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T3 - Pimp my PSP: Customisable leather case | Skip to navigation | Skip to search | Skip to page contents | Advanced search | Skip to navigation | Skip to page contents | Home News Reviews T3 podcast Competitions Essentials T3 Girls T3 Magazine T3 Newsletter T3 Shopping Compare Prices Contact Us | Back to top of navigation | Skip to page contents | Skip to search | [2005-06-21] Pimp my PSP: Customisable leather case Dress your PSP in a dapper i-volution leather suit, complete with laser embossed personal logo. Nothing’s good enough for today’s pampered gadgets. iPod and PSP are the biggest divas on the scene, each boasting and enormous entourage of luxury accessories. We’ve seen cases from Louis Vuitton and Dior, but now you can pimp your PSP with a custom-made case dubbed i-volution from Vaja . This high-end PSP protector starts at $180 (99) and comes in a solid array of coloured leather variations. But the real sweetener is the fact that for an extra $30 (16) you can have a personal logo laser embossed onto the case – all you have to do is provide the company with a jpeg, tiff or bmp file of your creation. But if you can’t be bothered with the hassle of fashioning a personal insignia, you can have your name laser embossed onto it for just $10 (6). Unsurprisingly, PSP isn’t the only gadget to get such luxury treatment on the Vaja website. You guessed it. The company offers the same service for iPod with its iVod range of leather cases which start at a less wallet-walloping price of $80 (44). Related links PSP theatre system and case combo Posh up your PSP with a designer case PSP: Pampered, protected and professional Latest news A sneak peek at Panasonics HD camcorders Prime Ministers podcast Video iPod and nano officially go radio ga-ga Apple unleashes the mighty MacBook Pro Sky delivers video on demand Nintendo marks its cards Worlds lightest mobile! Apple keynote speech this evening! Is it a phone or is it a mouse? Sony says voila to new VAIOs CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE GALLERY Print | Skip to navigation | Skip to search | Back to beginning of page contents | | Skip to navigation | Skip to search | Back to beginning of page contents | Home | News | Reviews | Competitions | Essentials | T3 Girls | T3 Magazine | T3 Newsletter T3 Shopping | Compare Prices | Contact Us Privacy Policy & cookie information | Terms & conditions | Future Publishing | Future plc More websites from Future Publishing .net Broadband & Internet Advisor MacFormat Microsoft® Windows® XP: The Official Magazine PC Answers PC Format PC Plus What Laptop gamesradar.com computerandvideogames.com Edge® T3 Digital Camera Magazine Digital Home Hi-Fi Choice Total Film SFX Classic Rock Computer Music Future Music Guitarist Metal Hammer 3D World Computer Arts Redline Cycling Plus Mountain Biking UK What Mountain Bike Junior Future Publishing Ltd. Kate Stephanie Victoria | More T3 Girls |
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www.myspace.com/coldhardcash MySpace.com | Home The Web MySpace Help | SignUp Home | Browse | Search | Invite | Rank | Mail | Blog | Favorites | Forum | Groups | Events | Games | Music | Classifieds Videos | Directory | Search | Top Artists | Shows | Music Forums | Music Classifieds | Artist Signup COLD HARD CASH Hip Hop / Rap / Experimental "BLASTMASTER CASH BUSTED IN DRUG RAID !!!" United States Profile Views: 1081 Last Login: 01/09/2006 View more pics Contacting COLD HARD CASH MySpace URL: http://www.myspace.com/coldhardcash COLD HARD CASH General Info Member Since July 29, 2004 Band Members MC COLD HARD & BLASTMASTER CASH Influences Money, Alcohol & The Copious Black Zoom. Sounds Like Nothing you ever heard before ... Record Label StarPilot Productions & NINE FEET DEEP Type of Label Indie COLD HARD CASH's Latest Blog Entry [ Subscribe to this Blog ] Broken Knuckles ... ( view more ) BoBoBoBo ( view more ) [ View All Blog Entries ] About COLD HARD CASH ***** Last Thursday BLASTMASTER CASH was arrested in Oklahoma City on charges of drug possession. He is currently being held in a minimum security corrections facility awaiting his trial. Therefore, the release of the new single and video for the song "BoBoBoBo" has been pushed back until further notice. We apologize to all of our fans who pre-ordered the single and were looking forward to seeing the new video. We will make it up to you, we swear. Until then, please enjoy the old classics "ZAPP" and "ROAR" from the TV EP. I will see if I can dig out some other songs to fill the Jukebox until the next single is released. Again, we are very sorry for the mix up but BM CASH can't seem to lay off that Copious Black Zoom. