Tag Archives: porn

The Shining: A Porn Parody

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What’s your favourite bit in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining? It’s a tough one, I know: such an iconic movie; such vivid imagery. If pressed, I’d say my favourite scene is definitely the one where Danny – who you’ll remember is an adult dwarf – gets piss all over his eyes. Absolutely classic scene, that.

Don’t you remember? He peddles his plastic trike up and down the grey corridors of what looks like an insurance office after everyone’s gone home for the night, turns a corner and sees two women blocking the corridor in-front of him. They’re standing side-by-side dressed in matching brown-dungarees-and-short-skirt combos, like a pair of sexy Oor Wullies after a sex-change.

Help ma boaby!

The ladies invite Danny to play with them ‘forever and ever’, which he resists with all of the strength of his unforgivably awful acting skills. As Danny gazes at them, he starts to receive intermittent, violently jarring visions of them squatting above the floor, pulling their panties aside and pissing all over it. Come piss with us, Danny. Come piss with us forever.

Just as Danny’s reeling from this waking piss-nightmare, the ladies tower over him menacingly, ready to unleash the full might of hell upon his innocent little bonce. We share Danny’s shock as an inexplicably horizontal jet of piss smashes him in the eyes. He spends the remainder of the scene pulling ridiculous faces and rubbing piss all over his face and eyes like it was shower gel. In the next scene, the wee dwarf and another guy bang those two dungaree-wearing pissy-chicks on a couch.

I guess Kubrick was trying to subvert the horror genre by aping the structure of a pornographic movie; maybe even using that form to pass judgement on cinema itself. I mean, the guy’s a genius. The cum shots at the end were a master stroke. I mean… just an absolute genius, the… the em… wait a minute…

It’s easy to Overlook this guy.

It was porn, wasn’t it? DAMN YOU, PORN PARODIANS ! DAMN YOU TO BLOODY HELL! YOU’VE TRICKED ME AGAIN! I KNEW THERE WASN’T THIS MUCH JIZZ AND PISS IN THE THEATRICAL VERSION! You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson after Forrest Hump. And The Goo-Knees. Not to mention the Marvel superhero blockbuster ‘Whore: Shagnacock’ (My favourite line: ‘Hulk SMASH… YOUR BACK DOORS IN!’)

Who watches this parody stuff? Seriously. Who makes it? And why? A whole industry-within-an-industry has sprouted up from the worlds of porn and mainstream cinema to produce these fapping spoofs by the megaton. What next? Porn-nado?

Everything is ripe for the porn parody treatment, even titles you would never have imagined in a million years would be viable candidates for conversion. There’s a Curb Your Enthusiasm porn parody (check out the trailer – one of the dudes in it absolutely nails Funkhauser – be careful how you unpick that sentence), a Rick and Morty porn parody, even a Scooby-bloody-Doo porn parody (which is mercifully dog-less).

Who are the end-users here? I can’t speak for my legions of fellow wankers, but whenever I’m drawn to the world of online smut it’s to scratch an itch. I want to return myself to my baseline humanity by ejecting all of the pent-up, pant-ripping, seat-sniffing horn that can build up in a man’s gut, ostensibly by throttling myself stupid for ten dirty minutes, and hoping that an Indian cyber-crime specialist isn’t recording my hideous facial contortions for the purposes of future blackmail.

When I watch porn (and I’m ready to be entirely, completely, disarmingly, refreshingly honest here: I’ve never watched it – what even is porn, anyway?) I don’t want to marvel at the production team’s ingenuity. I don’t want to think about the quality of the script. I don’t want a scare, a smirk, or a laugh. I just want to commit seminal genocide. I want to fist-pump myself so savagely and remorselessly that I guarantee myself a place in Hell as Satan’s right-hand-man. But, please: no rimming, pissing, shitting, or foot-licking. I’m from Falkirk. Not Alloa.

I think we know fine well what’s going on here.

The Shining parody succeeded in making me laugh – Christ, how I laughed – but it failed spectacularly as a piece of pornography. Who are these people who are watching The Shining and thinking to themselves, ‘This movie’s okay, but I sure wish I had more legitimate grounds for masturbating right now.’ And what parodian porn director in his right mind is thinking to himself: ‘A terrified boy on a toy bike and two dead little girls? I could turn that into something sexy.’

Most porn parodies are a colossal waste of time. They shouldn’t do any more of them. Well, maybe one more. Game of Thrones would be an obvious choice, given that the original TV show is pretty close to being porn anyway. There’s probably one already, but if there isn’t, may I suggest as some possible titles: Game of Bones (the most obvious candidate); Lesbian Triple Pack – Winter, Summer AND Autumn are coming; and You Know Boffing, Jon Snow.

