If a man says he’s a police officer and flashes a badge at you, then tells you to have sex with him or he’ll arrest you, make sure the badge doesn’t say Geek Squad on it first. That’s what a woman says happened to her in Parsippany, New Jersey last week.
Craigslist has announced that they are suing South Carolina Attorney General Henry McMaster “seeking declaratory relief and a restraining order with respect to criminal charges he has repeatedly threatened against craigslist and its executives.” It’s on, people.
Connecticut AG Richard Blumenthal has announced that Craigslist will be dropping its controversial “erotic services” section, and will replace it with a moderated “adult” category.
Clients of the Shady Lady Ranch will get a $50 gas voucher if they fork out $300—worth about one hour’s worth of services—at the brothel in Beatty, Nevada, 130 miles northwest of Las Vegas.
About a third of Amsterdam’s red light district brothels will soon close as part of a $35 million real estate deal, so if you’re planning on visiting the city, you’ll have 51 fewer windows to tempt/amuse you. [Reuters]
If you want to have sex with a prostitute in Washington D.C., try the Marriott.
Mark Perkel likes hookers. Hey, who doesn’t? Other than Paypal, that is.
When Ben started editing for The Consumerist, part of his contract was that he had to service Gawker overlords like Joel Johnson and Nick Denton, but not Brownlee, who doesn’t go for that gay stuff. Everyone thought it was a fair arrangement: although a passable writer, Ben’s true talents have always been most evident in his carnal artistry, and what artist wouldn’t want to make a living doing what he loves? But then Gawker’s crackerjack legal monkeys looked over the contract, cited New York State prostitution laws and Ben found that the numerous vacancies he had been hired by Gawker to fill were reduced to only one… that of a lowly Consumerist editor. Sullen, Ben comforted himself the only way he knew how: injecting every Consumerist post with as many gay non sequiturs as possible.
It’s a slow news day. Prematurely celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, Ben is drunk. Meanwhile, Brownlee has discovered with a dawning sense of horror that after years of living in Ireland, he is incapable of getting drunk… the font that inks his pen, the mucus that lubricates his Muse. As the world and Boing Boing watches, we find ourselves abashed and silent.
Second Life is a sprawling online community in which subscribers, wearied by the employment and consumerism of their unmagical lives, log-on to a virtual realm where they can engage in such activities as holding virtual jobs and buying virtual goods. It’s post modern escapism at its most pathetic: at least those belching, LCD-irradiated sows pretending to be a virtual elf in other online games are doing something they can’t do in real life.
John Brownlee here. Before I started guest-blogging here, Joel asked me, as temporary co-chair of his consumerist Algonquin Round Table, if I had any swell ideas. Chomping on a cigar, he stretched the fat man suspenders with the dollar symbols he likes to wear just for such dramatic gestures as far from his nipples as they would go, then let them go with a snap that made me wince.Then he looked at me with an expression half composed of expectation, the other half contempt. But I wasn’t cowed – I did have a swell idea.