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.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

FTVS, on location.

Attention all attractive sex trafficking victims! It is time to jubilate and pay hommage to your most seraphic matriarch! Discharge your requital at Mother Lindsay immediately!

Observe the clip below, and witness the rinsed-out hooker turned righteous social justice crusader disarm a real-life trafficker of  children with questions likely never before posed.

“Didn’t you hear that children were abused, and some girls, maybe if they were, like, attractive, were raped and prostituted?” inquires Lohan, with a delivery reminiscent of an earlier, drug-addled Maureen Dowd.

FTVS demands that Ms. Lohan immediately and relentlessly pause her other career (of ravaging rotted vagina and tending to nose-bleeds) to proctor and arbitrate on behalf of the world’s most marginalized.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Bob Albatross and I, Jack Colt, decided to inflate the already gargantuan challenge by leaving the proceedings of the evening entirely in Fortuna’s tender hands. Dialectically, we of course trusted whatever the vicious trollop of fate would put in ours. A feat which, without a doubt, would have catapulted us to the very summit of the electronic music press if we had not already conquered it. The view is nice from the top, and Fortuna’s ovaries are kind.

What happened? It ended like this: I woke up on January 1st at 8:56:27am to the sound of a very groggy Mr. C, with no interviews, a tremendous difficulty to walk or see, no recollection of the night, and no sign of the FTVS editorial team. A careful analysis of the meta-data from the digital photographs in the FTVS camera allowed me to aggregate a foggy picture of fragmented and nonexistent memories.

What I, Jack Colt, remember is that by 11:30:00pm the old Eezer was running strong on the Rooftop, too strong maybe.

11:39:43pm — I had lost sight of the FTVS team and began taking pictures of strangers in the lobby of the hotel. I remember vaguely taking a picture of a group of perhaps negro people, possiblly led by FTVS adversary Sean Combs, who subsequently forced me to delete the precious photographs. I complied promptly, resistance was futile.

11:47:10pm — After wrestling my way into the elevator I ascended once more to the top of the building. Lee Foss was playing casually yet precisely, dogging the constant sexual assaults of a floc of female individuals who just so happened to correspond quite perfectly to my target demographic. I acted as if an old friend of Lee Foss, to maximize the chances of seizing a nasty that would surely be left in Lee’s wake. Certainly, I would jubiliantly settle for his sloppy seconds, if not fifths or sixths.

11:49:18pm — Perhaps I had found refuge in one water-bedded red capsule near the pool with a female matching my own level of intoxication. I might have accidentally roofied my own drink at this moment. This explained the simultaneous disappearance of the woman and my own ontology. The pleasure, was quite literally, mine alone.

11:55:36pm — A set of perfectly shaped and adequately unwrapped female buttocks attracted my photographic attention. No sign of the aforementioned red-capsule.

12:04:22am — The magnificent Richard West arrives and relieves Mr. Foss of his disque jockeying duty. He is refined, sublime, and is wearing some very fashionable boots. Mr. C is calm, sporting a grin that suggests he has DJed before, and perhaps been harassed by self-roofied French expats heavily intoxicated on rice wine (me, Jack Colt).

12:42:32am — In less than forty minutes, I had shot ninety six (96) pictures of Mr. C at close range and decided to accomplish yet another photographic first by diving under the decks with him and taking his portrait. The smile remains on the extraordinary fellow. It is, quite simply, impossible to perturb this gentle giant.

01:23:01am — Smile down. Trouble is lurking. The atmosphere becomes heinous.

01:24:00am — The Standard Security squadron attempts to shut down the party. A very valorous and fierce Andrei Osyka faces the oppressor alone, explaining The Shamen cannot be disturbed once the party starts rocking. Lee Foss arrives in an effort to rescue him using his charm to appeased the explosive situation. The Security is strong.

01:24:11am — The battle that seemed to last an eternity was now irrevocably lost. The Chelsea Boy refuses to leave the sinking decks and plays until the end. We are now escorted to the elevator. I am caught in the flow. I decide to follow the group to Room 1048. I remember asking something to Lee Foss to which he responded: “It was a rough year.” Why? I wondered. Perhaps the FTVS interview had put on to much weight on the young man’s shoulders.

