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Ugly World: 7 Print E-mail
Written by David L Tamarin   
Thursday, 22 October 2009
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Ugly World by David L. Tamarin --


This month’s torture device is the Judas Cradle. It is one nasty device, and better yet, it is not that difficult to make. It inflicts horrible pain onto the most sensitive areas of the human body.

Erik Ruhling, author of Machinery of Torture and Execution (disinformation press), which has some great images and descriptions, will be providing me with pictures to go along with my new feature, the torture device of the month.

The victim is tied up and hung above a pyramid-shaped device with a very sharp point. The victim is tied up and hung in the air above the device. The torturer uses a set of pulleys that allow him to control how much pressure is put on the victim’s body. The torturer manipulates the pulleys, lowering the victim onto the tip of the pyramid to viciously penetrate the anus, vagina, and the sensitive area below the testicles. He can let the victim drop onto the device, which would tear him or her up. He can hold the victim above the device and lower him slowly until all the body weight is on the point. Pulling the legs adds even more pressure. The torturer is in total control of the victim’s pain and life. The torturer can pull the rope and relieve the pressure. He can alternate between having the device deeply penetrating the victim, and having the victim hang above the Cradle. Hanging above the device causes intense fear, and lowering the victim so that a huge wooden triangle goes deeply up his or her ass or genitals causes intense pain and agony. So either way it is torture.

Imagine falling onto the device. It would tear your asshole so wide open that you could smuggle a watermelon in it. Ouch! You should see the one in my basement, covered in blood, shit, vaginal juices, urine, flesh and part of an intestine. I just show it to my victims and they break down just looking at it. Which is worse for the victim, the extreme agony or the apprehension? Which is more fun for the torturer, dropping the victim onto the Cradle or slowly lowering him onto the top of the pyramid? And can you imagine some giant behemoth monster dropped from the sky onto one of the giant Egyptian pyramids? People would drown in the waves of feces and blood. Of course, it won't be as painful as watching Final Destination 3-D, arguably the worst film ever made.

Or imagine being dropped onto the device mouth first so that your head is ripped open.

The book is available from Disinformation Press and

I don’t like sports. They’re too boring, with not enough violence. I want to live in a world where the losing team of a sporting event is executed. I think all sports should be made Extreme. For example, force NASCAR drivers to drink a bottle of whiskey before the race. A baseball field full of landmines, deep holes and wild hungry tigers (who get to eat the losing team). I want an Extreme Olympics. The javelin thrower must throw the javelin into a group of telemarketers. Snipers are positioned to take out runners to motivate the runners. Pole vaulters can land on a mattress. But if they don’t fly far enough they land on a bed of metal nails, AIDS-infected dirty needles, and stakes, all infected with the Ebola virus and covered in vinegar. No weight levels for boxing. Have Mike Tyson fight a third grader, or an 80 year old woman or a pregnant midget. Give Uncle Mike brass knuckles instead of boxing gloves. Synchronized swimming in boiling hot water. Paint Ball, but with pool balls instead of exploding paint balls. A contest to see who can eat the most hot dogs, but with horse cocks instead of hot dogs.  The loser has their mouth sewn shut and forced to starve to death. The winner gets their anus sewn shut so that they eventually explode, shit and blood flying everywhere. Bowling but with blind people instead of bowling pins and nail bombs instead of bowling balls. Golf: Players are literally handicapped by hammers. Pool, where one of the pool balls is filled with poison gas and players get bonus points for hitting their opponents with their pool sticks, which are filled with lead. Synchronized Necrophilia with leprous corpses who have been burned to death.
Yes I realize that I have mentioned shit and blood three separate times in this column. It’s just a coincidence, not a fetish. At least that’s what I tell my therapist.

Asphyxiaphilia is a choking fetish. A man will wrap his hands or a cord around his partner’s or victim’s neck, controlling how much she can breathe. A garret may be used. This device is like a set of nun- chucks wrapped around someone’s neck, with the aggressor standing behind the victim, twisting the nun-chucks (or rope or stockings), preventing her from breathing, then alternating by letting the garrote go slack, letting her breathe. In this way, he has total control of life and death. He can choke his victim unconscious, and then let her wake up only to start choking her again. The victim is choked in a similar manner as the water-board. This asphyxiation can be either consensual play, or nonconsensual brutalization performed by serial killers while raping and torturing their victims. Either way, it is about control, and choking someone. This paraphilia is also known as Breath Control.

