What was your first reaction when you heard the name “Dick Wolf?”
A dangerous person. Wolves and dicks are dangerous. The man matches up to his name. When you meet him, he’s a big guy. He looks like he’d sit at the head of a table at a mob meeting or something. He’s very serious. Thank god for Dick Wolf. His checks clear, I don’t have nothin’ to say bad about that guy. In this business, if you have one powerful executive that likes you, he can basically help your life. Dick Wolf has bought me a lot of cars, paid for a lot of vacations… I ain’t mad at the dude.
The Art of Taboo – Ren Hang
Being a radical artist in China is a pretty tricky prospect. Considering censors banned paradigm of inoffensive banality Katy Perry from the country’s airwaves for supposedly being too vulgar (and not forgetting that time authorities made Ai Weiwei disappear for posting seminude photos of himself online), you would have thought that Chinese photographer Ren Hang would lay off filling his portfolio with gaping buttholes and models pissing on each other, or sustaining his unparalleled level of dedication to photographing erect penises.
But he hasn’t, which is a good thing, because his photos are great—somehow managing to desexualize naked bodies and turn them into sometimes funny, sometimes beautiful, sometimes gnarled, hairy, human-shaped sculptures that make you want to get naked with all your friends, paint your dick red, and hang out on a roof in Beijing. Which is basically the end game all photographers are going for, right? I wanted to talk to Ren about his work, so I did. Here’s that conversation.
VICE: First off, why is everyone naked in basically every single one of your photos?
Ren Hang: Well, people come into this world naked and I consider naked bodies to be people’s original, authentic look. So I feel the real existence of people through their naked bodies.
Is that why the bodies aren’t presented in a kind of conventionally “sexy” way, even if the photos are sexual?
No, I don’t take photos with any particular purpose or plan—I just grasp whatever comes into my mind, arrange that in front of me and take a photo of it. I don’t pay too much attention to whether a scene is sexy or not when I’m taking photos.
Yeah, a lot of the bodies end up looking more like kind of grotesque sculptures.
That’s not really intentional, although I do consider bodies as sculptural—or, as you say, grotesque sculptures—so I suppose the sculptures exist because the bodies exist.
Johnny Ryan’s Chick Tracts
A while back I was looking for a series of things to vandalize and post online for laughs. I started with photos from magazines and wrestling cards, and they were OK, but I wanted something a bit more unique. Then I discovered a few Chick tracts stored away in my drawer. For those of you who don’t know, a Chick tract is a tiny religious comic made by Jack Chick designed to scare you into becoming Christian. Jack has been cranking these things out since the early 70s, and you can find them in bus terminals and public bathrooms across the country.
The design of these tracts is pretty uniform, and perfect for fucking with. The first one I used was titled Who Killed the Dinosaurs? I posted it on my Tumblr and it got a pretty good response, so I kept going. I just used a little white acrylic paint pen, and sometimes markers, and voilá! I’d have a new and improved tract.
For a good two months I was posting a few every day. People were asking me what I was going to do with all of them, and I had no idea. My buddy Greg has a clothing store called Mishka in LA (and NYC) and was opening a small gallery in the back. He asked me if I’d be up for doing an art show, and I told him I didn’t really have time to do anything new since I was in the middle of working on my book, Prison Pit V, but I did have about 80 of these Jack Chick tracts that I had ruined. Surprisingly, he thought it was a cool idea for a show, so that’s how the world’s fucking stupidest art show was born. Oh, and there’s also going to be a book collecting all the tracts coming out soon from Monster Worship.
Animal Penises Are Super Weird
One of the great things about nature is that everything in it—dogs, flowers, snakes, whales, ants, jellyfish, crabs, toucans, everything—is either eating or trying to fuck at all times. Of the uncountable billions of organisms populating our planet, millions and millions of them are getting it on at this very second. P’s are going into V’s, eggs are being fertilized, the circle of life continues.
You probably didn’t learn very much about the sex lives of animals in school because your poor science teachers had enough to worry about without saying the words “elephant cock” in front of a room of teenagers. But animal sex and the evolved features of animal sex organs are often wonderful things, and there’s no reason that today’s young people shouldn’t learn about the tiny—and sometimes startlingly large—wonders that are animal penises.
So we got some of our contributors together and wrote about animal dicks. If you are excited to learn more about animal sex, we encourage you to watch Isabella Rossellini’s Green Porno series. Or just go to the park and see if you can catch squirrels fucking.
Photo via Flickr user jimg944
Did you emerge from the head of your father’s dick as a fully formed baby? Congratulations, you’re probably a sea horse. Sea-horse females impregnate males during one-night stands and leave them to foster their young without so much as paying child support, like a Beyoncé song in reverse.
Courtship begins when the female and male start scraping their tails along the sea floor. (Hot!) The male has his head tucked into his chest the entire time because he’s a little pussy bitch. The female circles around him, forcing him to pay attention to her colors. Then she grabs him with her tail and penetrates him. (Yesssss…) They swim face to face, locked together, as she excretes up to 600 eggs into his brood pouch. Then she fucks off forever.
After just a few weeks, the male undergoes contractions and finally blasts a bunch of miniature sea horses out of his little sea-horse dick.
