USB Necktie Cooler

Here at MRHP we like to keep our eyes peeled and squishy for gadgets that not only take you out of a tight squeeze, but possibly leave a nice tip afterwards (good prostitute etiquette). One of these so called gadgets seems to have made its way into the buying path of Japanese businessmen and from there it hopes to bring its unique offering of USB powered randomness to the rest of the world. 

The product seems to have been born from its slogan that asks a very simple question. Feeling hot under the collar at work? Well if that is the case then spit your card numbers all over the screen because the busy little men at the Japanese company Thanko have introduced a USB powered necktie that not only offers office breeziness at an affordable price, but also brings with it a perfectly formed silicone Windsor knot that is sure to impress your boss.

In a world where computers seem to be taking over, I think it is a very apt statement for this generation to have an electronic leash strapped around their necks and attached to their computer. If this is the price of feeling mildly cooler, strap one on quick because we lost our agency along time ago anyway. If not then congratulations you are clearly not astute enough to realize the irony that you are reading this on a computer.

Sex and the Suburbs: Klub Pineapple

I am doing this column at the behest of the MRHP editor (who may or may not dress as an owl to hide his identity) who shuffles for shiny coins in his grubby pockets, smirks his back breaking smirk and tells me, ‘go on, get me some words boy! Fucking hell didn’t know it was 17^th century Russia today, you fucking Kulak, get yourself some clothes before you head out!’ he leads me away from his quarters and then the killer blow ‘I want a Sex and the City column but you know from a males perspective’ and why on earth did he pick me as that particular male, what do I know about a male’s perspective, what the fuck does that even mean anymore? I don’t know, but anyway my column starts at a trendy sushi bar (It has a Russian roulette menu that chooses for you). I needed male versions of Samantha, Charlotte, Miranda and the horse face one that makes men want to throw up and I am in luck, the table next to me has all that and more, they are intoxicated on a towering two litre bottle of Saki. They invite me over when they see me looking at their table; I was suspicious that it was the Saki and not them that was welcoming me, either way I was on course for my assignment.

Going to the nightclub one of them confronted a homeless man ‘Do you take card mate? Don’t have any change like...’ then there was a violent wrestle for the homeless man’s wine which at this point he was using as a pillow, when a buggered bile coming into the vagrant’s eyes, green snot rising into his black pupils, and the venom of a thousand misplaced pythons steaming from the white follicles of his face, we knew it was time to leg it with the wino’s wine.

We finally arrive at the nightclub at around ten; let’s just call it Klub Pineapple for legal purposes. This Pineapple was a fine place to meet a certain class of girls. Trapped under their fingernails you will find the residue of chemicals from freshly imported manicures begotten on Paris shopping trips. To taste under their nails is to taste their panties, is to know their anatomy, is to pick their fruit in scent and be at one with a divine erectile dysfunction, as the chemicals impale the midway section.

So the night got started and I got acquainted with their peculiar vernacular:

Fucking slut, I give her money for a taxi home after riding her and tell her to fuck off...is that what you really told her? I heard you went home and wanked to ‘Main Street Mom’ while using your tears to lub up your anus for your brother’s slippery cock...One of them turned to me ‘it’s good to see you poeming it?’ ‘Huh no that is actually how I talk...why what is wrong with the way I talk?’ ‘Oh look at me fancy boy, with me truffle in one arm and my boudoir in my other arm’ ‘do you know what either of them mean?’ ‘No cos that would make me a fancy boy like you...’ ‘what the fuck is a fancy boy...‘

To ease my irritation at their jibes I had a few beers in quick succession, and then I hear, ‘Buttonhole the horny bitch!’ ‘ I threw my rowies (a pill that induces amnesia) onto the ground in fright. The medication I took earlier was catching up, big elephant killing painkillers and some birth pills too from my sister because I was feeling mischief and I know how girls love when you experience what they are going through. At the bar on my fifth pitcher the wind of the nightclub’s air conditioners quickly blew their words my direction ‘quick a slut southwest...which way is southwest you fuckwit? Just turn around, I am not going to turn around, she’ll see me... Then majestically the song ‘What is Love’ plays.

