Modify

Dear Santa,

Hey man! What's up? I trust this reaches you in good health. Hope you and the missus and the reindeer are all doing well. Sorry this is reaching you so late, if it reaches you at all, but I only just got what I wished for last year. I was starting to think you'd forgotten me! But hey, I figure you've got a lot of eager young 'un's to attend to first, so I'm cool with waiting a few extra months. It's not like you're gettin' paid for this job, amirite?

Just to refresh your memory, last year I wished for a documentary that showed the nitty-gritty of cock-splitting. I'm sure you get requests for that all the time, alongside the usual shit like bikes and Playstations and Samsung Galaxy 4's. As I wrote in my letter, I'd just seen a pretty cool doco called No Body Is Perfect, which covered a good sector of the body modification community. It's a fascinating subject for me and it's all the rage down here in the non-snowy lands. I bet the trend has even drifted up your way and you've got quite a few elves showing up to work in the factories with nose piercings and tramp stamps. A symptom of the modern age. But my major disappointment with the doco is how it suggested cock-splitting but didn't have the cojones to show it. That's why I wished for something a little more graphic.

Lo and behold, you sent this baby my way - the 2005 work entitled Modify. I accidentally stumbled across it on a torrent site, but I know it was you, Santa, who pushed me in the right direction.

Modify is a great documentary that comprehensively covers all bases of extreme bodily modification - tattoos, piercings, brandings, scarification, implants, plastic surgery, sex changes, etc. And it doesn't pull any punches in showing the real gore. Dicks, clits, lips, tits, cunts, butts, septums and rectums - if there's any sensitive body part, then this doc shows it being sliced, diced, pierced or punctured. I've seen my fair share of real gore in my time. I've seen mondos and addios; autopsies and biopsies; homicides, suicides, genocides and even a few episodes of Ironside. But I ain't seen nothin' that made me squirm quite like the sight of a man putting plastic implants under the skin of his own penis, using a scalpel and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. Such precise, self-inflicted invasions of the flesh slice into the psyche at a more personal level than any Taliban televised beheading.

What's more interesting is how this doco unwittingly explores the line between hobby and lifestyle, between want and need. A simple nipple piercing, like I have, doesn't impact on my life in any way. But when you get 70 piercings in your face, it defines who you are, whether you want it to or not. First impressions make all the difference. When you've got a buttload of steel bars rammed through your facial flesh, any initial impression immediately impacts on how anyone, whether friend or acqaintance or passerby, is going to view you. Not to mention how it narrows your potential career path.

Even milder cases are covered in the doco, like extreme, 'roid-free bodybuilders, intent on making themselves into muscular works of body-art. Such dedication toward a strict dietary and iron-pumping regimen means there's no such thing as a day off to relax. Unlike you Santa, what with you getting 364 days off for every 1 night of work you do, right? Haha, I'm just kiddin' with you. I know you work hard, keeping the elves in line and the reindeer well-fed.

The downside to watching those dedicated to body modification is that tattoo and piercing needles often hit what I like to call the "pretentious twat gland". Thus you inevitably end up with a few folk talking bollocks about how some cranial studs or an eyeball branding is an amazing spiritual experience. There's a dude in this doco who states, "The decision to get my face tattooed was the greatest challenge I've faced in my entire existence". Fuck that douchebag and fuck everyone like him. There's little challenge here and piss-all in the way of spiritual experience. Body modification is mere imitation of tribal ritual, removed from its original context. Modern primitivism is pure luxury; an expensive middle-class pastime for those privileged enough to be bored with their own meat. So cram all that spiritual hogwash up your tattooed anuses, you self-important fuckwits.

Anyway, I've talked enough about the flick.It's worth a watch and it totally gave me the graphic cock-splitting footage that I asked for. I don't know what your internet connection is like up in the North Pole (you're probably still on dialup, haha!), but here's a link to the trailer. I'd have liked to send you the full movie, but some fuckfaced cuntswab took it down from youtube -

 I have to confess at this point, I watched this to ease my own pain and curb my own urges, but it only provided temporary relief. I long for a catharsis that never seems to arrive. I'm no longer cutting myself, but the voice is always there, impelling me to do so. My nightmares persist on a nightly basis and I sometimes awake with explosive rage when I can't remember them. I try to grasp onto anything concrete, but all I feel is sands slipping through my fingers, until I'm once again left empty-handed. The only thing I hope for is a single day better than the one that preceded it, but even this humble dream is always denied. Last week, I was on the bus home from work and I started crying uncontrollably. I don't know why and I couldn't stop, even when the paramedics were carrying me away. I wish this was an isolated occurrence, but, truth is, I'm a 30 year old baby.