Republicans Don’t Have a Ton of Empathy for Strangers
Something inevitable happened. The Senate voted down that bipartisan plan to expand background checks for guns. And, if you take the action-packed headline of the NY Daily News as any indication, Obama is so “furious” about it that he is publicly “slamming” the Senate. Read further: Joe Biden is “on the brink of tears.” This is some dramatic stuff!
This bill was conceived in response to the mass shooting of twenty children in Newtown, Connecticut. Obama of all people should understand that even 20,000 dead children wouldn’t make a difference to the hard-liners. That is, not unless it were their 20,000 kids. Put another way, gun control in America isn’t happening unless a) Republicans learn to spawn thousands of young at a time, like fish, and b) all their Fishpublican-spawn babies are killed with guns. These conditions are both necessary and sufficient.
I’m not saying that Republicans are monsters. I’m not even saying they don’t care about other people’s kids. They probably don’t, but that’s beside the point. The point is, right-wingers of all stripes, from the feisty libertarian to the noble Santorumite, are incapable of learning from the experiences of others. They just can’t help it. Need some examples? Right this way, friends.
“God hates fa—whoa, never mind”
Last month, Senator Rob Portman (R-OH) announced his support of equal marriage rights. Portman said in a statement, and I’m paraphrasing here, that grown-ups who are in love should be allowed to do what they want. He sounds like a pretty chill guy, right? Let’s Google him and have a look at his stellar record on LGBT rights, then. OK, now that we’ve finished doing that, let’s brush the rage-vomit off our keyboards and try to make sense of it all.
In 2011, Portman went on an antigay tirade during his commencement address at the University of Michigan law school. Instead of reading Dr. Seuss and telling those kids to wear sunscreen, this guy boldly subverted audience expectations by ranting about homosexuality for no clear reason. About a hundred law grads walked out on their own graduation ceremony in protest.
So, why the change of heart? Naturally, it’s because Portman learned his son is gay. Portman just wants his kid to have a good life, you see. That’s great and all, very touching, but don’t forget: back in Portman’s salad days of homophobia, he knew about people like his son. He just didn’t give a shit about them.
VICE Meets Sue Johanson
In the third and final part of the Sue Johanson interview, she talks with Kara Crabb about important things like dick sizes, vagina sizes, and the female orgasm. She also teaches Kara a valuable lesson about safe sex: how to put on a condom with your mouth.
Hey, you rapidly decaying protoplasmic sacks of calcium and shit, my name is Dr Mona Moore. Obviously, that is not my real name, but I am a real doctor. Don’t feel bad for me, though, because it means I will always have a job, an apartment ten times bigger than yours and the right to tell you what to do simply because I will always know better. Enjoy my column!
BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - PLEASE DON’T STUFF YOUR COCK
In my experience, people will get weird shit lodged in every available orifice—and the urethra is no exception. Now, I don’t have a penis, so perhaps it’s hard for me to understand, but the only time anyone has put anything up my urethra was during an STD screening and I was moments away from kicking the doctor in the head. Painful, humiliating, and categorically not erotic. But apparently this is exactly what gets some people off, though they normally regret it after.
I had a 45-year-old man come in recently with a big, grizzly beard and a pained expression complaining of urinary retention—basically he couldn’t piss and it was causing him terrible pain. So I popped a catheter in (allowing free flowing pee) and sent him for an X-ray. When it came back, I could see big lumps in his bladder and girded myself up for late-stage bladder cancer. Fearing the worst, I told him he would need to be sent to surgery, where the surgeon would put a camera up his urethra to see what was going on—and still he did not mention a thing.
As the camera slid into his bladder, the whole surgery stopped in disbelief. Those were not cancerous lumps writhing around in horrible humping masses, but maggots. There was a rampant maggot orgy in his bladder.
It turns out he enjoys fishing on Sundays, and while waiting for a tug on his line would pop a maggot up his jap’s eye because he liked the way they wriggled up his tube. I’ve never understood fishing (or bestiality), but I’m pretty sure baiting your bladder isn’t the way to bring in the catch.
We Went to Blackout Halloween and Got a Penis Placed Upon Us
Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote a thing about how I was offered a couple of passes to the infamous Blackout Haunted House, and could literally not find a single VICE staffer to drag their pussy ass through it. This year, I resolved to not only force myself to confront my biggest fear (having a foreskin presented to me), but to force my co-workers to go along with me on what ended up being a true fact-finding mission; that fact being that Blackout really is just a bunch of flaccid penises, with also at least three sets of boobs thrown in for fun.
When I sent out my email to the creators of the Blackout event, asking if we could be granted upwards of ten passes for free, I was honestly hoping that they’d say no, or at least say that yes, we could come, but in like a month or something. When I got an almost immediate reply saying that we were all set and could pick a date to come as soon as a week away, I wanted to cry, crap, and then die in my own crap. The weeks leading up to us going were spent exchanging fearful stares and head shakes. Only an idiot would want to go through this thing. Good thing we’re all idiots.
The day that it was all set to go down included three immediate flake outs (I won’t name names, but you can email me if you want to know who the yellow-bellied VICE staffers are) and about 57 beers a piece. The sun set way too soon, and we all piled into a car and headed over to get tortured for fun.
I would hate to ruin the event for others by going over the details of what happened during the 30 minutes you spend ALONE inside of Blackout, but I will share the post-event interviews I conducted with the poor chumps I made go with me. Maybe this will help you determine if you’re brave (or sick) enough to make it through.