I have always been a romantic, so this song speaks deeply about the philosophical questions of love to me. ‘I’d give her juicebox some meat!’ I didn’t want to look out of place so I pretended to know what this meant and followed it up with ‘ I’d snip her turnip up alright’ which everyone nodded their head with in agreement. I had winged it, those fuckers took my bluff, I am king I can do anything, I can fuck any girl here without conscience. ‘Get yourself a Katy French white dog poop would you’, and he ruffled the white stuff petulantly on his pig face, splaying his tongue in mock French tongue, ham, sausage, pig cake, I thought, I will fuck you, I will swirl a knife into your back and scatter your skin across the dance floor as confetti for others to stamp and frolic in, you fuck!’

I thought I was in love when I first lay my eyes on a pretty blonde who looked lost. I shoved her into the bar and then brushed off dust from her shoulder pretending to be her hero ‘I don’t know who did that, but if I catch them, I swear...do you want a drink to alleviate the pain?’ she obliged dazed, then I kicked her in the heel, she toppled from her high heels like King Kong from the Empire States building. I didn’t want to ruin spending all my money, so I ordered her a water...’This vodka tastes funny’, ‘yeah the crap they give you in here like’, she then asked me my name at which point I felt an uncontrollable anger, from where I don’t know, the volcanic concoction of drugs maybe. I licked my own cheeks for no apparent reason other than it felt good , I grabbed her by the throat pushed the pills down her little flailing throat, I was gasping, the movement was exhausting, stupid bitch making me sweat I said to myself, I then congratulated myself on my subtlety, anyone who could see was too drunk to presume anything other than we were a couple, doing secret couple things. The barman, let a sneer out her way as if to say ‘if I was out tonight I’d be doing that to you, slut!’

‘Poor girl, I thought, I love her so much, I wonder how she looks naked? Wonder what her clitoris looks like drenched in cum. I imagined slamming the pigs head down and exclaiming ‘one drink for one pig’s head good sir?’ I was wearing a top hat with a cane in this fantasy...anyway yeah I don’t remember the rest because the rowies kicked in. I woke up in an empty house, somewhere I’ve never seen. I decided to help myself to the cereal. There was a nice animal puzzle on the back, I aced it!

The Nubrella - A Bizarre Weather Accessory You Never Knew You Needed

After scowering the interent I came across what some people are considering the latest advancement in weather protection technology. On first inspection the device seems to be just another one of those unnecessary modifications of an already tried and tested model. For those of you concerned with wind inversion you will be glad to know that the Nubrella promises that "it can not and will not invert any wind". FINALLY!

The device is hardwearing and is supported by a very robust frame. It glides into the market as a real threat to the long standing umbrella format. At $50 each and with such a unique fashion statement to make it would not be a stretch of the imagination to believe that it won't be long until these completely takeover the tired umbrella format and reign in a new era of hands-free weather protection.

Steroids Are Sexy Again

The word on the Net at the moment is that steroids are sexy again. Apparently in the wake of the recent McDonalds advertising campaign, people are turning nostalgically back towards this icon of the 90s. Intended as a direct attack on the beefiness of Burger Kings new GM burger line McDonalds struck back with the now infamous star of their new McBull burger line.

Steroid spokesman Greg Valentino was in talks with Ronald today at the annual Beef Confederation meeting. At which there were talks about Greg endorsing a new Happy Meal toy line that would include toy syringes and a mirror (both would include sound bites informing children the quickest and trendiest way of meaning something to their society). Included with each toy would be a presription that would allow for one weeks dosage of McSteroids.  