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers. Together, with your help, he will return with a vengeance and he and COLD HARD will be back on top where they belong !!! - Gary of StarPilot Entertainment Law ********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************** BIO: COLD HARD CASH gives the dopest toasts, boasts friends on both coasts and cooks the Grade-A Pot Roasts. MC COLD HARD and BLASTMASTER CASH have been doing this since day one of their career. Brainchild of the often misunderstood producer, promoter and former German scientist Sir Allen Stein, COLD HARD CASH rose through the ranks of Hip-Hop like a blazing comet. Spreading their love and touting their status all the way, the pair has released two short EPs to date (The Lost Sessions and The TV EP) that have received critical acclaim from writers and critics worldwide. This has only added fuel to their creative fires as their upcoming full-length release is anticipated to be one of the hottest albums of this year. After breaking their connection with Stein, the two MCs are poised to break their molds and hit the streets with something so fresh it's futuristic. So keep your eyes peeled for COLD HARD CASH as you wont be disappointed by what you see. - Larry of StarPilot Productions & Bling MySpace Editor COLD HARD CASH's Friend Space COLD HARD CASH has 94 friends. Miracle Johan 1/2 ASIAN TAG-TEAM ashley NICOLE~~~ Dj Willow Sir alfred CHRISTINE The Big Blue Thing That Fell Into The Ocean View All of COLD HARD CASH's Friends COLD HARD CASH'sFriends Comments Displaying 11 of 11 comments ( View/Edit All Comments ) CHRISTINE May 19, 2005 11:14 AM Man how'd you know I was writing about you? DAMN your good! Suzie Q Dec 12, 2004 04:14 PM I just wanted to let you guys know that I wrote PROPERTY oF COLD HARD CASH on my booty in bling..... Passenger Dec 10, 2004 12:05 PM I remember when it was just about chats to get foods locked for your guys. Things must be looking up. "Given props to my 3 ex-wives Cuttin beats with kitchen knifes OH yeah.......yeah." ashley Dec 8, 2004 07:03 PM those kids with theyre crazy VD A.F.M. Nov 18, 2004 08:23 PM Hey I just heard the new smack from KidGloves. Man, is it powerful. Do you think you guys might get together for some tour, or at least dinner? The Big Blue Thing That Fell Into The Ocean Nov 9, 2004 06:07 PM Hi guys just sending over our "props". We think what you guys are doing is really "fly" and "whack" and totally "off the hook". Keep it up. Your Pals from T.B.B.T.T.F.I.T.O CHRISTINE Nov 6, 2004 03:11 PM You like the facial hair huh, mascara and eyeliner can do magic! hahaha Just checkin to say whaddup! ashley Oct 31, 2004 12:20 PM man, you guys are so dope!your music is like Preparation H...some people just cant live without it... . Aug 26, 2004 05:19 PM werd. sounds like a plan...let's get hitched...yeah fashion core...marrying strangers..yeah...fashion core....booyakasha. Add Comment About | FAQ | Terms | Privacy | Safety Tips | Contact Myspace | Promote! | Advertise ©2003-2006 MySpace.com All Rights Reserved.
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Whore Train
eXile - Issue #160 - Whore-R Stories - Whore-R Stories: the Sluts of Slutsk - By Mark Ames Moscow-based alternativenewspaper Search the eXile All Issues This Issue This Author This Column | Advanced Search... Email thousands of beautiful Russian Ladies! Home | Archive | Club Guide | Restaurant Guide | Songs | Field Guide To Moscow | Political Trading Cards | About Us Browse Column (19) Previous (1) Next (17) Whore-R Stories: the Sluts of Slutsk By Mark Ames ( editor at exile ru ) Browse Author (147) Previous (54) Next (90) I n the last issue, I made the claim that the line between a slut and a whore in Russia is rather blurred. In this, the second installment of Whore-R Stories, I'm going to examine the other side of the equation: The Slut. What better place to test the slut-whore-equation theory than in the Belorussian town of Slutsk. I nit you shot, folks. There really is such a town, located about 100 kilometers southwest of Minsk. Ever since my first and only visit to Belarus over five years ago, the land of Europe's last dictator has always held a special place in my heart (and other organs). Minsk, after all, is where I first discovered the White God Factor. But a provincial town with a name like Slutsk must have something much more than a White God factor - say, a Big Bang God Factor ... As a professional investigative journalist and veteran explorer of the FSU's hinterlands, I knew that fate, as well as desperation, would draw me to Slutsk and, like Stanley in the Congo, I'd report the exotic findings back to my readers. Only instead of bringing back shrunken heads, I hoped to bring back carefully preserved samples of chlamydia, smuggled on my person. The two-and-a-half hour bus ride from Minsk to Slutsk cost two dollars. On the outskirts of town there is a familiar cluster of 8 and 16-story paneli, Brezhnev-era housing projects, dirty white with blue or purple stripes straight down the elevator shaft. In the center of town the structures are smaller, a mix of pre-Revolutionary two- and three-story houses painted yellow, green and pink, side by side with Soviet concrete boxes. Slutsk is run by a Saiko. Literally. The head of the Slutsk city council, with its cookie-cutter Lenin