Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The ecstasy of loving God 🌭

“Get thee inside Me, saideth the Lord,” I typed after at least 60 different versions of the same exact thing. Hi, I’m Seanbaby from the Internet, longtime researcher of ridiculous things that shouldn’t be, and never has my job been easier than now. I’m very excited to show you The ecstasy of loving God, which is precisely what it sounds like, but of course weirder.

This horny nonsense about emptying your balls with Christ was written in 2009 by a minister named John Crowder. According to the back of the book, he turned to Christ after stealing 22% of another man’s beard and his graphic designer only adjusts font kerning on horseback.

Hold on, wait. “HE IS AUTHOR OF” what? He is author of fucking what?

The first word in the title of his other book is “j” and the second is “fo to the apostrophe power”? Is it an audio book on the history of robot farts? After people are done laughing at the bottom half of your face, do you tell them, “I wrote two books. One is called The ecstasy of loving God about my rock hard boner for Jesus and the title of the other one is a five minute scream into a slide whistle I’ll start now.”

You’re almost certainly thinking, “We live in a society. There is no way some guy wrote a book about bringing yourself to full orgasm with Christian enthusiasm.” Well, we should really look inside this book before you make a total fool out of yourself.

John Crowder is a Simpsons character of a person. He’s a cool-to-the-max minister who understands and relates to teens by turning all religious text into an allegory for sex or drugs. Because what teenage Christian needs sex and drugs if they have a straight-talkin’, sunglasses inside adult telling them Jesus is kind of like sex and drugs when you think about it? What I’m saying is buckle up, because there’s a wild finger licker in this napkin community. To be more clear, he writes like he’s cobbling together ordinary Christian sentiments with erotic magnetic poetry.

John writes every line like he’s waking up to Christ’s musk lingering on his still moist thighs. Whether you think there’s a God zapping this man’s balls from space or not, it’s hard to imagine a context where this isn’t crazy. Like in his own community, does he tell other preachers, “I try to write a sermon like God is listening, maybe fondling a nipple, His mighty pinky inching slowly closer to His asshole. What’s your guys’ process?”

You want to draw things out slowly so you have God just dripping off your chin. Thick ropes of His love stuck in your stupid beard for days.

He is going to drench this whole church in that shit.

You’re going to need a tow truck to get you out of that tight hole, sticky boy.

Not all of this spiritual fucking is spit-lubed raw dogging. Sometimes God very much makes tender love to you like a new husband “as He carries you over the threshold of His heavenly chambers.” Look, not all of it makes sense. John is only a rad dude who takes Jesus in his mouth, not a romance novelist. God fucks you, it’s beautiful, and if it isn’t that was probably a demon?

I have no notes on this, a wonderful choice of words and historical citation.

There are hundreds of pages written this way. John describes his pleasures and explosions and climaxes like someone dared Fabio he couldn’t make your grandma cum with a voicemail.

At its most basic, this book is 344 pages of a grifter rewording how orgasmic it is when God’s love slides inside you. But John also talks a lot about getting drunk or high on God. And he claims to know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t confess to any drug abuse but he does mention he had the most serious drug habit “among his friends,” which probably means he drove past the old mouthwash factory on the way to their abstinence sock hops.

To explain, God wants to drink you to thoroughly enjoy you. You might feel like a piece of shit, but He has already come inside you. I should have mentioned how even when he’s explaining the “drunk on Jesus” part of his teachings, he uses the same phrasing as the “fully penetrated by Jesus” part of his teachings.

Generally, you get drunk on Christ when you’re at a revival meeting and everyone freaks out, but John might just walk around drinking God in public. Here’s a story about that:

John was sloshed on the Lord. He was so drunk that drunk people were laughing at him. And then he said three very normal words to them.

I guess another thing I should mention about John Crowder is none of his bullshit stories happened. The clown-bearded author of j to^` i b t ohbopl=É” bcl oj bop ^k a qeb kbt j vpqf p, who by his own admission doesn’t know what the shit is going on, walked up to a group of smokers and asked them if they ever drank God. Okay, man. Let’s see where this goes.