03:26:10am — The Shamen is touching the very tactile screen of an iPhone connected to the room’s iPod dock (a feat former FTVS Editor Kip Penn would not have succeeded with). Someone offers me a small amount of white powder on the tip of a key which I failed to refuse and later assessed to be horse tranquilizer. The music must be playing in the room, but my basic motor skills deteriorate fast. Only my left hand is able to keep up with the far sounding beat.

09:33:47am — I am at the Westin Bonaventure, Red Tower, waiting for the very same elevator that carried our good governor and his horse in James Cameron’s pre-Avatar masterpiece. But why? How did I manage to cross Flower street? I look for Bob by the poolside, but he is likely resting his phallus in a wet hole in the dark. The last six (6) hours are absurd, if not completely professional. I must rest. Three (3) hours hopefully. It must commence again on New Year’s Day. 2010 demands it of me.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Rihanna, on location with Ike Turner.

FTVS’s youngest intern was on assignment for the FTVS Travel Column on the West Indian island-nation of Barbados this plebeian holiday season.

The assignment was simple enough: to provide “in-depth” review and ranking of Barbados’ budget brothels, for the modern and financially conscious traveler. This meticulously crafted list would have, without a doubt, stimulated both the global economy and the worldly proliferation of venereal disease.

The voyage to and from apparently took somewhere between 30 minutes and 14 hours; alprazolam, hydrocodone, and alcohol, an FTVS potpourri specialty, served to dilute the memory. Our nascent intern not only failed to record his observation in said brothels, but mostly partook in the type of inane activities normally only desired by corpulent British tourists.

The following is a transcript of the infant intern’s letter. The young man was asked not to come back to the FTVS headquarter.

Dear Bob and Jack,

The red-coated Pommies have an insatiable thirst for this island… I am guessing it offers nostalgic fodder for them to relive what they miss most: slavery… To my surprise, the formidably athletic populace roams unthreatened by overt racial boundaries, and is unencumbered by chains… I am baffled to witness, the majority of locals dutifully continue to perform the roles of their enslaved ancestors now for survival’s necessary wage… It is unclear to me whether food served by fat pink British women, or food purchased by locals at Super Center is more nutritious… Columbus certainly cast a racialist shadow here that has yet to dissipate… I must go sandal shopping, my shoes were lost last night after I roofied myself, an experiment.

The most proletarian of all activities in Barbados appeears to be sun-tanning, a longtime favorite sport of the slave-driving cracker… Whilst lying on the beach and enjoying the Sun’s supple rays, one cannot but be accosted by vendors hawking their shell bracelets, massages, and ‘bad habits’ which so far have included blowjobs, and phenylcyclohexylpiperidine…

Two weeks in this strange place and my phallus is ready to fall off. Not from sex with women but from sex with my hand and SPF 50 lotion… my penis has a tan, like Laird Hamilton. I really think FTVS should lobby the Bajan government to abolish the shell selling, and instead make semi-private tents available for those who wish to indulge in chemically fueled happy-endings courtesy of the native ‘Rasta-tutes’… The government must immediately implement an edict mandating that activities such as golf, yachting, and belly-boarding be performed topless, and on further thought, bottomless too… There is, after all, nothing more pleasing to the erudite phallus than the sight and texture of a freshly sunburned nipple.

Warmly yours,

(deleted name)

ps: About the brothels, I grant Barbados a salubrious seven (7) and three-quarters (3/4) stars.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Jack Colt, naked in front of Fortuna

As part of FTVS’s annual fundraiser, I embarked last week on a journey to Western Australia to meet FTVS main benefactor Alan Bond. After a rather heated meeting on Friday over dinner at the notoriously decadent C Restaurant located on the 33rd floor of the AAPT building in Perth (Western Australia, Australia), I decided to forget this ingrate of a snob and drench my anger in over-priced and under-filled vodka-Redbulls at The Villa. FTVS staff members are, after all, comfortably insulated from the economics crisis.