statue out front, is named Saiko. Slutsk has one hotel, aptly named "Hotel Slutsk," on the main street, Ulitsa Lenina. There was fresh blue paint in the lobby. The elevator didn't work. I was given a room on the fourth floor. A single for $33, not exactly cheap. After wandering around town freezing my ass off for most of the afternoon while trying to get noticed, I took a rest in my hotel room then headed back out. It wasn't looking good. The two top restaurants were butt empty. I found a cafe that looked promising, slut-wise. Standing outside the entrance were two women - not girls, but women - bundled in cheap fur coats and hats. They smiled as I passed, and I said hello with a pronounced foreign accent. The cafe had only two patrons. One man was slumped in his chair; his friend scowled at me, one eye open. I sat at the far end and ordered 150 grams of cheap cognac. Just then, one of the women from outside the cafe entered, walked towards and then passed me, turned to leave, then turned around a second time and said to me, "We feel sorry for you being alone. Would you like to join us somewhere else?" "Sure," I said. "Meet us outside." She walked out. I downed as much of the cognac as I could take and asked the bartender, an aging woman, "Are all Slutsk girls this friendly?" "Only if the person is from out of town," she answered. I joined the two women outside the door. "That cafe was horrible, we couldn't even stand being in there," said the one who'd rescued me. Her name was Olga, and the other one was her younger sister, Yulia. They told me that there was a much better caf down the street with a better crowd. They were waiting to join a friend of theirs, Alla. We powerwalked along the ice as best we could to the next cafe, called V Dalee ot Zhyon, or Far Away From The Wives. It was crowded, packed mostly with young banditibees in black leather coats. A few had young girlfriends on their arms, cute ones too. Alla stood at the counter and ordered: a carafe of vodka, four crab and mayonnaise salads, sliced ham, bread, Sprite, and a bottle of Medvedovskaya Krov wine for Olga. Adding two more vodka carafes and other goodies, the whole bill came to nine dollars. I sat next to Olga, who told me that she'd spent the whole past week inside her apartment and that today, she'd decided to go out with her sister and Alla. I didn't really get a good look at Alla yet. Her face was either hidden in a full fur hood on the street, or she was at the bar giving endless orders. It wasn't until she took a seat directly across from me that I literally yelped, knocking into the table: her face looked exactly like the possessed witch in Army of Darkness, the same long shock of silver hair, a gray complexion, gnarled nose and a mouth full of metal teeth: "You shall never get the necronomicon! We shall feast upon your sooooooul..." I had to drink fast. It was clear that I was supposed to be paired up with Olga, who was passably attractive despite the complex wrinkles around and under her eyes. I stole glances at the mini-mafia molls, wondering to myself why I, considering my White God Factor, was stuck with a bunch of old hags, and whether I should try my luck elsewhere. But there was no elsewhere. Olga was thirty-three years old. She told me she'd been to Poland many times, and had recently been to Moscow. Her sister Yulia was twenty-seven. She was one of three sisters and two brothers in the family. I asked Yulia if all Slutsk families were so big, five children, not exactly the norm in modern Russia. "Yeah, we're all like this. I know a family of ten. There's nothing else to do." Yulia said she'd worked for six years as a dancer at Stary Zamok, the town's top restaurant. I assume that meant she was a whore, if the distinction matters. She seemed both proud and unhappy about having been a dancer there -- "It's the best restaurant in Slutsk" -- after six years, she had nothing to show, and now she worked in a factory. That's how she met Alla. Alla told me that the owners of the cafe respected her because just the night before, she'd found her "man" there with three other women and she beat the shit out of him and one of his lovers who hadn't managed to escape. "I beat him unconscious," she said, brandishing her fist and laughing. "You shouldn't mess with me. That bastard. I did everything for him. I worked and put a roof over his head, and he goes and takes three lovers." None of this was helping my mojo: aging women, a haunt who doubled as a man-beater, images of Alla having sex with some unemployed, salo-fattened prole, and him with his three lovers... Alla told me she'd once beaten the shit out of Yulia. That's how they became friends. Yulia lived in the same podezd as Alla. And Yulia carried on an affair with Alla's then-boyfriend. Alla found out, stalked Yulia, and stomped her. After that, they became friends. To prove it, they kissed like a pair of football players, smacking loudly but very un-sexually. Olga quietly emptied the bottle of Bear's Blood next to me. She was amazed