Police pulled over a hearse and found 100 pounds of marijuana (or in simple terms, 6,400 quarters) in the coffin. In an alternate universe people put corpses in their bongs. Note to criminals: A Hearse frequently driving in a bad neighborhood and often parked in front of known drug houses will really, really stand out. Some people choose to be incinerated instead of buried. They should pretend the weed is a corpse and burn it all (inside a small room with no ventilation). The marijuana was pronounced dead at the scene and mourning family members, including a hookah, a bong, rolling papers, and a glass pipe, gathered together to mourn the loss of 100 pounds of bud. Stoners held a memorial but were too busy listening to the Butthole Surfers to remember. Why am I mentioning this in my column? Because what is more tragic, more disturbing, more evil than losing 100 pounds of pot? I’ll take the Judas Cradle over this vicious form of marijuana-deprivation torture.

Speaking of drugs, an ounce of Mexican black tar heroin in California is now cheaper than an ounce of weed and California cops are saying the drug is making a comeback. Finally, a story about Mexico not involving the mass murders in Juarez where hundreds of rape/murder victims were dumped. For more info on Juarez you can see one of three movies made about the Mexican killing field. Brief review: all three movies sucked more than a crack head using a glory hole for drug money.

The bitch still sucks. She should be used for medical experiments. She should be force-fed her own babies.

Every year, the World Horror Convention features a short story gross out contest. The stories are read aloud and the goal is to get a roomful of vomiting listeners. Sloppy Seconds is a collection of short stories written for the competition by Wrath James White, with a bonus story, Hurting Him, which originally appeared in the magazine Brutal Tales. He outlines the history of the contest in his introduction and references Adam Pepper’s nasty “Super Fetus,” which has since been turned into a novel I will be reviewing next issue.

Wrath James White is a giant guy and a boxer and street fighter. His writing is the artistic equivalent of a good pummeling: it will shock and assault you, leaving you sick, battered and traumatized. His public readings cause vomiting. This novella-length e-book features stories that are short and lethal like machine gun fire covered in vomit, blood, and burnt vagina. Not a surprise if you have read his most recent novel Succulent Prey, an erotic cannibalism tale featuring loads of disgusting nastiness like genitalia eating, extreme torture, skinning, impalement, serial killing, child-raping and worse.

These stories are violent, but they are gross for mostly sexual reasons. Only Hurting Him is truly scary; the tale of a madman bent on the most extreme revenge possible in this or any other world. The sheer hatred, the ugly brutality of the acts, the lack of remorse of human emotion in the narrator’s tone, all add up to a story that is chilling and violent and disturbing beyond belief. The words are pure hatred, pure vile thoughts and descriptions of torture of every possible part of the body. Brutal Tales, where the story originally appeared, is impossible to find, so thank the great Satan that the story is included in this anthology. While gross out stories tend to be fun, and funny in a gross way, Hurting Him is not a gross out story and is not funny in any way. Just pages of raw angry brutalizing hatred mixed with torture and some supernatural elements. I pulled out a random line of the story: “She bit right through her lip as her labia and pubic hair singed, shriveled, and fried like bacon.” The narrator’s sexual excitement at the horrors he is inflicting adds another disturbing layer to the stand-out horror classic.

The gross out stories are about men who suck the shit out of dead dogs’ assholes, men who love eating out rotten nasty vaginas dripping with syphilis, sex with geriatric whores and more.  The language cuts like a knife, the words shocking, sick, often hilarious, perverted, and gross. I am amazed at the author’s imagination. His stories feature some of the most grotesque perversions ever written, things I would never think of in a million years. He is the closest thing we have to a modern day Marquis de Sade, but a hell of lot more violent.

Morbid Obesity is a tale of a man performing cunnilingus on a newly deceased 500 pound contortionist who died in a quite explicit position. The narrator suffers from a “cannibalistic, necrophiliac fat fetish,” and he takes the expression ‘eating a girl out’ quite literally. As for the surprise ending, I am utterly speechless.

The other stories are all nasty, but I must point out the tale Panty Pudding which is particularly revolting. A man is in love with a whore who fucked his father, grand-father, great-grand-father, and great-great-grand-father. Wrath’s description is much more graphic than this. The narrator, after describing his fantasy of a ménage a trios with the elderly prostitute and his own father, goes on to describe his panty fetish. Not regular panties. “Skidmarks, menstrual stains -- all the tastier”.