Since my mother died, I have not a single person left in this world who loves me now or ever will again. I've accepted that and learned to deal with it. But what's so much worse is the prospect of never having another friend, noone that even likes me. Every future relationship I have will be built on a foundation of pity. There's nothing about me left to like. I feel like I have a black hole inside my ribcage, sucking in entire universes of emptiness. Everytime I think my body can no longer contain so much anti-matter, another blast of nothing gushes in to prove me wrong. Carving a hole doesn't let any of my pain out, it just creates another vent to let more in. The doctors keep telling me that none of this is my fault, bludgeoning me down further with their textbook psychologies. The fact that I didn't ask for this and don't deserve it, that noone deserves this yet it happens regardless, only serves to make me feel more helpless and hopeless and empty and alone.

The thing is, Santa, we can modify our flesh in so many ways, but we're forever stuck with the mind we were born with. I wish I could carve my brain into a fresh mould, create a new architecture of synapses with strength and stability. Pierce every bit of neural tissue that brings me pain. Use a branding iron on my memory centres and burn the whole lot into oblivion. Tattoo over my misery with sunshine and beauty and wanky little tribal designs that don't mean anything. Take a scalpel to my cerebral cortex and split it like a cock, letting all the hurt bleed out through my eyelids.

I'm falling apart here, Santa. It's been nearly 20 years since you last visited me. I used to look forward to Christmas Eve, when you'd sneak into my room and into my bed. Snuggling me from behind, your big beard tickling the back of my neck, filling me up with the Christmas spirit. These are my happiest memories. Even though it would sometimes hurt a little, I felt warm and safe in your arms. Then my parents started arguing real bad and my father committed suicide and I never saw you again. I know you have your own life to worry about, but it felt like you abandoned me right when I needed you most.

I've kept our secret safe for all this time, just like you told me to. I never let slip a word of it to anyone, not even the doctors when they kept prying. But now I have to break my silence. I'm desperate. I need to see you. The post office keeps returning my letters, so I'm putting this one publicly on the internet, in the hope that someone who knows you will read it and pass it on. It'll be the last letter I write. Hope to see you on Christmas Eve. I'll leave milk and cookies, as usual.


Forever and always,
Your special boy



PS. Remember a few years ago, I asked you to get Choi Min-Sik back into film? I'm so glad you managed to pull that off. I Saw The Devil was awesome! Thanks a bunch for that, man.

The Beardliness of Beards: A Short Essay about Beards

I'm currently in the process of growing a beard, an effort I seem to attempt on a bi-annual basis. Once again I'm saddened and disgusted with my face's beard-growing abilities. Some parts of my face grow beard in the wrong direction. Other parts refuse to grow beard at all. I've had to come to terms with the fact that I'm terminally sideburn-deficient. Plus, my Zappa-style soulpatch is nowhere near as bold or lustrous as I would like.

^^ What I hope to look like someday.

On the positive side, since growing a beard, I'm been informed by more than one person that I look like a terrorist. Noone ever told me that when I was clean-shaven. I'm taking that as a positive sign, as any bearded man would.

 

The Master approves of beards. So should you.

Here are a few amazing facts about beards that will entertain, educate and astound you -

Amazing Beard Fact #1: The beard is the only body part that a man can compliment another man on, without said compliment sounding like a gay pick-up line. Take a simple statement like - "Hey man. I really like your beard." Nothing homoerotic 'bout that. Now substitute another body part, like this random example - "Hey man. I really like your penis and balls." Notice how, in making the compliment about something other than beards, the same sentence develops subtle, homosexual undertones? Fascinating stuff.

The Amityville Horror - Crap movie. Great beard.

Amazing Beard Fact #2: All women love beards. Upon seeing a man with a good beard, the average woman will think to herself, "Golly gosh, I wouldn't mind having that handsome fellow's facial fuzz tickling my landing strip!". Every woman who reads this has thought those exact words on many occasions. That's scientifically provable. If a woman claims to not love beards, she is in fact openly admitting that she loves beards even more than those women who wear their beard-love proudly.

Beards can help fending off both icy cold weather and flesh-assimilating alien creatures.

Amazing Beard Fact #3: The only member of ZZ Top without a beard is named Frank Beard.

They've got beards. And they know how to use them.

Amazing Beard Fact #4: This is the greatest beard ever grown -

Asbestos Felt: Patron Saint of Beards.

