kids won't be able to eat if I don't finish my work assignment." That, they bought. Despite the fact that I wasn't wearing a wedding ring nor did I have any stretch marks. They asked what type of work I did. I explained, "I'm a freelance writer for Vice, a Canadian magazine, here to cover a skateboard contest." With that, they allowed me to pass into Canada. Not without buying a temporary work visa for $160 US and being told I couldn't come back to Canada for 10 years. So fuck those dudes.
Hot Letters Volume 2
Dir: Frank Thring
This is Euro porno, which you well know means lots of blondes taking it in the ass—not so different from a California-made porno, except that it requires American voiceovers. My friends, a pair of Jewish sisters, Lilly and Piney, were lucky enough to get the job to do the voices for a few of the vignettes in Hot Letters Vol. 2. When I worked for Larry Flynt I remember a friend up at Hustler was responsible for scripting the voiceovers for the foreign porn. His pièce de résistance came in the form of some Russian DVD where two guys fuck this feisty little blonde. What he did was script out dialogue for the two male characters that portrayed the woman as possessed by the devil and the two men who were smacking her unmercifully were just trying to exorcise the demon. To punctuate the woman's possession he left her vocals in her native Russian. So here's two guys yelling at this girl in English, saying shit like, "Be gone evil-doer," while plowing away at her as she goes on speaking in evil tongues. It's possibly the funniest and cleverest thing to ever happen in porn. Lilly and Piney weren't working with as good a script. Theirs was your typical cable-man-fixes-the-TV-and-then- they-fuck fare, but me being able to register the voices on the screen makes things pretty damn funny. It also makes it kind of hard to jerk off to, because both of them read their lines with the greatest Valley girl delivery, making it difficult to sustain a hard-on without laughing. It did, though, make me consider some freelance work in porno voiceovers. I mean, I know how to read, and women say I have a very sexy, deep voice à la Barry White. Piney said she only got paid $20 for her time. But it's not even a matter of money; it's about the art! Just kidding. It would just be funny to say that I'd worked in porn. I'd like to add it to my résumé between working UPS and writing copy for gay men's porno mags. I tried to do some voiceover work once but after an hour in the studio could not deliver the lines the way the director wanted, and I finally gave up. It was a bit disheartening, because I don't like failure. I'm used to it—I fail at nearly everything I do—I just don't like it. Then that director went on to make a documentary about Gator, the 80s pro skateboarder who went on to kill his girlfriend and bury her in the desert. I wrote her and told her that her movie sucked; partially because I was still bitter about the voiceover but mostly because her movie fucking sucked. She gave Gator the same knob job that she gave "Andre the Giant Has a Posse" guy Shepard Fairey a few years earlier. She glamorized the skater right up until the end, until she dropped the bomb: "Oh yeah, he killed this girl and is in jail for the rest of his life. The end." Girls should not be allowed to make documentaries about guys they had posters of hanging on their bedroom wall. You don't exactly get an objective opinion. I, on the other hand, am a consummate professional and would make a fantastic addition to any budding porn-maker's voiceover ensemble.
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