The Villa, formerly Xanadu, and formerly closed after some discourteous Vietnamese gang-related violence, sits at the bottom of Stirling Street in the eastern part of Perth city. Despite a sound system that is at best horrendous, the club’s proximity to Highpark’s tightly knitted network of whorehouses and whores makes it a fine establishment to visit.

The marginally uninteresting Angelino duet LA Riots were “spinning” at the Villa that night, and Lee Coombs was scheduled to play the next night as part of his Light & Dark Australian tour. The plan was to catch up with Mr. Coombs to perform on his person a groundbreaking follow-up interview. FTVS was indeed very curious to know how much his life had changed after the interview that shook the world and provided many orgasms, mostly to women and gay hairy men also known as bears (cf. Exclusive Interview of the Year 4th Edition).

It appears Fortuna had other plans for FTVS, and I learned two important lessons during this tumultuous weekend. One (1): it is unwise for a sub-average DJ crew from Los Angeles to play the same night as Britney Spears in the planet’s most isolated city. Two (2): the fate of the world sometimes ends up in the fat hands of a mongoloid doorman at a wannabe trendy club in Perth, Western Australia.

Yes, dear reader, Jack Colt was refused entry into this venue. After the first confrontation with the doorman who, based on the light in his eyes, was a certified rapist, I immediately alerted Mr. Coombs’ manager Miss Cooper in San Francisco of this inadmissible administrative cafouillage. God bless cellular technologies. Understanding the gravity of the situation, and the potential backlash this mediatic fiasco could have on the career of her client, the sexy woman tried ringing the DJ numerous times to get him to assist me. But without success.

Ed Hardy: Los Angeles, Perth, New York

After sometime negotiating, I began to lose patience in front of this doorman imbecile too ignorant to be aware of the primary importance of my presence. Fatigued and modestly inebriated, I succumbed to the way of the proletariat and began hurling robust insults at him. The monster, who shared under the yellow street light a striking resemblance with the Punisher (as drawn by Ross Andru), responded with menacing gestures that, to his credit, conveyed quite clearly the prospect of bodily injuries to be inflicted on me if I did not vacate the premises. Fortuna, you cunt.

Slightly unnerved but mostly amused by the absurdity of the whole situation, I wandered two blocks down the street and found refuge at the Court. Aptly named, this monarchic venue is a long lasting Gay and Lesbian institution that usually plays superior music, and never refuses entry to attractive young males such as myself. The night ended much later, and while the details escape me, I recall an overweight diabetic cat at some strangers’ house. Anus, I should note, was largely in tact also.

In this world in disarray, where the geometry is fading, and the theology is being strangled, you were denied, dear reader, the quality groundbreaking music coverage that you have learned to except from FTVS; and while I understand your anger and misery, I will not apologize.

We are, after all, in the cum-caked hands of Fortuna.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Let's play footsies.

Canada is home to many things such as gay marriage, moose, and no black people but many Chinese.

In addition, Canada is very successful at breeding humans like Willie Pickton, who allegedly killed thirty two (32) prostitutes in Vancouver (British Columbia, Canada) and then fed them to his pigs. Willie Pickton’s pig farm provided bacon and other prostitute-tinged pig products to many theologically incorrect grocery stores. Thus, a great deal of Vancouverites have masticated the hooker meat — only the Jews and the Muslims were spared. FTVS can confirm it is like bacon, but with the subtle aftertaste of a two (2) dollar back-alley handjob.

In addition to the legacy of Willie Pickton, a new entrepreneurial flesh-lover is hard at work hacking the feet off of the socialist heathens also known as Canadian citizens. Yes, dear reader, over the past eighteen (18) months, seven (7) severed feet have washed up on British Columbian shores as reported by the prestigously Canadian news agency Global News:

A human right foot in a running shoe has been found on a beach in the Vancouver suburb of Richmond — the seventh such discovery on B.C. shores since 2007. Two men walking on the beach Tuesday found what appeared to be a foot inside a size 8 1/2 white Nike running shoe.

This is, and always has been, a clear attempt to personally challenge FTVS. Never one to shy away from a good old fashioned foot fight, FTVS would like to invite this Mephistophelean foot-butcher over for dinner, and have him suckle the moist toes that complete Jack Colt’s judicious hooves.