Anywayz, I can't think of any clever way to end this post. So instead, here's a song about beards by a band called The Beards.

 

Maniac (2012)

I don't like violent horror movies, nor do I approve of them. The 1980 film Maniac was well-known for its poster art, showing the lower half of a man bearing a bloody knife, a scalp and a protruding bulge in his pants, suggesting that he enjoyed stabbing innocent women to death and then showering their bleeding bodies in semen. What filth. However, the recent remake has been getting high praise among horror fans, so I felt it was my duty to watch it. People need a reminder that violent art should not be judged for its aesthetic qualities, but rather from my own personal moral standards, which you all should share.

The film is admittedly well-made and stylish, but the words of the great James Ferman have never been more true. It’s all right for you middle-class cineastes to see this film, but what would happen if a factory worker in Manchester happened to see it? Don't be swayed by the veneer of artistic pretension. Remember who the true target audience is for such trash and how they will react - drooling ape-like men fueled by violent lustful cravings, fiercely massaging their engorged erections with grubby fists, spurting rope after rope of warm semen onto their burly bellies and into their thick chesthair. This image should always remain in the forefront of any sane mind when watching violent horror.

Adding to the worrisome nature of the film is the fact that it's almost entirely shot from the first-person perspective of a bloodthirsty psychopath. That essentially makes it a POV murder fantasy of a world where females exist for only 2 reasons: To be naked and to be killed. A worldview specifically designed so that sadists can unleash gushing fountains of semen from their tumescent penises.

Some dude watching Maniac (2012). Possibly.

 Despite bearing a semblance of a plot, the entire movie is essentially a series of murder set pieces, where women are mercilessly stalked, then brutally murdered. Some dazzling cinematography and an atmospheric musical score create a strong sense of mounting tension, mirroring the mounting tension of semen in the swollen testicles of sexual deviants across the globe. When the kills arrive, they are blunt and unforgiving. Blood splatters across women's bodies and streams in rivulets down their faces, like money shots of crimson semen, clearly meant to emulate those degrading pornographic films where women are shown as pure sex objects. Blank canvases awaiting to be painted... with semen.

One can only imagine the amount of semen that will be hatefully spurted into the world as a result of this revolting movie. From the opening kill scene, where great arcing geysers of semen will volcanically erupt from rock-hard penises, splashing onto the depraved viewer's chest and limbs. Right through to the grotesque finale, where all that's left in the viewer's drained testicles is small dribbles of semen to run down the glans, over the frenulum and fingers and scrotum, to finally soak into the couch, among other encrusted pools of semen.

Some other dude watching Maniac (2012). Probably.

 This is not a film I'd recommend. It offended me deeply. The world needs to wake up and realise that my feelings are more important than art. Enough semen has been spilled. I consider myself fortunate that I'm blessed with strong moral values and I'm mentally sound enough to resist the film's temptations. I shudder to think of what might go through the mind of a deranged pervert when they watch this reprehensible filth.

Ebert's Chaos: A review of a review

Roger Ebert was not just the greatest film critic of all time, but in fact the most amazing human being that ever lived. I would compare him to Jesus Christ, but that would be an insult to Ebert. Jesus only turned water into wine. Ebert turned language into platinum. Every letter he gave us was a gift that we should all be grateful for. He was never wrong about anything, even when he was. Especially when he was. Unlike the rest of us, he didn't type words. He typed majestic unicorns that shat rainbows covered in galloping fuzzy kittens. Those kittens galloped their way into my heart, making me a better, more loving human being.

Obviously, none of this is true, but you'd never know that from reading all the many tributes to his genius that have flooded the internet since his death. I realise that, when any celebrity dies, their flaws get understated when memorialising them. In this case, the flaws have, for the most part, been ignored altogether. I ain't down with that, so here's my take on the tragedy that started the whole filmworld crying.

 In light of Ebert's passing, I revisited his writing for 2005's Chaos, both the review and his following correspondence with the film-makers. An intensely negative review which wound up being the film's major selling point. The makers happily cherry-picked quotes from the review to splash across the DVD cover and Ebert's futile splenetic fury helped push a grimy low-budget exploitation flick into the mainstream public's eye, despite his insistence that "I urge you to avoid it". Poor old Rog' never did fully cotton on to the truism that all publicity is good publicity.

