Category Archives: Advice

Culture Slut: Tits Cause Quakes, FTVS Leaves for Haiti

Stop the shaking.

Readers, is it any surprise that a Persian scientist/religious hero has made the greatest scientific discovery since the Nipponese invented the LaserDisc? Of course, not.

A high-ranking Iranian cleric recently identified that it is in fact the exposure of the women’s tittays, vagizzles, and badonk-a-cheeks that causes earthquakes.

That is correct: those of you, dear readers, who enjoy parading in the Dar al-Harb whilst dressed like sluts (Fortuna) cause the tectonic plates to shift and rupture, not unlike how Jack Colt’s prostate shifts and ruptures at the sight of RuPaul.

In a masterful display of religious theology, the cleric, Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, brilliantly catechized that:

Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes.

Hearing of this news, FTVS caught the first plane to Port-Au-Prince. Oh yes, FTVS is rarely where the action is not. Clearly, the heathens are in Haiti, and FTVS loves itself some big-breasted heathens.

Party Slut: The Culprit Sessions Return

Australians call it the Sunday Session. Theologically inclined Los Angeleans call it the Culprit Session. Yes, dear reader, your hibernation can end and the water sports can begin. The Rooftop at the Standard Hotel Downtown LA this Sunday becomes once more the fertile hive of sensual sweet babies dancing to a loined musical curation.

What’s more, that first afternoon, Jack Colt will host a pleasure contest in the ladies restroom. Hydrate profusely, and visit the toilets to explore the outer limits of Mr. Colt’s flaccidity. Also, Konrad Black is Canadian but is not the media magnate in prison. Same same, yet only similar.

Culture Slut: Billy Dee Williams Asks “Why Take Chances?”

Some things are better than words but no things are better than Billy Dee Williams. He is the original erogenous black man.

FTVS often asks: should we risk child support liability and allow the full release to occur inside? Can we place so much sexual kismet in Fortuna’s petite if not calloused hands? Of course, FTVS errs on the side of caution — why take chances? — and always pulls out. Leaving it on the tummy is also nice, and is the ultimate prophylactic.

Yes, Billy Dee, of course.

Party Slut: RebelRave or Die

As any al-Qaeda operative will tell you, an endorsement from FTVS is more influential than Allah’s consent and seventy two (72) unsullied virgins. FTVS does not endorse al-Qaeda but does genitally and theologically endorse the upcoming RebelRave event in San Francisco on February 26, and perhaps also in Los Angeles the proceeding eve. Even the most nescient of sexual Luddites will recall that RebelRave is the touring incarnation of the resplendently titillating Crosstown Rebels record label.

Headlined by the perpetually agreeable and coitally amenable Damian Lazarus, with procreative support from FTVS favorite Jamie Jones, not to mention 2010’s wet-dreamed statistician Deniz Kurtel and the fearless sexual icon Seth Troxler, this event will posolutely make the sweet babies rave, squeal and ostensibly gush with glee. It is without saying that FTVS editor Jack Colt will be in attendance to assist the said babies in reaching maximum satisfaction.

Occurring at Mighty, San Francisco’s most diaphanous nightclub with San Francisco’s most pulverizing soundsystem, the event is hosted by the lasciviously prurient Listed Productions family. RebelRave TV, Crosstown Rebels pornographic documentary series, will be recording segments of the Bay area event, soon to be aired on Comcast’s A&R Channel.

FTVS has never led its readership astray with our steroidal recommendations. As such, it is both extolled and demanded of you to buy tickets ahead of time, because this fervid slut of a show will sell out.

Q&A Slut: Is It Acceptable to (Not) Masturbate on an Airplane?

Thoughtful readers, what is the more benevolent of Fortuna’s gifts?

A) Providing mankind with the ability to practice the art of flight via airplane or B) Providing humanity with the capacity to fondle the erogenous musculars and spelunk the coital caverns?

In other words, mankind is able to fly, and mankind is able to she-bop the goo-gun. Which is more profound? Thankfully this is not important, because these gifts can be merged.

Quite literally, Fortuna encourages us to coalesce these two activities  at each and every opportunity. It is our sacramental duty as 21st century men and women to disregard TSA and PETA warnings and flog the bottle-nosed-dolphin whilst engaging in commercial airline flight.