Outrage broke out later on in the meeting when a journalist asked who Greg was. There is not a lot that you can say about this man, or is there. After 28 years of following a natural body-building lifestyle he gave it all up and began taking steroids. Over the next 2 years he set the Guinness world record for the biggest biceps in the world, 28 inches in circumference, almost half the size of a car tyre. Then one day while he was walking down to the shop to collect some groceries his arm blew up all over an old woman who was standing at a bus stop... Now after nearly a decade in hiding Greg has emerged as a man whose dedication for perfection transcends respect and care for his own wellbeing. In a society of wimps this has to be admired, as in the long run only the Gregs of this world will survive the capitalist machine.

Let Fashion Fuck You

Has anyone ever looked back at the style of the 80s and said to themselves, “Fair balls”? It has to be said that the 80’s was the decade of the Frankensteinian designer. Outfits defied nature, laws of gravity were flouted and the lunatic creative genius had its ravishingly wicked way with design. Many would argue differently, but the era of 80s fashion was one big, hideously funny joke made by the industry at the dumb-witted mongs that were the public masses. The designers said, “You need stupidly big shoulder pads”, the public ran out and grabbed every padded item available, giving us a comical display of pumped, rippling shoulders, quivering close to the jaw line. There’s nothing hotter than no-neck appeal. It was the blessed age of the fashion victim and as Aesop once said, “The lamb began to follow the wolf in sheep's clothing.” Fashion was fun to be the slave of and we all had a rollicking great laugh. In fact, we’re still laughing now, hair styles were ludicrous, make-up was epically dramatic, clothes were whimsical, bright, innocuous and we followed these fads in glorious succession. What was on the catwalk was in the shops, simple.

It was all so much fun, being the fashion victim, the dry humping gimps that we were, giving it some good old heavy petting and letting it ejaculate its glittering sequins and dragish make-up all over us. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was art, it was rampant, tasteless, obnoxious art, it was wonderful. Then some knob-jockey had to ruin it all by saying that faddishness was bad and that fashion victims had rights or something. Fashion became a democracy god damn it, it even got its own police force, everyone stopped taking LSD and cleaned up their act. All because some fat assed bitch wore leggings that were stretched beyond recoil across her corpulent, cellulite enriched thighs, exposing a red thong through the now pitifully transparent material. The masses revolted and wanted everything to be practical, comfortable.

Now everything’s gotten so damn boring, even Manolo Blahnik noted that, “About half my designs are controlled fantasy, 15 percent are total madness and the rest are bread-and-butter designs.” I mean seriously, you boring bitches out there condemning Mr. Blahnik to produce “bread and butter designs”, those beauties that you see in the window of his store on Sloane Street, they’re nothing, they’re pieces of shit in comparison to what he could create. Since the public has had a say in determining what sells in fashion, we have drained the life out of the creative industry. The acid-dropping, booze-inducing, vomit-inspiring, gender-fucking, sex - sex-sexing frivolity of fashion is dead, we’re grown up and sensible now. Models parade up and down catwalks in fantastic examples of creativity and fun: Galliano, Gaultier, Mc Queen take me now. It causes saliva to seep onto my tongue in a hungry, panting desire to attain and follow. I begin to quiver, I’m ready, I’m ready to run into a store and have fashion stick its big, wet tongue in my ear and say, “take it!” Just as the lady next to me is getting it up the ass, a siren screams and someone says “No”! Clothes are reformed and edited, make-ups are customised for practical every day wear and it bothers me.