As was often the case when Ebert disliked a film, he really has nothing interesting to say about it. There's a bunch of quoting from other reviews (a truly lazy tactic for any professional film critic, one which Ebert would occasionally resort to), a brief plot outline and not much more. This was one of his major flaws - if he disliked a film, he disregarded his duties as a critic and stopped paying attention. He made the assumption that he was better than the film, as if spending an hour or two writing a review is a comparable achievement to the months-long process of making even a low-budget independent movie. In fairness to Ebert, he was a freaking good writer who actually could lay claim to creating art better than some of the drek he watched. Let's not forget, he wrote perhaps the greatest line of dialogue in cinema history. You know the one I mean. Sadly, his lofty assumed position of greatness was extremely influential and has been adopted by all manner of worthless critics, both professional and amateur.

What's more problematic is that, when the makers of Chaos suggested he didn't "get" the film, his response was an extensive merciless form of literary bullying, questioning any film-maker's responsibility in depicting "evil". A rant fueled by the same false premise that every single pro-censorship argument is built upon - the idea that morality is a purer form of human expression than art. In his original review, he asked "Why do we need this shit?" and, when pushed further on this stance, he questioned "To what end?" should evil be portrayed. Why even ask these questions? Haven't enough films and film-makers been attacked, censored and banned for these reasons? A few years after Ebert's bludgeoning of Chaos, Iranian director Jafar Panahi was imprisoned along with his family and friends, because his government felt they didn't need his shit and objected to what end its purpose may lead. Ebert lived and worked in the US, a country where artistic expression is protected by law. Others are not so lucky. 

I'd have thought that any true lover of film would feel thrilled at how fortunate they are to live in a society where all art is given the freedom to not be necessary or to not have a purpose or an end or a reason to exist. Apparently, I was wrong in this assumption.

When Ebert truly hated a film, he was unable to accept that "it's only a movie... only a movie... only a movie...". He genuinely attempted to destroy what he disliked and shamelessly used his considerable clout as semi-celebrity to achieve that goal. His review of I Spit On Your Grave (or rather, more accurately, his review of the audience he saw it with) was followed up with a campaign to have it removed from theatres in the US. His crusade against slashers aka 'dead teenager movies' contributed heavily to the stigma placed upon horror in the '80s and helped give legitimacy to David Edelstein's coining of the term 'torture porn' decades later. Not content with limiting his slammings toward only the artwork or artist, he would happily make snap moral judgements about any appreciative viewer, labelling them as morons, degenerates and people who should be avoided, simply because they enjoyed a movie that he didn't. I'm not bothered by what he hated. I'm bothered by how he hated.

 In the final piece he wrote for his website, he told us, "I'll be able at last to do what I've always fantasized about doing: reviewing only the movies I want to review." Just over a day later, he was dead. Such a shame that he didn't decide to follow his dream earlier, preferably several decades earlier. When he wrote about movies he truly had a passion for, he was very, very good indeed. One of the best there ever was, for sure. But when it came to movies he despised, he revealed himself as nothing more than a petty, vindictive book-burner.

His writings on Chaos hold a dark irony regarding his eventual fate. He wrote of the movie that it "denied the possibility of hope". He deplored that "the monster is given no responsibility, no motive, no context, no depth. Like a shark, he exists to kill." A very real monster robbed this eloquent man of his ability to talk and eat. It did so with no responsibility, no motive, no context, no depth. Several years later, at the moment when he was looking forward to a life he'd fantasized about, that same monster took everything left of him. Like a shark, cancer exists to kill. His optimism and his positivity were not enough. The possibility of hope was denied. Hope did nothing to prevent him winding up in the cold, eternal grave. Hope couldn't even prevent a douchebag like me from spitting on that grave. Chaos was proven right.

 To conclude this rant: Less than a week before Roger Ebert's death, Jess Franco also died. Franco was a fearless and truly individual artist; a renegade who spent his formative years combatting a fascist political regime with the power of art. He fought against censorship with every bone in his body and forged an unmatched enormous catalogue of work that wholeheartedly celebrated the boundary expansion of artistic freedom. In contrast to this, Ebert was born into privilege in the one of the safest, most tolerant and most free societies in human history. And he unashamedly used his position to try to restrict any artistic expression that hurt his pissy little feelings.

2 major film figures dead within the space of a week. I'll only be mourning for one of them. The other guy gets a thumbs down from me.

 

Oriental Techniques in Pain and Pleasure (1983)

Phil Prince is one seriously classy guy. I'm sure you know that already, coz you've all seen the delightful moment in The Taming of Rebecca where a dude beats his meat while his hot daughter pees on his balls. Nothing says pure class quite like a bit of incestuous watersports. Oriental Techniques in Pain and Pleasure, a later effort from the Princester, may not be his best, but by golly it's among his classiest.