So he tells these strange men “God” wants to “touch them” and “reveal Himself?” And in no time he “had a young man praying to receive the Lord?” And this type of thing happens to him all the time? I mean, you don’t need a theological degree to see the metaphor in this religious text is that John Crowder fucked some guy’s mouth behind a bar in Maine. And it was not an isolated incident.

Let me try to put all this in a cooler way, kids n’ teens. You know Bono, from the popular rock singing group U2? Well, he made a great point when he performed the hit secular song entitled “There’s Nothing Better than the Real Thing.” Ordinary liquor and drugs are “totes unsubscribe” when you can “shoot up” with a “hit” of pure Jesu– wait. What am I doing? I’m trying to do a parody of this fucking guy and I’m writing his exact book word-for-word back at him.

Roll me up and smoke me? Golly, like a marijuana cigarette reefer? I guess when you put it in a non-square way like that, I get it, youth pastor John! Thanks!

For about half the book I was under the impression “drinking God” was simply a way John described the euphoric feeling of positive group energy. It turns out it’s much more literal. John says his ministry tours with a group of actual bartender angels only he can see who roll out actual God beer barrels and actually pour it into worshippers.

So none of this is an allegory? It’s… it’s magical trappist fairies putting beer into teens? That’s so much crazier than a dork repackaging religious ecstasy for Gen Z drug-addict virgins, which was already maximum crazy. And I don’t like all these sudden appearances by the word “play.” When someone talks about climaxing this much, “play” is code for weird sex.

This guy has four chapters on sexy God blasting every corner of your life with His cum, and now he warns us we’ll never enter the Kingdom of Heaven “unless we become like little children?” I don’t know where John Crowder is going with this, but I do know the sex scandal he’ll one day be remembered for is going to be gross as shit.

In John’s own words, he asks young people on the street if they want to get high. And they usually do. It’s probably not the most ethical way to recruit, but we don’t have the luxury of time. Open satanic worship and orgies are going mainstream, and the Christians are going to have to dance against those forces of darkness for the fate of the world. I want you to stop here for a moment and ask yourself if I’m completely fucking around or very honestly representing something John wrote in his book. Really think about it.

Okay, let’s see if you were right.

Ready yourself for widespread Holy Ghost dance trance explosions. It could get messy. Goddamnit, I’m doing that thing where I’m trying to be silly but accidentally rewriting his exact text. Some who have no context for what’s going on may even strip off their clothes as the glory expels their demons!

John Crowder knows sex and drugs don’t appeal to all Christians. In fact, you may not know this, but a small percentage of hardcore pentecostal worshippers are a bit straight-laced, even nerdy. John has something for them too– real life superpowers. It’s rare, but God might grant you fantastic abilities while He’s inside you. And, I mean, we’re already here. Let’s see what this goddamn idiot has to say about them.

John says you might glow out of your face if you do your religious seizure right, which should let you get up for a glass of water or find your way out of a cave as long as you don’t mind fucking Jesus the whole time. And why would you?

Sometimes we get so comforted by His rod and staff we can penetrate solid objects, because that’s how a self-aware person chooses to describe “Walking Through Walls” in his book about ecstasy.

It’s pretty rare, but sometimes parts of your body get longer when the Holy Ghost spits on your corporeal holes. It’s a true testament to John Crowder’s abilities as a writer that after three pages of text about “Body Elongation” I’m still not sure whether or not he’s just talking about a boner.

“You are immune to fire now, during the ecstasy of rapture, saint! But we’ll see how well you resist the flames after Jesus is done fucking you! Bring another log! Let’s see how long this King of Kings can last!”

The following is an excerpt from one of the many sections on levitation:

The main problem with these unlikely fantastic powers is they only work during a full drunken fuckfest with God, and they’re kind of inconsistent. But John has “a minister friend” in India who can levitate any time she wants. Unfortunately, she won’t show it to anyone else. Which means there are three possibilities: One, God gave the power of flight to a shy woman and told her not to show anyone to fuck with her. Two, John is making this up. Or Three, this idiot believed a common magic trick was, in this one case, miraculously real. I get the feeling if a clown was excited and engorged enough, John would leave that birthday convinced the Lord can bestow the gift of Endless Handkerchiefs from The Mouth.