      

That boring old sack over there has infused all our minds with the ideology that things need to be more practical, more wearable, more functional and more acceptable. That’s fine, let her have her way, I just feel that we’ve stopped caring about our image, how we put ourselves together and the visceral relationship we have with style. Yes the 80s brought us from the sublime to the ridiculous, but at least we had a laugh with it on the way. Now, as I traipse through the crowded streets of what was once a fashion hub of the world, I see well dressed people, well put together, pretty, attractive, but what the people of London lack is that rawness of emotion, that connection with creativity and style. It’s banal. London has become that 40 year old woman who was glamorous in her youth and has grown weary and tired of making the effort. Where’s the fun gone, the impracticality of madness, the joy of wearing something ludicrous? So let us don our lion heads and throw on our Kermit capes, slap a few steaks across your chest and paint those lips Mc Queen style. It’s time to get frisky with fashion again, go on a bender with it and let it let it touch you inappropriately. Let it make you feel naughty, wake up the next morning with the filthiest hangover and regret the night before with every sensible bone in your body. But every time you see that piece, it tickles you in the pit of your stomach and reminds you of the time you grabbed fashion by the balls and gave them a good, hard, raunchy squeeze.

Cloaking Technology: From Electromagnetic Radiation to Space-Time

The idea of a 'cloaking device' first came into being when Star Trek writer D. C. Fontana coined the term, ever since it has played an important role as plot devices in a number of science fiction films.

But let's forget sci-fi and move into reality because that's what cloaking technology is currently doing. Scientists are working to develop cloaking devices that could effectively have the ability to cloak anything from a human to a house, even a city or even an event in time itself.

Let's take a step back. So what is a cloaking device? Basically a cloaking device is an advanced form of stealth that could allow an object to become invisible. Now what do I mean by invisible, in essence a cloaking device makes an object invisible by masking the electromagnetic radiation emitted by an object. A full cloak would mask all types of electromagnetic radiation from x-rays to microwaves, from ultra-violet light to infra-red and visible light (the light that makes up the visible world that humans perceive). A partial cloak on the other hand would have the ability to mask a specific frequency of the electromagnetic spectrum, say for example microwaves. Below is an example of how a cloak would work, in the first image the cloak is inactive and the light that object emits is radiated and can be observed, in the second image the light of the object is cloaked and the object remains invisible.

Inactive Cloak
  





Active Cloak



So far optical metamaterials have been used to cloak micro-objects but only in the microwave range of the electromagnetic spectrum. In other words objects that emit microwave radiation which could make it observable, have this radiation masked, cloaked and become invisible. Okay so perhaps this type of cloak could be dubbed as a glorified type of camouflage but what if you could make events in time invisible. Scientists have once again used metamaterials to do this, with conventional materials light travels through them in a straight line, but with the metamaterials the light can be broken up to leave gaps. When light normally enters a material it slows down but it is theoretically possible that the ray of light could be altered and manipulated so that some parts of it speed up and other parts of it slow down. In space light is normally curved but when light is split like this the leading part of light speeds up and arrives before an event and the latter part of the light lags behind and arrives after the event. It is in this gap that an event could occur that would remain un-illuminated and undetected, it is conceivable that information or even a person could move through this temporary gap undetected.

So let's really complicate the cloak, if we look at our first type of cloak it would be possible for a person to walk into your house and rob you, but unless they cloaked everything that they picked up you would see your laptop floating through the air. However, with the space-time cloak you could be sitting in your house and someone could walk in and reduce your house to rubble and you wouldn't have noticed a thing until the cloak closes the gap in space-time. Food for thought, cloaking devices are closer than you think...

Benicio Del Toro Makes Out With R-Patz Backstage @ P-Diddy Concert

Masculine prowess, dangerous sex, rambunctious furrytongue fusillade.

All these words describe the sexy powers of Benicio Del Toro. He has starred in The Wolf Man, Che, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Traffic, 21 Grams, Sin City and more importantly he is the rough, erotic meat truck starring in the masturbatory rites of our daily lives. Yet my slim fingers cannot replace his chunky, hairy, Puerto Rican chocolate fingers shovelling into my erogenous zones with fiery oomph, ‘oh behave!’

