Screengrab by Various Today in Nerve's film blog: We list our greatest guilty pleasures. You can't imagine the shame!
61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: A piping a hot plate of Tim Curry, Half-Life for a dollar, and adventuring with Adventure.
Last night when I tactfully redirected my husband to a sweeter spot, he reacted like he'd been scolded by Mrs. Doubtfire. So today I feel like having sex with somebody who will let me place my entire order with just one twitch of my finger. That would be Amazon.com's CEO, Jeff Bezos, inventor of 1-click shopping. It doesn't hurt that Jeff's sorta cute and sorta young and that his original corporate motto was GBF — for "Get Big Fast." I find Jeff in his new ten-million-dollar house on Lake Washington's Gold Coast. The neighborhood matches Jeff's ambitions, but the inside of his mansion is so sad: instead of great books, I see the Time magazine naming Jeff "Man of the Year" buried beneath broken cappucino frothers and defective G.I. Joes — casualties of retail diversification.
"Ignore!" Jeff exclaims, tossing clumps of pink slips into the air. His bedroom's no sexier than a share of DrKoop.com, but I love his goofy grin and smooth chest.
"It's Day One!" he ventures — his email sig-line, followed by one of those laughs that London's Observer transcribes as "ahhahHAHRHAHRHAHRAAAHHHHHRRRR!!!"
"Jeff," I beseech him, pulling off his shirt, "Please me — I'm a customer!"
Another laugh.
"And an investor!" I pant into his ear.
"I swear I'll turn a profit now," he promises hurriedly. "I'll slash waste, bring old-economy wisdom to inventory management and undo your bra."
"Prove it," I challenge him, wriggling out of my mini. "Introduce Six Sigma management techniques to my fulfillment center this minute."
Based on my previous selections, Jeff knows exactly what I want — caresses that speak volumes, some "self-help" and a boxed set from the "eating out" department. Then I want him to do like he used to — get very big, very fast, while my stock quintuples again and again. It won't happen, I explain, until he quits flirting with giant retail chains.
"See this spike in your first quarter, Jeff? I want you to drop those nerdy chinos and redirect that spike into me, Kitty. Stop selling blenders. Instead, blend business and desire in me, your investor/consumer."
"Blend 'em?" he wonders, looking like a cute little kid who just blew a merger with Wal-Mart. It's embarrassing, but helplessness in billionaires makes my nipples stand up.
"Sell me a book on how to have multiple orgasms while balancing a spreadsheet," I urge, climbing his leg, "videos that insert my photo into demented sexual scenarios while also firming my Q4 prognosis."
The synergy of my scheme pops Jeff's libido out of "Back Order" and into "Shopping Cart." He holds me in mid-air and rolls me with near statistical perfection back and forth over his manpart, achieving customer satisfaction. Repeatedly.
"Physical ecstasy = fiscal competence," he chants, visionary once again.
"Sex and greed! Pleasure and profit!" I ejaculate, matching Jeff vision-for-vision.
"Make some great cash, baby!"
As he coins his new motto, he spends and spends.
tossing clumps of pink slips into the air. His bedroom's no sexier than a share of DrKoop.com, but I love his goofy grin and smooth chest.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