I’ll end the interview with a quote that sums up the spirit of this infectiously enjoyable collection. “His father’s gonorrhea foamed out of her asshole in a thick curd like aged cottage cheese, and James eagerly consumed it.” There are more disgusting quotes but I am getting a little sick re-reading it looking for even more repellent quotes. UGLY UGLY UGLY! This book is the epitome of UGLY and everything great that this column is all about.

I have a high tolerance for extreme gore. I am always searching out the most extreme stories, looking for something that actual penetrates my desensitized imagination and truly makes me feel sick. Wrath James White is one of the view writers who legitimately makes me stop reading just to prevent myself from getting sick. This collection is so disgusting, but also so well written, that it is an amazing read and impossible to forget. Go through the book and randomly pick out a sentence. It will be disgusting, disturbing, and nasty. Literally every sentence involves ugly descriptions of strange fetishes, necrophilia, bestiality, cannibalism, and more. A must read.

Available from Skullvines Press, as both an e-book and a print book, and Horror Mall.

A few thoughts:
- Worst 3-D movie ever made.
- Biggest Let Down in cinema history.

- One of the 10 worst horror films ever made alongside American Werewolf in Paris.
- One of the 10 worst films in general of any genre from any time period in any language including every single youtube video even ones made by kids of their pets.  No exaggeration.  I dare you to find me something on youtube worse than Final Destination 3-D.
- Least Memorable, most unattractive, unappealing, uninteresting, unrealistic, card-board cut-out characters of any film I can ever remember seeing.
- No acting so no acting to comment on.
- Cartoonish silly gore, no pain or suffering or anything gross.
- Lots of huge let-downs.
- Most inappropriate rating (this should have been PG-13, PG without the two second breast shot and some intestines).
- The main characters don't go to school, don't have jobs, watch movies and drag races in the day, yet are rich, upwardly mobile and up to date on all their cell phone gear, with beautiful new cars.  What world do they live in?
- In this day and age, how obvious is it that when some redneck uses a racial slur to a black guy's face that the redneck will die next?
- Since the characters are so superficial, we would at least expect they would cast some good looking kids with nice bodies. Nope. Two ugly frumpy female leads, lacking in any type of personality, with B-cups at the most. The second lead guy looks like a mannequin and I can't even remember what the lead looks like. The one brief topless scene is not in 3-D, and there is so much flash cutting that you see nothing. The 3-D actually makes the gore less gory by giving it a cartoon look.
- There is no tension during the film.
- I didn't care about the order of the victims, I couldn't even tell them apart, I don't even know if the plot made any sense it is too silly to analyze.
- No one in this movie should ever be in another movie.
- No one involved in this film should be involved in another movie.
- The one good part: girl in escalator at end. About a five second death. By "good" I mean good compared to the rest of this film. To think I could have seen Halloween 2...

Finally, to end this historic column here's a nasty short by me. You can see it online here and read the wonderfully negative comments. This one I like to call “Octo-Mom and the Projectile Birth Contest”.

Five women lay on gurneys in a great field facing a basketball court. They were all pregnant and surrounded by a team of doctors. A sixth gurney was empty. A sweating referee with Tourette’s Syndrome, a crawling spiders fetish stood by, waiting, shotgun in hand.  By his side was a midget with a dog chain tying him to a stake in the ground.

Everyone was waiting for Contestant Number 6, Octo-Mom. The crowd fucking hated her. They hated the fuck out of her. She staggered towards the table, all five hundred plus drunken pounds of ugliness, stupidity, inbreeding and devolution slashing back and forth like a chalice filled with holy mescaline juice. She was so fucking drunk. She would buy the largest size bottle of vodka she could find, saw off the top, and down the entire bottle in one shot. She had had ten Octo-shots, or about 300 human shots.

The crowd wanted to hang her from a fucking tree and play piñata with her, get Mexican with baseball bats and just smash her bloated stomach until all the nasty fetal mess would plop out like a big shit-storm of filth. Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! The crowd chanted in unison. They threw rotten fruit at her, which she would eat if she could. She almost made it to her gurney before tripping and falling and landing on her stomach. There was a splat! Sound and something shot out of her dress. One of her attending doctors went over to the little fetus and picked it up, vomiting when he realized it was a piece of Octo-shit. He fucking punched Octo-Mom in the mouth and spit in her face as the crowd cheered. Fucking bitch! screamed the doctor as he lunged at her with a scalpel.