Just to illustrate how classy this movie is, I'll be interspersing pics from the film with official photos of the 2011 Royal Wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. The resemblance is so uncanny that I guarantee you won't be able to tell the difference.

The royal couple

Annie Sprinkle and George Payne

The "plot" revolves around an ancient Chinese manuscript that's somehow important. We're not told why it's important, but some dudes want it for some reason so it must be real important. These guys can't even read Chinese, yet they still want the manuscript. That's how important it is. It's so important that it gets casually mentioned 3, maybe even 4 times throughout the movie.

So, Annie Sprinkle somehow gets a hold of this manuscript and obviously gets raped as a result. What a classy way to open a movie. Annie's a classy lady in general. She was one of Zebedy Colt's faves and that guy has high standards for class. Adding to the classiness is the fact that the lead rapist is George Payne, the classiest guy in history. Payne here plays against type as a deranged misogynistic pervert - quite a stretch for his thespian skills. He even goes down on her during the rape. If only all rapists were that classy. This classy cunnilingus scene also shows us Annie's clit piercing, which she received onscreen during Phil Prince's previous masterclass in class, Kneel Before Me.

The blushing bride, accompanied by a pair of gentlemanly servants

Some porno slut and a couple of rapists

Sadly, the rape doesn't get Annie to reveal anything about the important manuscript that neither she, the rapists nor the viewer know anything about. In such a situation, the rules of etiquette dictate that she be forced to fist her brother, which she does with gusto and class. She even classilly licks his balls during the fisting. That's a fine lesson in class for all viewers - if you ever find yourself elbow-deep in your bro's butthole, it's only polite to tongue the scrotum a little. Manners cost nothing.

The gorgeous one-of-a-kind ring

The gorgeous one-of-a-kind ring

 A 15-inch dildo, on the other hand, will set you back a few bucks, but a little financial outlay is inevitable when your own fist is not a classy enough tool for anal-stretching. I say splash out on the Lexington Steele model. It's worth it. You can't put a price on class, certainly not when it comes to sibling sodomy. Annie agrees with me, quite enthusiastically in fact.

After a little live cock-and-ball torture which has nothing whatsoever to do with anything else that's come beforehand, the movie reaches a satisfying conclusion. By which I mean, it abruptly ends without warning or explanation. That's cool though, because this film isn't about making sense, it's about being classy. Making sense is for philistines and degenerates. You won't find any of those here. Just a solid, if unspectacular, hit of classy perviness.

Random members of the wedding party

Some serious cock-and-ball torture

24 Hours of Explicit Sex (1985)

Back when I lived in London, I worked with a lot of Brazilian guys and they were all relentless horndogs, constantly trying to bang anything with tits and a pulse. You could have asked any of these dudes what he was thinking about, at any time of the day, and the reply would almost always be either football or pussy or both. Thus, I'm lead to believe that Brazil is one seriously horny country, hence why vaginal waxing is named after it.

A typical Thursday afternoon in Brazil

No surprise then that, during the 1980s, around 70% of the films produced in Brazil were pornos. With Coffin Joe on a hiatus, director Jose Mojica Marins decided to go with the flow, ditch the horror and embrace the fun of zooming in his camera on penises entering vaginas. When in Rome and all that...

 I watched this without subtitles, but the plot is easy enough to follow. A bunch of horny dudes devise a competition to determine which of them is the alpha sex maniac and hole up in a beach house with a bunch of cock-hungry sluts for a day-long orgy. They also bring along a fruity gay Ron Jeremy lookalike to be the judge of their sexual prowess. As with your typical Brazilian orgy, we also get a talking parrot who commentates the sex scenes and a few conversations between a talking penis and a talking vagina. Ya know, the usual. And of course, there's the obligatory scene where a chick rips a massive fart while she's being done from behind. Every porno needs a good fart joke.

Money shots are plentiful and creative, my favourite being when a dude splooges directly onto the camera lens. It's a great moment, almost like the film itself is blessing the whole audience with a good facial. My skin didn't feel any healthier afterwards, but I still appreciate the sentiment.