One scene with Scarlett Johansson taking place not in the celluloid stages that he makes a living from, but in reality, finds Benicio turning towards Scarlet without caution. His eyes glimmering in the elevator, the metallic surfaces shivering as he moves his body toward her, takes her, takes her again and then finally releases her from his hands with her arms trembling and her heart racing faster than a rocket, his eyes sauntering locked into her star fallen gaze. Scarlet is melting, orgasms rupture through her body with beanstalk valour. In an interview with Esquire magazine Del Toro plays coy to his seductive animal instincts.

"Did I ever have sex in an elevator with Scarlett Johansson after an awards show? I kind of like, you know, I, well. I don't know. Let's leave that to somebody's imagination. Let's not promote it. I'm sure it has happened before. It might not be the last time either."

Benicio regularly and nonchalantly picks up on the lustful calls of Hollywood starlets. Not that you would know it by his ‘Get out of here, how could anyone find me attractive’ attitude, as he lops gasoline on his hair and struts out of the billowing Gurkha Black Dragon smoke.

After his latest fling with Twilight star Robert Pattinson backstage at a P Diddy concert, Magnum executives who sponsored the concert took the opportunity to take Benicio as a worldwide campaign for making their ice-cream brand ‘sexy’. Here is their vision realised in the lavish production directed by Bryan Singer (X-Men, The Usual Suspects ).

Ceephax & Squarepusher: Exploring the Jenkinsons

As per usual Ceephax Acid Crew (Andy Jenkinson) has us on an Acid-Train to a sweaty-convulsing music mecca. After the initial bitune/acid frenzy he slows down the pace to allow us to not only collect our thoughts, but prepare ourselves for a final acid onslaught. He achieves this with his typically playful, yet masterful blend of ad-lib music manipulation and poker straight sequencing styles. By many he is considered the bastard child of the infamous Jenkinson family, but in the post-Ultravisitor years this is now proving to no longer be the case. Since Hello Everything, Squarepusher (Tom Jenkinson) has proven that more mainstream interpretations of his music may hide the odd gem and even be considered ok, but the spirit of his earlier work has dissipated, leaving us with highly polished (near perfect work) that I feel is inherently inane and lacks the emotional depth that his previous albums foam at the mouth with. Enter Ceephax, with his ludicrously chaotic style that oozes emotional clarity, whilst also not being afraid to parody and mock the sites of this definition. He lacks the ego of his older brother and strolled casually amongst fans at his last Irish gig. We openly engaged in conversation with him at this gig about the availability of some of his earlier vinyl and his 'setup'. After this, the gig that he launched at the audience only served to fuel both the raw and frantic nature of his talent, whilst also expressing a clear sense of his easygoing personality that we had only just experienced a sample of. My advice to Squarepusher is that he should take a leaf out of his brother's book and leave the vocoder to one side and get back to basics, if not he is running the risk of shifting from the niche into the banal or even worse, becoming a mainstream puppet that casts out all integrity in favour of a fat paycheck.    

Drunken Owls: The Art of Recognising a Social Problem!

As an avid Owl-Watcher I recently made a shocking discovery that I feel for the safety of fellow readers is worth sharing with the world. After suiting up to suit the emerald gleam of the forest I soon found myself lost from society. I watched animals fuck, run and chew their way through the forest always keeping both hands gripped firmly around my binoculars. After experiencing the watcher's void, the first part of a strange observation crept into focus. Through my extended eyes I could see a drunken owl insipidly staring at me from a tree in the distance. He had that look on his face that my father used to have after his T.V dinner, but before he had drank enough to paralyse his thoughts.

After being beaten by this distant glance I became aware that this hungover owl was not alone. In fact the trees around me were filled with abusive/tired/withered/grim/haggy/disheveled/slothy stares. Closer to where I was standing was the delicately seedy stare of a female. Who had enough composure to re-frame from blackening her collar, but had the indecency to tarnish your magnificent character the night previous. Likewise, she is disgusted about something I did, but amongst the lingering alcohol the pains in her cranium have stopped her from remembering whatever nonsense she was sipping that night. Silently she stares...