If you feel like you absolutely must waste your time creating a porn parody of a movie like The Shining then you’d better commit to it with the sort of zeal normally reserved for cult leaders and suicide bombers. You’d better go all-in, balls-out, absolutely bat-shit bloody mental with that sucker from beginning to end; lock yourself in a deserted Colorado hotel for three months in the dead of winter with only twelve crates of whiskey, a thousand spank-mags and a squad of sexy ghosts for company. You’d better be ready to out-Kubrick Kubrick. You’d better make an Oscar-winning movie that just happens to have some shagging in it.

As it stands the parody of The Shining misses an unforgivably large number of opportunities. It has a character saying ‘Heeeeeeeeeeerrrre’s Johnny’, but he isn’t holding up an actual johnny when he says it. They could have had Danny, say, running around shouting, ‘Red Bum! Red Bum!’ Or even ‘Red Cum, red cum’ if they were that way inclined. And what about Danny’s possessed finger? They could have had him talking to women in that funny ghost voice of his as he tickled their cervixes with his freaky-deaky digit. Remember Nicholson in the movie, after he’s frozen to death in the hedge maze? Imagine the bukkake scene you could make out of that! And don’t get me started on Scatman Crothers.

And what about…

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

ALL JERK AND NO LAY MAKES JACK A FULL BOY

Fuck it. I’m off to make a porn parody of Schindler’s List.

Sit on my face and tell me that you love me…

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faces

Face-sitting has been banned by government decree and banished from British-made porn. About time. For too long this flagrant breach of health and safety regulations has put thousands of plucky pro-fuckers at risk of suffocation in their work place. Not to mention the pressure that the existence of this exotic sex act puts on the male population, who already find it challenging enough to operate a vagina under normal conditions. Yes, thank you, David Cameron, for striking this hellish oral atrocity from the pages of the minge manifesto. We gave women the vote, and seemingly that wasn’t enough: how many different types of orgasms do these greedy bastards need?

Face-sitting isn’t right, fair or safe. It’s like playing the bagpipes without the mouthpiece, directly into the bag, with the added danger that the bag could crush your neck and swallow your head at any moment (not to mention contending with the vague smell of unwashed bum).  Perhaps now our over-stretched emergency rooms will be safe from the hordes of naked women who waddle into our hospitals, swishing the corpses of their asphyxiated partners behind them like a tail. Farewell to the era of the Human Centipede.

But wait, men. And let’s think about this for a minute. And think hard. This all seems like a good thing on the surface. But is it really? This ban strikes at the heart of something that we all hold dear, something that no cabal of men in suits has the right with which to tamper: girl on girl porn. This is the thin end of the wedge. Let them ban face-sitting and female ejaculation from our favourite films, and we could face a cold future in which all lesbian porn is reduced to two women chastely greeting each other with a peck on the cheek, and then sitting down to enjoy a Dirty Dancing/Footloose marathon. Is this what you want? Could you wank to that? I, for one, won’t stand for it.

Now, I’m not the rebellious type. But fortunately I am a pragmatist, and a cracking inventor. So here’s my solution, something so powerful that it would have Duncan Bannatyne leaping out of his Dragon’s seat and hollering ‘I’m bloody in! Here’s £50million ya dobber, sign me up!’

Imagine a frame, much like a mini-zimmer or a tiny erection of scaffolding perhaps constructed by the Dozers in Fraggle Rock, that can sit over a man’s or a woman’s face. This frame will take the weight of a vagina, and allow the mouth underneath full – and safe – access to the juicy goodness above without fear of accident or death. I call it…

Wait for it…

Scoffolding.

(This idea is trademarked, so don’t even fucking think about nicking it.)

Fisting's been banned, too. Good news for The Avengers.

Fisting’s been banned, too. Good news for The Avengers.

More Stuff is Banned

I don’t know what I can do to save fisting, except maybe appeal to UKIP on the grounds that the Europeans will still be able to lead the industry in their export of bunched-finger fucking, while we sexually-manacled Brits are forced to offer a sorry, single digit to the world. Come on, Farage. Get to Brussels, pronto. Churchill will be punching in his grave!

As for the directive that all aggression be expunged from UK-porn, I can only extend my full support.   Long have I awaited pornography that’s more in the spirit of Sgt. Wilson from Dad’s Army: “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind awfully… if I put my willy in here.” And who among us hasn’t secretly wished to hear these words whispered in a sweaty, slippery, screaming skin-flick: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I’m not going to attempt to fight the corner of simulated violence, pissing or pooing in porn, though. Probably best not to masturbate to that, on balance. Besides, if you are so inclined, there’s always Germany.

If any people from the UK porn industry are reading this I’m now taking pre-orders for Scoffolding™. As it currently only exists in my head, I’m going to have to ask for £100,000 per unit. I’m also doing some R&D on pairs of fake balls which at the moment I’m calling scroto-types. Thank you.

‘You’ll find that one in the ‘Vaginal Fantasy’ section, Sir.’

