Today, I learned what a “Vajankle” was.

I can’t show you the picture. Because even when they’re depicted in silicone form, I’m pretty sure the WordPress overlords frown on photographs depicting feet with built-in snatches at the superior stump portion. So, instead, I’ll just let you marinate on that description, click here at your discretion, or just use your imagination to figure out what this novelty item’s for.

As ever, a million questions. But we’ll just ask two and move on.

First: How is this “new”? When I think “fetish” one of the first things I think of is “foot”. It’s been an ongoing gag since as far as I can remember. Even in the book I’m reading right now (“Revolution”) when he talks about fetishes, the example he gives for sexy perspective to ultimately talk about consumerism is… you guessed it… feet. So, again, how’s this new? And, second: WTF else is out there besides what looks like a squishy replica of Leatherface’s Friday night date? These internal inquiries led me to bravely venture into my Google machine to discover some of the top strangest sexy-time accessories man’s concocted (incidentally, that word suddenly sounds cheeky in this context). I’d say “solo sexy time”, but like my mama always told me – I should share my toys with my friends. Subsequent experience has proven she’s not altogether wrong. So join me, if you please in reviewing my research efforts. I might as well tell you now that I didn’t even scratch the surface on strangest fornication toys here. But, like the venerable Don Miguel Ruiz says, just try your best – right?

Let’s see which of these weird trinkets might augment your more amorous activities.


Oh, this’ll be perfect – especially since my delivery of the infamous “Deliverance” line is starting to lose its magic whenever Ricardo the landscaper and I reenact the oh-so iconic scene lately. Such a shame. So, maybe a new toy will make it seem more real again. Still, I feel like the name “pig tail butt plug” is the verbal equivalent of a ball gag. Especially when it looks like a wine cork with a pig tail attached. Why not… “swine cork”? Nobody thought of that? Really? Seriously, I missed my calling.


Wha-…? Where…? How-…?

Okay. Let me take a deep breath and start over. Because I dunno how any breath – deep or not – gets executed in this thing. All I want to know is: any biological process that has to happen through a hole to experience both coitus and continued life after it – how does that happen? How does that happen in this thing? And again, I feel like they could’ve gone more creative with this name. Because I keep looking at this bish (who we hope’s still alive in there, but – who knows- she could just be sat upright because rigor mortis has set in), and thinking the same thing: sixth grade. My binder for all seven subjects worth of school notes looked exactly like what she’s got on. Same color. Straps. Zipper. In fact, I’m catching a twinge of nostalgia because I feel like if I unhook and zip her, my highlighter pens, candy wrappers, Mary Kay cherry lip gloss, and slightly cologne scented love notes from Charles asking me to the fall dance will come pouring out from it. I can smell the permanent wave chemicals and cafeteria food now. My vote? Shoulda dubbed it the “Trap-her Keep-her”. Between the childhood memories and that 50 Shades of Grey crap coming out soon, it’d have done especially well.


Maybe the swine cork isn’t your style.

Playing backwoods backdoor burglar got old really quick and not even your impressive accent you’ve been working on or capacity to play the banjo while issuing a rear delivery just isn’t doing it for either of you anymore. This is a low point. But in desperation, we find hope. So, did you ever think maybe you just need Jesus? Baby Jesus? To fill you (or your partner) up? That’s right. This new baby Jesus butt plug takes you back to basics. Fill yourself up with your favorite folklore Messiah. ‘cause this north star leads to your south starfish. And if the toy turns you on but you feel slightly offended by it being Jesus (who totally would understand your predicament; it’s not like butt plugs are covered in his ten basic scriptural cliffs notes), just imagine it’s the million other things that it actually looks like instead: A disembodied nun’s head, an African tribe member with the extended neck rings, Gurmukh, a clitoris with a face…


Ah, this is cute. It even comes with a girly pink satchel.

Then again, maybe I just like it because it looks a ménage à trois already happened here – between a tampon, makeup accessory, and something that’d light up so I could wave it at an EDM concert if I liked headaches and bad music. And if you’re also not EDM’s biggest fan, no worries, ‘cause this thing buzzes to your tune of choice. (Although the monotonous repetitive ear throbbing of that genre paired with this toy on a lonely Saturday night… just might have you violently defending the realm of electronic dance jams to your buddies at brunch tomorrow.) Aside from its obvious function of synching up playlists for sonorous sexytime, we’re even further mixing in the technology age here on the marketing front – what with the “OMG” turn of phrase and the design – simple, pale, and sleek like everything Apple makes. So, what’s not to like about this girly little plaything? You might think it’s that it’s “still a robot” and that makes you no better than those vending machine panty sniffing Asian businessmen drinking firewater from R2D2’s rubber tits. But, no. It’s worse. Because if you’re fapping (flapping? Schlucking? Shucking? Whatever…) to an ipod’s content, that means you have to pay more money (on top of whatever this gadget costs) for each new song to bring you an orchestral orgasm. In a way, it’s like a digital ditty brothel. Cathouse the musical.


Thanks, but really this is just a money pit into your muffin pit. It’s no better than paying thousands of dollars to learn how to meditate (#TM). Mediation and masturbation are both, fortunately, free. And I’m pretty sure you can google either and enlighten yourself in less than five minutes on how to transcend your ego and quench your gnawing lust alike without paying a cent more than your monthly Comcast bill costs you. This toy doesn’t even double well for if I do want to share my toys with someone later like I was taught to do. Thanks, but I’ll just recruit a pal to altruistically help me out should I tire of the ol’ vaj-vinyl record scratching routine. (Sidenote: Speaking of “wiki-wiki-wiki!”:, you can probably learn how to beat off and Buddha-fy both on wiki-how”)


Now, I don’t want you to get distracted by this image.

It’s hard – but let’s all try.

Because the focus here’s not the fact that something – though not even alive – has a fate worse than death ahead of it. Or the fact that this looks like a collaborative effort between a dungeon master, Michael Jackson, and a little league catcher (“Mysterious Skin” anyone?). And it’s definitely not about the fact that the material of this rubber glove doesn’t terminate until it reaches her rotator cuff (even though I’m doing the estimated calculations on my body and the verdict is: I think I’d run out of anus by about my elbow, tops – if I take advantage of all this provided excess fabric, you’ll be naught but my mittened muppet.) No, all of these musings are just distractions from the beautiful, cosmic, happy accident that happened spontaneously on the page I found this on. After talking about this toy, a website quote was provided. And, beneath that quote, the randomly computer generated sponsor ad photo that appeared like Mary’s face on my morning toast – was one that made me believe in god all over again:

Suddenly Frank’s “put that shit on everything” tagline takes on a whole new meaning – a phrase seductively intoned by grams in your newest fire-lubed fantasies. (I wonder now if red hot enemas are a thing in the more sadistic corners of society? Nevermind. I take that back. I don’t want to know.)

Okay, loves… That’s all for today. We’re done. Reached the shoulder of our anal mit here. And, while I don’t say this often, today I request that if you’ve seen something you like here – please don’t let me know it in the comments. Again: do not let me know. I have an overactive imagination, as you may’ve gathered by now. And I don’t need my late night haunting thoughts to comprise your magma infused rump all wrapped in my middle school binder while something mysteriously buzzes along to Beyonce at the fore…

See? Didn’t even need your commentary help.

Or an expensive sex toy, for that matter.

Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me…