The opening scene of Whipped, a frat-house skit-night routine masquerading as a low-budget movie, features a man with digestive troubles graphically describing being kissed after receiving a rim job. The bar then progressively lowers throughout the film's excruciatingly hyper-extended 85-minute running time. Just as many states require a license to operate a nail gun and other dangerous tools, the first (and, with any luck, final) film from writer, producer, and director Peter M. Cohen makes an excellent case for licensing camera equipment. Whipped follows the misadventures of four twentysomething pals—each introduced with a freeze-frame bearing his name—who meet every week in a diner to eat greasy food and talk about their sexual exploits in highly stylized dialogue. College friends whose one-dimensional character types would have had nothing to do with each other in college, they include an upwardly mobile Wall Streeter (Brian Van Holt), a screenwriting bohemian (Zorie Barber), a sensitive compulsive masturbator (Jonathan Abrahams), and a porky married man (Judah Domke). Domke's status makes him something of an outsider to the others' tales of "scamming"—doing what it takes to get women to sleep with them, honesty be damned—and this activity takes up most of Cohen's film. Their existence takes an upsetting turn, however, when each unknowingly begins dating Amanda Peet, who refuses to choose one of them. She's gotta have it, apparently from the absolute worst men living in New York City. Cohen's crude (in every sense) script unleashes more unpleasantness than you're likely to see outside of a snuff film, with an extended sequence involving a vibrator and a urine-filled toilet a sure candidate for the highlight reel at some sort of anti-Oscars. Any level of crudity can be acceptable if it's funny, but Whipped never even comes close. The four leads deliver excruciatingly unappealing performances playing characters we get to know all too well thanks to Cohen's frequent use of the seldom-welcome talking-to-the-camera technique. Not that the camera is the only thing they talk to, as they constantly exchange dialogue that sounds like the product of a half-remembered viewing of Swingers filtered through an alcoholic haze. The last six years have produced no shortage of terrible twentysomethings-a-go-go films, but by the time Abrahams delivers his umpteenth lotion-oriented joke and Domke makes clear his intention to use an electric mixer as a sex toy, you can almost hear Cohen forcibly carving out a new low.