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Penn Jillette's Masturbating Bathtub for Women

Illustration for article titled Penn Jillettes Masturbating Bathtub for Women

Awkwardly-coiffed magician Penn Jillette is an inventor. His greatest triumph: a "hydro-therapeutic stimulator" for women with jetstreams directed to "stimulation points (e.g., the clitoris) of the female user when the female user sits in the seat." Meet the Jill-Jet.

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Hey ladies, I know what you're thinking: There is nothing sexier than sitting in a giant vat of jetstreaming masturbation. That is why Penn Jillette invented the Jill-Jet.

Illustration for article titled Penn Jillettes Masturbating Bathtub for Women
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As the 1999 patent explains, the Jill-Jet is "a spa that includes a dedicated stream of fluid that is directed to specific sensitive areas of a female's genitalia to promote pleasurable (and perhaps climatic) genitalia stimulation and therapeutic relaxation." (He meant "climactic," right?) As far as I can tell, the Jill-Jet is not currently in production, though I imagine there's some kind of after-hours Sharper Image crowd ready to swing it.

Here's Penn's patent application, rescued from obscurity by The Atlantic's Rebecca Greenfield. [Image of Jillette via Getty]

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DISCUSSION

RE: the 'awkward coiffe';

As an "old" -but still two years younger than Mr. Jillette- I'd like to point out to Penn that he could remove 5-10 years from his appearance by patronizing his barber.

When one can grow a full head of hair, especially in this appearance-slavish culture that openly mocks the folically-challenged, that can become a point of pride. I know this because my hair grows like bunnies fuck, and I've had three haircuts since 1999.

And while my mane was shoulder-length (or longer!) my wife would lament, "You're such a handsome man, if only you'd get rid of that mop,", or, "you'd look so much younger if you cut it off, you look like Willie Nelson!"

I'd make the argument that looking like a bum was actually a security measure; I work 12-8am in downtown Chicago, and walk several blocks from my garage to my office in the south Loop, an area that fairly bristles with the needy and indigent. Like Samson's locks, my hair said, from afar, 'I'm one of you, nothing to see here', or from a bit closer, 'don't fuck with me'. And in the mornings, walking back to my garage through trudging torrents of sour-pussed commuters, well they parted for me like the Red Sea.

Recently my father-in-law passed, and out of respect for my wife I went for a shearing. When I do groom the noggin, I go for the Daniel-Craig-Bond cut (man-crush!) And each time I'm shorn, I find that my fairlady wife has spoken the truth- I *do* look ten years younger. Additionally, I love the lack of maintenance engendered by the 'do.

Yet I know that in 8-10 months time, my hair will once again be over my collar and clogging my drain. It's a curse of sorts. But Penn, though I share your affliction trust me when I say, it's not a good look. And for science' sake, no ponytails past fifty (goes double for backwards caps)!