Like an idiot.

What good would a scalpel do against miles of intestines, fat and scar tissue. Scientists estimated she had 1,000 miles of scar tissue just on the left side of her inhuman fucking face. So when the doctor plunged the scalpel into her cheek she didn’t even notice, her face simply absorbed the scalpel and the doctor’s hand as well. Before anyone could help the forces of gravity sucked him inside Octo-Mom’s fucking face.

She puked up a doctor’s uniform, bones, hair and teeth. Bitch! chanted the crowd.

They settled her down into her gurney, which was specially constructed to accommodate her enormous size and stupidity. The crowd hushed in anticipation. All that could be heard were five women moaning in agony and Octo-Mom eating a hamburger.

She could give a fuck if they hated her. Good. She’d pollute the earth with her foul seed and they’d start breeding their own little Octo-fuckers by the time they were twelve or so. Scientists estimated that at that rate she’d have 6,000 spawn within one year. The scientists were all in comas so the estimate was useless. Goddamn doctors.

Soon she and her foul kind would be running this planet. It was her vagina’s way of screaming Fuck Off at the world.


After an awkward silence the women started screaming at him to get this over with. Their water had broken and the babies were practically digging their way out of the wombs.

He fired the shotgun into the midget’s tiny head, its explosion signaling the start of the Contest. The first woman pushed as hard as she could and the fetus blasted out. The crowd moaned in pity for the deformed stillborn that shot out with its umbilical cord wrapped around it -- it had been hog-tied by the cord. It hit the basketball court with a hairy thud and crumpled up and bubbled.
Number 2 shot out Siamese twins and the crowd cheered! They flew a good fifteen feet until the umbilical cord snapped and they landed on the court, turning into sweaty bloody shit-stains. The mother, knowing she had lost, began crying, while simultaneously she began manipulating her doctor’s cock, trying to get it hard so he could fuck her and she could get pregnant again for next year’s contest.

The doctor pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t believe in consensual sex. Perhaps we’ll meet sometime when you’re not in the mood”. He then began stitching her up. “Stop! You’re not supposed to sew that shut, didn’t you learn anything in medical school?”

“Only how to synthesize date rape drugs” he said as everyone applauded.

Number 3 waited and waited and nothing happened. Her doctor did a quick examination and discovered she was not in fact pregnant but that a pack of squirrels had turned her womb into a temporary home. He discovered this as they gnawed through her stomach and out into the waiting world. They had rabies and vampire teeth.

Number 4 started shaking and for some unknown reason the baby came out of her mouth. She turned and started to vomit until a little head was visible, then the chest, then finally the whole thing as the smiling child fell out of her to its death on the basketball court. A chunk of afterbirth landed on its head, adding to the humiliation.

Number 5 was determined to win. Her husband stood over her and bashed her stomach with a shovel the moment the referee shot the midget. The plan failed, the baby exploded in the womb, and a squirt of semi-solid shit fluid came out, a little heart and legs all mixed up in it in one big mess. “That was fuckin’ awesome!” howled her husband, who was not the father of the baby (he had a two week priapism in his youth that caused his penis to crumble apart and fall off like a pyramid turning to dust as the winds of time blew through it like a fucking cannonball.

All eyes focused on Octo-Mom’s hideous vagina, wondering what would come out and how far it would go. The world’s record belonged to a Haitian prostitute whose baby literally flew three hundred feet, umbilical cord trailing behind it as it flew through the sky like E.T. and that fucking kid on the bike. But the crowd knew that this birth could be even more spectacular. They were expecting a fucking mess. Gorefiends and Macabre Nuns watched with painted faces, awaiting a religious and spiritual miracle to come from the Octo-Vag.

What happened next made the crowd gasp. A flock of beautiful golden doves fluttered out of Octo-Mom’s vagina, spreading their beauty, strength and wisdom with the world. The angry crowd, full of blood-lust and seething with hatred, began to riot. The first five contestants were angry because they thought that giving birth to doves was cheating.

Despite the beauty that emerged from Octo-Mom’s vagina, the crowd hung her from a tree and played piñata with her, even smashing her with the midget’s battered body, until she broke open and all her candy flew out and the world rejoiced.


See you next column… or in the trunk of my fucking pick-up trick… or in your closet…

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3.22 Copyright (C) 2007 Alain Georgette / Copyright (C) 2006 Frantisek Hliva. All rights reserved."

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