Until then, visitors to Vancouver beware, and be prudent if encountered by a podiatric enthusiast offering some casual foot sex.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

The Dutchman: red, flabby, extremely dangerous.

Dear reader, I come back from my voluntary exile to the Indonesian archipelago with distressing news. During my journey, I uncovered an evil breed of White men and women (previously unheard of). A breed of Europeans that only inspires disgust and contempt. Indonesia is for surf and cheap whores, period. Only one part of the coastline is good, the south; and the further away one goes from the island of Bali the thinner the crowd and the cheaper the whores.

Half way through my tribulation, I made it to Pangandaran, a small town located on the southern coast of West Java. Pangandaran is blessed with reasonably good waves and the locals are poor enough to engage in the most refined and intricate debauchery for under ten (10) American dollars (including tips).

The Benchong: harder, better, faster, stronger.

I went to the Bamboo Bar at around 8.15pm my first night. I figured it was an opportune time to enjoy a cold beer and gauge the local “night butterflies.” It is then I encountered the devil’s children. White, flabby, spectacles-wearing, account manager-looking sons of bitches in beige pantaloons and light blue or lavender shirts.

They were sitting around the tables in groups of five or six, male and female, sipping Guinness or Heineken, and occasionally bursting into laughter for reasons I did not understand. They spoke English with Dutch, British, French, and even German accents.

They said they came here to “experience the real Indonesia.” They laughed at me when I mentioned Kuta, Bali, claiming “it is too touristy.” Such individuals are leeches and should be castrated immediately, and FTVS’ legal division is currently lobbying the Indonesian government to refuse them entry in the future.

They come to the holy place with tiny backpacks filled with hand sanitizer, and plastic sporks — by far the worse invention of mankind — with no desire to bring back handcrafted Indonesian garbage. They do not buy whores. They do not hire cars or drivers or guides to go surf. They do not contribute anything to the local economy or culture; and they pollute the country by simply sitting flaccid in their green plastic chair. They epitomize what is wrong with the White race, and to them I only have three words: Go fuck yourselves.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Sweet, tender, gentle bacon. Glory!

Those swindlers at the World Health Organization (WHO, a pseudonym) recently released the scientific equivalent to an extremely silent but deadly anal miasma.

The National Enquirer’s retarded half-cousin, The New York Times, reported last week that the WHO  (not the rock band of renowned kiddie-fiddler Pete Townshend, but the blasphemists mentioned above) has ceased tracking and reporting swine flu related casualties.

The journalistic and epidemiologistic virtuosity that lies inveterate within FTVS’s essence forces us to pose the question no other news institution has the testicular fiber to pose: why?

The answer resides somewhere between A) that there are inherent difficulties in establishing robust enough quantitative data sets correlating the relationship between causality and mortality when examining the H1N1 virus, and B) that if swine flu leads to the symptoms characterized in the picture above, this supposed “virus” is indeed more a celebration of life than it is an arbiter of necrosis.

FTVS heretoforth endorses swine flu, and asks that you, our demanding and fanatical reader base, not succumb to the wantonly sensationalistic bait that is being dangled by the CDC.

Swine flu, FTVS proclaims, is not an epizootic threat! FTVS also demands that the wondrous pig mammal receive immediate exculpation from the smear campaign that has racially profiled his species.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Daddies, Bears, Cubs, Wolves, and Balds: G-Land caters for all tastes and fetishes.

Dear readers,

Once again I embark on a journey to a far-away place where the water’s blue and the boys are cheap. I hope that upon my return, having  satiated my salient homosexuality, making gay jokes won’t cause me guilt. G-land, on the far eastern tip of Java somewhere in the Indonesian archipelago, is one of the last bastions for closet men to seek refuge and unbridled pleasure in total secrecy.

Being the technical officer at FTVS, it is unclear at this stage whether Albatross and Penn, two persons having tremendous difficulties adapting to the Internet technology, will be able to keep FTVS online during my absence.

Until later,

Jack Colt

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.