that I was American. "I've known Polacks," she said. "I thought you were a Caucasian. You seemed nice and handsome, a foreigner, so I decided we should rescue you from the club." The night starts to get blurry here. I pushed myself to go on until the bitter end, to get the story. But the cheap liquor, the travel and cold suddenly put a sleeping spell on me. I remember we stumbled across the road to Stary Zamok, but it had closed early for lack of a single client -- on a Thursday night! They led me to some kind of second-floor club with a bar and a small disco. All I remember is ordering the worst pelmeni of my life, and eating it. Then stealing some of Yulia's horrific fried meat balls -- tongue meat in a brown chewy foam-like batter. I was burping up bad pelmeni meat into Olga's face as she tried to keep the mojo going. "I smell your pelmeni." "I know." "You want to sleep, don't you?" I was sound asleep in my chair for most of the rest of the evening, I mean deep REM sleep, until they mercifully decided to leave. Olga pulled me away from the other two and walked me downstairs. "You want to stay with me at my place, don't you?" she said. "Yes, I want to stay at your place," I said. She bundled me into a taxi, and I passed out again. Then awoke in the projects. We rode the elevator up to her apartment. A mountain bike blocked the door -- she moved it aside -- and in the first room next to the entry hall, I noticed the head of a young teenager, the Bobby Brady of Belarus, resting on a pillow. He told Olga that "he" had called a few times. "He" turned out to be her "man," as she called him, a Czech businessman who was part husband, part sponsor. Olga closed the door to her son's bedroom, which probably doubled as the TV room as well, and whispered to me, "My man feels that I'm with someone. Men can sense these things. You understand?" "Yeah, I understand," I said, stung, because for the most part men don't understand. She called her "man" on her phone, while I crashed on her bed, a double made out of two twins pushed together covered with a pink comforter. Olga woke me up and asked me if I wanted to take a shower. "No." She came back again what seemed like hours later with a towel. "Go take a shower," she said. I snapped the towel and lifted myself up. I couldn't pass out here. Good money had been sunk into the Slutsk expedition. And here I was, in the slut's very own habitat, as close to the kill as anyone could hope to be. The eXile's shareholders would never forgive me if I copped out now. She took her obligatory pre-sex dyev shower after seeing mine through. I kept myself awake by trying to record the details of her bedroom. It was modestly luxurious by early 90s Warsaw Pact standards. She had a gaudy pink light fixture, a kind of mini-chandelier with pink glass orchids and various blooming lamp pedals. Above the dresser mirror was a collection of German hair styling spray bottles. They must be hard to find in Slutsk -- I remember Czechs and Poles displaying their Western cans of spray and soft drinks in the early 90s. Olga also had large posters of scantily-clad women on her walls, including one in a bikini thong whose figure had been cut out from the rest of the poster and glued to the wall. When Olga returned I pounced. She wasn't what I'd expected: instead of the lumpy, smelly, sweaty body of a typical aging provincial slut, she was thin, much prettier with all her clothes off, with something of Meg Ryan's mouth (not that I like Meg Ryan) and a fashionable mom hairdo. The other surprise was how dry her snapper was. I remember what Dr. Limonov had written about older women's pussies -- "like glue" -- it was one of the reasons why he "gave advices" to "throw away older wife, get yourself young teenage girl." Her small breasts had large No. 2 pencil eraser nipples, but no matter what tricks I tried pulling out of my bag, her snapper was like cloth, like putting your fingers between worn leather cushions on an old couch. "It's been so long since I've been with a man," she told me. I tried to close the deal, but it wasn't working. "I'll get some cream," she said. She stood up and opened a drawer in her dresser. God knows how I managed to maintain wood during this -- I'm not happy about it, believe me. She squirted some cream into her hand and worked it into her gluey snapper. That made things marginally better. Finally I worked my way in. But for all my effort I didn't get much pleasure and nothing close to an orgasm. I passed out after - maybe five minutes, maybe thirty, maybe an hour, I really have no idea. Early the next morning I awoke with a rancid hangover and a mouth nearly as dry as her pussy. The neighbors upstairs were stomping around. "Let me put on some music," she said. She played some kind of Italian pop cassette on her box. "I've had a problem with my neighbors ever since I moved here," she said. "They don't work. They're both alcoholics. They wake up every morning at six and stomp around loudly. It used to be worse. They'd put on some kind of