But, really, must we get so graphic on TV about problems down there? First it was the horrid women’s razor ad about “trimming the hedges” (YouTube link). Maybe you’ve seen it? A pretty young blond sings about how, when she’s feeling a little blue, her favorite thing to do is “mow the lawn”. In solidarity, perky young women exclaim that some bushes are really big (wink), some gardens are really small (another wink), and whatever shape your ‘topiary’ is in, “it’s easy to trim them all”. Funny stuff… unless you happen to be sitting next to a pre-pubescent boy who asks “Mom, what are they talking about? I thought this was a razor commercial.” (Solution: spill hot coffee on yourself as a distraction. It works!)

Now Summer’s Eve is taking the same tack, and this time it’s ruffling some feathers. Why? Well, it’s not just the not-so-subtle images in their ad (see, upper left). This time, it’s because the ad is supposedly playing into racial stereotypes:

The black hand explains to African American women that you spend a lot of time on the hair on your head, why neglect the hair down there while showing the drawing of a cactus. (Okay, I’ve lost my African American readers, let’s move on.) The Hispanic hand starts off by saying “Aye, Aye, Aye” and then in a heavily accented voice mentions the “trashing the tacky leopard thong” — need I say more? (Hasta luego Hispanic readers) The Caucasian hand starts off by welcoming viewers with a hearty “Hello from Vagina Land”.

Except, sadly, when it comes to pushing products for down there, this racism is nothing new. That bush-trimming razor commercial? It’s a black woman who sings about really big bushes, while a petite Asian woman sings about her ‘small garden’. But, while clearly playing to racial stereotypes, the razor commercial was also so preposterous, so over-the-top and campy, that the racism didn’t really jump out. So consumers ignored it, while absorbing the message that sad or depressed women need only spend some time trimming, mowing and cutting their pubes to turn their lives around.

Frankly, I find the Summer’s Eve commercial repugnant on a number of levels, not the least of which its insidious racial stereotyping. So I’m glad it’s causing uproar and generating consumer anger, which will hopefully stop this slew of vaginal-related ads before I find myself having to pour an entire pot of coffee on myself to distract my kid from a commercial for double dildos.

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The various guys in the video below were certainly expecting the former, judging by the grins on their faces as they check out a pretty girl on screen who looks like she’s about ready to give them a peep show. Little did they know, the marketing team behind the movie The Last Exorcism (coming to theaters later this month) had other plans for them.

Really freaking funny plans, if you’re not one of the boys. Otherwise? Well, let’s just say that pair of 13-year-olds will probably think twice before trying to see a strange woman’s boobies now.

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Oh, I’ve heard of Chatroulette in a vague sort of way before: through headlines in my RSS feeds, mostly, and I seem to recall some mention on cable’s gaming channel at some point. But, as someone who despises chat rooms, I’ve pretty much ignored it.

My friend called again today. “No, seriously. You’ve got to check this site out, if only to find material you can write about.” And, since I’d spent two hours staring at a blank computer screen unable to come up with one decent sentence, I figured I’d give it a try.

Now, my friend had already warned me the chat participants are predominantly male, and those males they’re predominantly perverts. Kind of like the real world, I figured. (Little did I know.) Also, she said, some are just plain freaky — like the Asian guy she spent several minutes chatting with who’d been dressed as the Queen of England. “He was really nice, though!” she assured me.

Okay, fine: perverted male freaks, some dressed as the Queen of England, who might just provide fodder for my novel. Who could resist that, right?

Flash forward ten minutes.

Wearing a baseball hat and black Jackie O. sunglasses to preserve my anonymity (and because I couldn’t find my Groucho Marx glasses with mustache), I spent almost two minutes chatting with a sad old man who repeatedly asked me to describe my favorite sexual position. When I didn’t, he “nexted” me… which means I got ditched by a sad old man because I bored him. S’okay, it’s not like that hasn’t happened before.