Camouflaged on one of the branches closest to me is a still sleeping reminder of one of those friends that drinks more and more in a desperate attempt at fitting in, but in the process becomes more and more invisible. Quite often these types of characters are mistaken for as furniture and often become utensils (piss bucket for the mildly self-conscious) before the night is down. By morning they rise from the room and drift outward in search of cyclical suffering. "I have it good", they think to themselves as they walk through the rain-soaked gutters with barely a single memory of the night before in their heads.

The owls that I have mentioned are but only a few in the millions that have invaded our forests with their own brand of fear and justice. Trust me, you will find everything I have just said quite serious and highly relevant if you ever have to witness or be on the scene of a drunken owl-raping. Quite often in their drunken hazes they are confusing gentle hill walkers and molesting every orifice until either they pass out or the victim stops responding to their malicious homegrown brand of forest justice. I'm hoping that after reading this article that you will have a higher awareness of these creatures and show no remorse to anything in a forest that is smaller than an average human. When going for a walk the best action is attack anything that shakes as quite often we are but one scenario away from a scene (DANGER)...

Please do not become contaminated by recent Owlaganda, that tries to present the Drunken-Owl as the new Lolcat. To fall into this trap would be a very foolish and most likely fatal mistake.

Until next time. Keep your Owls close, but your Drunken-Owls closer. 

Skinnydipping with Jack Nicholson

Not many people know this but Jack Nicholson recently paid a visit to Ireland. I suppose he thought he could come here unwind, and escape the incessant chime of fame that probably rings through his ears ever waking minute of the day. It was a pleasant autumn morning and the sun was easing its way over the horizon, warming up the idle dew that glossed the the green landscape that was Wicklow. We approached the usual swimming/surfing/wandering spot but were surprised to find a car was already pulled up by the side of the road. You must understand that this place is out of the way and does not get too many visitors. We thought nothing more of the large Land Rover and assumed that it belonged to a local farmer. We began the walk down the country lane only to find that it was strewn with fresh clothes. At first there was a grey blazer, then  there was a red tie, followed by a pale blue shirt. Further up the road there was one black leather shoe and then hanging from an adjacent branch another shoe. We continued along the lane until it came to a clearing above the beach and in a neat little bundle there was a pair of trousers and underwear and to the right and the left of this, were a pair of socks. The beach was down a small slope and it covers a good half a kilometre. In the water we could here someone screaming and shouting like a child, but this was no child. Too our amazement it was none other than Jack Nicholson. We knew we had to get a closer look and try to take a photo of this exotic phenomena. We climbed down the steep slope hiding behind the marram grass. The tide was in so we were only about 20 to 30 feet away from him. He was now making seal mating calls and a group of curious seals began to approach him. Thrashing and splashing about in the water and barking like a seal, we could not believe our eyes. Suddenly he turned around to face us and began to emerge from the water, it was now or never we had to get the photo now. My friend Charles, who had his camera aimed and loaded took the shot. It was perfect, he was even able to get another quickly after the first.

However, this time for the second photo fate played a cruel trick on Charles and on all of us. The flash of the camera exploded into life and the beast like eyes of Jack picked up on it instantly. At the same moment he locked his heinous eyes onto us and Charles slipped and fell down the slope into the sand. Jack was furious and he charged at Charles, you could sense the blood-lust curdling in his veins. We desperately tried to pull Charles back up to safety but it was too late Jack was upon him and our Darwinian survival mechanisms took effect and we fled. In the distance we could hear Charles screaming and Jack growling and snarling, insane with a ravenous and demented rage. By the time we got back to the car the bone-chilling screams had dissipated. We knew we could not return to check on Charles in the hope that he had survived the onslaught, it was too late and for all we knew the Jack-beast could have been on his way. We got in the car and drove off as fast as we could, whilst obeying the speed limit obviously.

The surge of adrenaline quelled and the sweat cooled, that was the day we went skinnydipping with Jack Nicholson...