Need more proof? Please visit our friends at Yahoo! Answers for a more nuanced understanding of what this really means.

Party Slut: This Weekend in Color

Times are tough dear readers, and choosing a party is tougher.

But if you feel like times couldn’t be worse, gain some fucking perspective — had the Nazis won the war, you’d most likely be dancing the Sprachinseltänze or Bandltanz with a star on your sleeve to Hofbräuhaus Electro at das Avalon  this Friday night. Instead, thanks to Fortuna’s generous ovaries, America defoliated Germany after she date-raped France, repeatedly, and this weekend is your chance to fully appreciate the sexual meaning of this historiographical gang-bang.

Friday night is at Temporary Space 2 with Monseigneur D’Julz alongside Droog for what might be the last week of hibernation before the return of the Culprit Sessions at the gloriously erected Standard Hotel Rooftop. Yes readers, Friday at TS2 might be your last chance to get all Nic Cage on the nubuile, Korean sweet-babies that abound at this fine venue.

Saturday is at San Francisco’s oldest underground dance institution, The Endup, with German part-time baker Dixon leading the uber sexual Seth Troxler in shorts as tights as Fortuna’s  glory hole is gaping. This, to put it simply, should be experienced.

An extravagant end of the week you might think, but considering there are only two kinds of FTVS readers in this cuntish recession — the employed kind for whom things are looking brighter, and the unemployed kind for whom things are looking increasingly like the inside of Satan’s rectum — FTVS urges you to swipe the plastic.

Advice Slut: Meet Jacques, FTVS’s Newest Columnist

Smell the feather.

FTVS is pleased to introduce you to Jacques-Yves Perichon, our most new columnist. Jacques is an expert in all things that require advice, so please send your questions to him at post [at] fortunathatviciousslut [dot] org. This is Jacques’ first column.

A reader asks: Jacques, why is baseball considered the American national pastime?

It has been confirmed by a web domain highly ranked on the internets that birding, not baseball, is the number one sport in the American states country. Oui, birding. And not necessarily the kind that involves fucking a chicken. Oui, instead, it is the quiet, almost reverential act of voyeuristically stalking well-toned avian specimens in their native habitat. This shit has taken flight in America’s conscience.

I encountered a bird this weekend that evoked the unfettered non-sexual admiration of the disciplined birding community. The event to which I infer regards an exotic Argentine creature of flight whose symmetric curvature and sophisticated socialization was matched in beauty only by her suggestively scant outer coat of feathers; her sluttish beckoning, though barely discernible to a less accomplished birder, was robustly perceived by my well-honed faculties. I know birds only as well as I know the vagina, and this is very well.

It seems that my intellectual prowdness and charismatic cadence so thoroughly enchanted this bird that she invited me from the field in which I watched her, back to her nest, presumptively to couple.  She mentioned nothing of a post-bone shoe shopping excursion, but I have now matured to the understanding that sexual coupling is ritually followed by such implicit and emasculating obligations.

I did arrive at her nest, unawares of the fate that would befall me. For her camouflage did not allow me to predict whether this was a predatory or herbivorous creature.  We ate, we danced, we drank, we pecked. But we did not mate. Penetration, of the sort that involves a cock and a vagina, did not commence.

You see, dear readers, I have tenuously sided with the senseless masses of birders in my loathing of the mindless hunting of innocent meat, which is inevitably followed by what a political scientist might refer to as a “Loser’s Dilemma,” if said political scientologist were to have half the capacities of mind and body that were noble-obliged upon me at birth.

What is this Loser’s Dilemma, you ask?

It is the option of either: A) ritualistic self-castration (ie: acceptance of girlfriend-like relations) or B) guilt plagued consciousness leading to a desire for external satiation of of inner emptiness (ie: chemical induced celebratory suicide-like acts).

No, friends, for the rest of this season of sexual discontent, Jacques-Yves Perichon is unavailable for either of these two options. I am past this phase by many days and several hours and quite a number of minutia. Bird hunting is out and the transcendent passivity of bird watching is my hopeful future.

I assure you, dear reader, that your question has thus been sufficiently explored, diddled, and subsequently, answered.