My next chat roll led to a woman easily in her sixties though she certainly dressed decades younger. Most of her (wrinkled) bosom hung out of her cami top and when she batted her false lashes I marveled at how strong her eyelashes must be. I ‘nexted’ when she lit one cigarette off the butt of another.

By this point I’d started to think only senior citizens logged onto Chatroulette during working hours. My next few rolls neither confirmed nor disabused me of this idea since those people couldn’t be bothered to appear on screen but, instead, had angled their cameras toward signs saying “Show me your tits!” or some variation on that theme. I flipped them off and rolled on.

Then came two tween-aged girls who’d done their best to make themselves look older by slathering on makeup. Okay, so maybe senior citizens aren’t the only ones taking advantage of the internet during the day. But shouldn’t they be in school? They ‘nexted’ me after I’d scolded them over that and for clearly being younger than the 16-year-old limits on Chatroulette. Hey, once a mother always a mother, even if you’re trolling the internet’s underbelly.

Next came a slew of penis shots. Long ones. Short ones. Small ones. Fat ones. For some reason, guys who probably can’t even form a coherent sentence face-to-face with other people get all sorts of bold when the only thing they’re exposing are their nads. Which reminds me… if you’re going to show off your junk to total strangers online, maybe you ought to give it a good once-over first and check for things like dingleberries. Jus’ sayin’.

I finally gave up after one guy’s camera provided an unfortunately closeup shot of him tea-bagging a picture of Sarah Palin. I kid you not. Since I’m sympathetic to the Tea Party movement, I marked him as offensive. Guy needs to learn the difference between Tea Party and tea bagging, if you ask me.

Did I find good material to pepper a novel with? Oh, hell no. On the whole, I found the experience terribly disturbing, but probably not for the reasons you’d think. Sure, it alarms me that so many weirdos are so eager to play with their peckers for strangers online. But more disturbing? That I had so much fun telling those perverts that I couldn’t possibly watch because I couldn’t find my magnifying glasses.

UPDATE 07.28.10 – Chatroulette founder Andrey Ternovskiy has posted a message saying, essentially, that enough is enough. They’re now logging IP addresses and making screen captures of people using the service to show off their, er, stuff… and they’re going to be turning the documentation over to the police.

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Oh, sure, I could get into the habit of posting this little graphic every few days to warn people about the current PMS threat level.

(Today is Yellow, lucky you.)

Or I could just point you to PMS Buddy, a free service to help you track “that time of the month” for the women in your life.

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Part Demolition Man, part mp3 headset, part yenta, the “LoveTrainer” — from Sega Toys, no less — bills itself as a “unisex sex enhancer that combines biofeedback training with the excitement of your favorite music”.

Did I mention the “sensuous voice commands” issued to clue-in the clueless? You’ll never be at a loss for ways to keep your hands and other appendages occupied with hits like these:

• “The foreplay will now begin!”
• “Please confirm the heart rate sensor.”
• “Your stamina will now be tested.”
• “The love making will now begin.”
• “Following the beat make love much harder.”

Seriously, with a price tag of $79.95 I’m guessing you can find some crack-riddled whore to sit by your bed and offer similar suggestions at half the price. Throw in a pack of cigarettes, and I bet she’d hold your boom box for you, too.

[Via Gizmodo]

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Not surprisingly, the church was founded by an artist, Carlos Bebeacua from Lövestad (no joke) in southern Sweden, a place known for being a bit more in tune with their inner sex freaks than we are here in the U.S.

“The orgasm is God, the orgasm should be worshiped,” Bebeacua told the Kvällsposten newspaper.

“The orgasm is the ultimate feeling of lust, it shouldn’t be limited to ejaculation. You can reach it through art or by looking at a landscape and thinking ‘Wow!’”

As such, the church has only priestesses, and its scriptures are the Catechism of Orgasm which preaches the gospel of sex.

Sound good? Then get down on your knees and… pray.

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But it kind of makes you wonder: has the man even taken a good look at his wife? Hell, I’d be addicted to sex if I was sleeping with Téa Leone.

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