So far modelled after Euro sexploitation, Jose Mojica Marins decided to push things a step further. His run-ins with the Brazilian censors had previously left several of his movies eviscerated and one movie outright banned. With newly relaxed censorship laws, it was time for revenge. And so it came  to pass that Brazil's cinema audiences finally got to see their first bestiality porn scene, when the vagina of a lady of lax morals met the lipstick prick of a German Shepard named Jack. She had an ass that no male could resist, whether human or canine. He was a suave fellow with a smooth coat, a prideful gait and puppy-dog eyes that would melt the hardest heart. Together, they made history. Frantic, lustful and oh-so-wrong history. Jack's performance was so grand that screenwriter Mario Lima would later declare him "the best actor in the movie". I don't disagree.

The happy couple.

Sadly, this special moment would later be tinged by tragedy. The female performer pocketed a hefty paycheck and no doubt popped over the border to Colombia, purchasing a mountain of uncut cocaine so enormous it would've lasted Keith Moon an entire weekend. Jack, however, died soon after, under suspicious circumstances, at the tender age of 5. Rumours spread that Jack's sudden fame had angered his owner, who poisoned him under the belief that the celebrity canine pornstar was having an affair with his wife. A promising career cut short before it had even begun.

Farewell, sweet prince.

Nevertheless, 24 Hours of Explicit Sex was Marins's biggest ever box-office hit, thus proving my theory that Brazilians are all dirty sexopaths. The groundbreaking bestiality scene opened the floodgates for Brazil's extreme porn scene that flourished in the following decades. The country later produced works like 2 Girls 1 Cup and 4 Girls Fingerpaint, easily the two most famous scat clips in history. They also gave us Human Snot Tissue, generally considered by the planet Earth's 7 snot fetishists to be the ultimate experience in snot porn. In recent times, they've also become the only country to combine bestiality with scat. Just to unnecessarily spell that out for you, that means hot nubile babes chowing down on animal excrement for your erotic viewing pleasure. Ain't the human race grand??

Jose Mojica Marins, hard at work.

Inventing New Words

 
Ever heard of a British dude named William Shakespeare? He's perhaps best known for providing the original story that Lloyd Kaufman's Tromeo and Juliet was based on. 

Yep, Shakespeare totally wrote that shit.

But what many people don't know is that Shakespeare also invented a fucking fuckton of words for the English language. Words like 'besmirch', 'obsequiously' and 'honorificabilitudinitatibus'. Where would we be without the word 'honorificabilitudinitatibus'? Somewhere fucked, that's where.

An example of what somewhere fucked looks like.

So, much like Shakespeare, I've decided to invent a few words which you'll soon wonder how you ever lived without. Here goes -

Snedge, verb
1. To stimulate the perineum of another with the tip of one's nose.
Example: "Consuela lightly perfumed her anus before her date, just in case Horatio was in the mood to snedge her after dinner."

Encunten,  verb
1. To make an orifice more vaginal in appearance and structure, usually for the purpose of penetration.
Example: "Bjorn used a power drill to encunten Svetlana's corpse's ear canal, then immediately commenced fuckenisation of her brain matter."

Dude getting his cranium encuntenned. Courtesy of Lucio Fulci.

See, it's easy! Another fun way to create new words is simply to mash together two previously existing words. Popular examples of this include 'fucktard' and 'twatmuffin'. Here's a couple more -

Glump, noun
1. Great or larger than average sized lumps.
Example: "After rewatching Mysterious Skin, Abraham spent the next hour cleaning glumps of jism from his walls and ceiling."

Misogerrific, adjective
1. Displaying hatred of women in a fun or enjoyable manner.
Example: "Everyone present at Cannes agreed that David Hess's performance as Krug was misogerrific."

The physical embodiment of misogerrificness.

It's also fun to apply new meanings to pre-existing words. Like the following -

Polarise, verb
1. To cause or undergo the production of two contrary tendencies, qualities, etc.
Example: "Ebola Syndrome polarised audiences into two camps - those who didn't consider it one of the greatest movies ever made, and those who have common sense and opinions that don't suck."
2. To swiftly hurl a rabid baby polar bear directly into someone's face.
Example: "Wolfgang Jungerfelt III became depressed after being savagely polarised, but soon discovered that his mutilated nose gave him a unique talent for giving snedgejobs."

The soul-crushing deathstare of a beast that can't wait to be a tool of polarisation.

The moral of this post? Don't just lie back and accept the words you've been given. We have 26 letters to use and an infinite number of possibilities for how to use them. The sky's the limit. Be like Shakespeare and make the English language your bitch. Maybe, just maybe, you'll create a word that your great-great-grandchildren will be using on a daily basis.

Shakespeare in an honorificabilitudinitatibus pose.