hard soles and stomp loudly on their wooden floor. I called the militia on them. It only made them angrier. So I went upstairs and demanded that they not wake me up at 6am. I screamed. They're a couple, in their forties, with a 16-year-old boy. They were rude, so I forced my way in and beat the hell out of both of them. They were so drunk, and I was angry. Alla's not the only one - I can do that too." It was hard to imagine Olga like Alla -- in the morning she appeared, in spite of her sandpaper snapper, even prettier. "I bought them carpeting. They took it. It's much better now, but it's still unbearable, isn't it?" "It's pretty loud," I agreed. It was hard to imagine that there was carpeting muffling their shoes -- it must have sounded like a construction site before. "I tried everything. I tried being nice. I brought back chocolates from Brno when I visited my man. The 16-year-old upstairs loved them too much. He called me a later and said, 'Those chocolates were so good. If you don't bring me more of those chocolates soon, I'm really going to make a racket upstairs, and much earlier than ever.'" "You should have told him that if he ever threatened you again, he'd never see another Czech chocolate in his life," I said. "I did. I told him, 'Who the hell do you think you are, you little bastard?! I should come up there and tear you to pieces. You're threatening me?! Forget the chocolates! If I ever see you..." " -- Okay, I see," said, interrupting her. These Slutsk girls...someone should hustle them in mud wrestling competitions. I asked her about her "man." They'd met a year and a half ago. She took a job in a factory in Brno, working on a line, tying ribbons around packages of paper napkins. "I had financial difficulties, I had to find work," she said. The owner of the factory walked the floor one day and spotted Olga. "He saw me, pulled me off the line, told me he didn't want to subject me to such work ever again, and said he'd fallen in love. Just like that. I wasn't so sure. He's almost 50. He's an older man, with a stomach." So I'm not the only one acting out Count Tolstoi fantasies. The Czech understood the true advantage of running a sweatshop using cheap Slavic labor: that stroll down the factory line, inspecting the women workers, rating them, fantasizing about how desperate they are, and finally, choosing whichever one he wanted to "rescue," acting out some 19th century European fantasy. "He wants me to move to Brno, but I don't want to," Olga said. "My son, I want him to stay in school here. He also wants me to move to Moscow, where's he's considering opening up another factory. Assembling furniture and other stuff. I went to Moscow with him a few months ago. There's a Czech mafia in Moscow. We all went out for dinner and a long night at the casino: me, my man, the Czech mafia and the local Russian mafia who would be the krysha for his factory. At the end of the night, most of them had left their phone numbers in my purse. I was so surprised when I saw what they'd done. Of course I didn't tell my man. It would just upset him." Olga had married and birthed her son when she was nineteen. Her first husband was an Army type and a loser. He always wanted to punish the boy. They divorced after five years. The boy didn't want to see his father -- he was happy to have him out of his life. The father moved to Minsk. They saw each other once every year or two. Olga's own family were sluchyaninie on her mother's side, Siberians on her father's. Her grandmother told her about the Nazi occupation of Slutsk. "Most of the time the Nazis were okay. My grandmother and grandfather lived out in their dacha. The Germans would come back and say, 'Ekks!' They wanted eggs and food. My grandma said they were polite and paid for everything. Then they went crazier. Once they locked up as many people from the village as they could fit inside a barn and set it on fire. My grandmother heard the screams." "Wasn't Slutsk a Jewish town before the Nazis came?" "Yes, there were many Jews here. The Nazis killed all of them." "Are there any left?" "Not that I know of." Her parents both worked in the railroads. Her father was a signal man. Now he's an invalid. About two years ago he'd injured his leg badly in a railroad track accident and didn't get proper treatment for it. Being the hardy peasant type, he didn't complain as it got worse. Then it turned green and black. "He got gangrene. They had to amputate it. Now he doesn't want to live. He tells me that he wants to die and not be a burden to us. The gangrene may have spread to his other leg. He may have to have it amputated soon." I asked about Belorussian medical insurance, the one I was forced to purchase through the hotel as a tourist. "Ha! What medical insurance! You're on your own here. Actually the burden is all on my shoulders. Everyone barely survives. My man helps out a lot. It's one reason why I'm with him. He's good for my son, for my family. He helps with so much." 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