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What’s happened to book genres recently? We knew where we were with Western, Sci-fi, Fantasy, Romance, Adventure, and the like, but now the branches of the Genre Tree bear the fruit of some strange and confounding sub-genres. One that caught my eye recently was Vaginal Fantasy.

What’s that then? Any book written by Derek Acorah? It got me wondering, and I imagined a few possible explanations for the phrase. At first I thought Vaginal Fantasy might be a whole sub-genre written for women who spend their lives dreaming of possessing increasingly absurd and far-fetched vaginas.

‘And so, as the sun set behind the hills of Dakota, I squatted in the half-dark, wishing with all of my heart that my fanny could be a leopard. In the morning, my wish had come true, and Tiddles, my pet cat, had paid the ultimate price.’

Perhaps it is the vaginas themselves that are fantasising:

‘Oh what a tortured cunt am I! How I dream of art, of culture, of music! What music I could play as a pianist, were I not condemned to be rammed by one… if only the world could hear me perform I know it would show its appreciation. Oh, how I long for that clap!’

(This next bit hinges on you pronouncing the word ‘vaginal’ in your head so that it rhymes with ‘Lionel’. Potato, pota-toe.) Or is Vaginal Fantasy the latest instalment of the weird Japanese video game series, but with a mingey twist?  If so, it’s begging for a Pokemon cross-over.

But, no, unsurprisingly, it’s none of these things. A book qualifies as Vaginal Fantasy if its intended readership comprises the sort of women who want a dash of porn with their schmaltzy romance. I suppose it’s just a snazzier way of saying ‘erotic fiction’. Thrills and Boom, if you like. Or Thrills and Broom, if you’re feeling really, really adventurous: JK Rowling take note.

‘I just made up the Titticus Outticus spell for a laugh. Who knew it would actually work, Hermione?’

Incidentally, JK, if you’re reading this, sweetheart, I’ve come up with a few ideas you can use if you want to do a Vaginal Fantasy version of Harry Potter – squeeze a few millions more out of the franchise before everyone gets swept away by the next big thing in young adult publishing, which will probably be a fantasy romance about a time-travelling, sex-mad college kid who just happens to be a flesh-eating zombie. Anyway, here are my suggestions for new, sexy Harry Potter titles:

Mary Squirter and the Thrill Officer’s Bone

Hairy Botter and the Chained Bear Secretes

Old Harry Scatter and the Pensioners of Ass-Kablam!

Hell, JK, why be so subtle? Why not just go the full hog and call it:

Harry Potter Goes Absolutely Fucking Bongo Mental and Pumps Everything That Moves, Even Dumbledore, And I’m Talking About the One That Died AFTER He Died

If more Scottish writers get in on the act then we could have our own sub-sub genre, simply called ‘Fanny-tasy.’ Anyway, 50 Shades of Grey is a good example of Vaginal Fantasy, although, having endured some of its chapters, I’ve decided that if a woman wants the book to have a sexy effect on her vagina then she should probably just roll it up and fud herself daft with it.

~~~~~

I stumbled across another sub-genre a few years ago as I was wandering zombie-like around 24-hour Asda. When passing through the book aisle my eyes chanced upon a ticket on a shelf that read: ‘Misery 3-Pack.’ Misery 3-Pack? Who the Hell thinks to themselves, ‘Ooh, I’ve got a wee night to myself here. Get the fire on, put my feet up, get a book out, all cosy. And do you know what I’m hankering after? A nice bit misery, that’s the ticket.’

And not just one chunk of misery: but a three pack! Human history is a long, bitter struggle for survival, throughout which we’ve made it our mission to remove as much misery as possible from our existence, largely through advances in sanitation, medicine and technology. And now, as most of us in the West are privileged to live in an era of comparative safety and luxury, we’re turning to misery as entertainment? What a peculiar little species we are.

Books in this genre are usually autobiographical, and always harrowing; tales of abuse endured and survived; stories that would make even Hitler reach for a box of hankies (although he probably did reach for a box of hankies when his lieutenants reported mass Jew deaths to him; using them to mop up something other than tears, I’d imagine). Typically, Misery Lit books contain sentences like this:

‘It was then I realised, as granny tethered me to a rat in the dungeon and prepared the greased javelin for my helpless starfish, that we probably weren’t going to Disneyland after all.’

As with sex, there’s big money in misery. I wish I could write some Misery Lit. The trouble is, before you can do that you need to have suffered quite a horrific childhood, so that you can draw from those experiences. And my childhood was quite decent. Not perfect – whose is? – but broadly speaking I had quite a comfortable, lower-middle-class upbringing, during which I never feared for my life, or wondered where the next meal was coming from. And the point is this: if my mum had taken the time to beat and shag me, I could’ve been a fucking millionaire by now. Selfish bitch.