Seriously, though; having sex with God is not an exact science. He does whatever He wants and he might light your flesh the fuck on fire.

I only included this part because I wanted you to hate this guy too. I want you to picture him there to give a sermon and instead he forgets how to read and takes a nap. Or, completely proud of himself, he starts making paper airplanes out of his notes. What a total asshole. He shows up day drunk on God’s sweet cock to his job working with kids and wrote a book bragging about it.

This is an impossible book to recap, and only a great genius would attempt it, but here it is: if you pray exactly right, you’ll maintain a drunken orgasm that gives you the abilities of several X-Men and all sex offenders. But like all metaphysical powers, they’re suspiciously inconsistent and we’re left with no real way of knowing how we can use them in our lives. At least I thought so until I got to a story John Crowder included from his personal life. 1900🌭 readers, gather your loved ones around the screen for the tale of “Satanic Ritual Squashed” from the chapter “High on Jesus.”

There they were, gleaming from God’s semen and an indoor rain shower, walking past a group of noisy Satan worshippers. Most people would keep walking and not turn the city park into a battleground for Good vs. Evil. This is because they don’t know how to drink.

John Crowder cannot stress this enough: You bitch ass Christian pussies don’t know how to drink.

So in a story he chose to tell, his daughter raised her hand at a group of Florida teens and shrieked gibberish at them. It was guttural madness! Divine sounds in a tongue unknowable to Man! But John knew what she meant– she was going to tear the tips of their dicks off and put them in a bag. If you thought anything different, it’s because you don’t know how to drink.

And now his baby is charging the satanists. People joke about dad reflexes, but if you’re letting your one-year-old move toward a group of Satan worshipers long enough to describe it as “running,” you know in your heart that isn’t your son. Those are the reflexes of someone who is right now ducking a punch they took in third grade. John Crowder claims he knows how to drink, but little girls and babies pick fights faster than him. If I smelled a discarded Miller Lite can on the wind I’d be drunk enough to attack the teen satan club insulting my Jesus cum-drenched family.

“As my baby ran away from me, abandoning me for the teens making fun of me, I had only one choice: getting bonkers worbled for Christ! Going simply total golly whoopsy in His lusty joy! A secular strategist would have leaned over and picked up their baby, but oh Heavens no. My move was entering a trance! Getting shit-faced on God! Injecting that Holy Motherfucker right into my dick veins. Pulsing and pumping, I could let any number of these babies die and cockblast out ten new ones. OH GOD I’M SO HIGH WHERE ARE MY KIDS. HAHA FUCK.”

None of this happened, so he could have put anything here. He could have said or done anything here, and he had himself make the rookie non-seeker-sensitive move of singing and dancing at the satanists having a fist fight with his baby. I don’t need to look it up to know Florida law allows any citizen to legally open fire on anything close to this. If your attorney read this out loud to a judge he would give you your gun back and along with a medal.

Okay, John. I want to be clear: a group of Satan worshipping teenagers were in the park and your children, 9 and 1, went crazy and attacked them. You stayed back to absolutely lose yourself in the joy and majesty of Jesus Christ’s intoxicating sexuality. Then you told the Satan worshipers about it and it blew their mind so fucking hard they started screaming and conjuring demons. Some of them  were mobbed by your friends, possibly injured. Then, in a story where you’re making it all up, you forget the details and suddenly this was a sĂ©ance you were breaking up.

This is a weird anecdote to invent, sure, but maybe there’s some kind of moral behind it? Maybe mockery can’t hurt you if you’re too absurd to exist? Maybe he only put this in the book to help sell the story he told his wife when he came back from the park without two of the kids? I don’t know why I’m speculating. We can look at the very next paragraph and see what he meant for us to take away from it.

Oh. Jesus Christ, this motherfucker is squirrel dickskin crazy.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Rhia: who drank God, smoked Buddha, vaped Krishna, and did a keg stand of Ahura Mazda.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The Extremely Horny Trading Cards of Star Trek 🌭

As we all know, Star Trek is the horniest show ever to exist. Yes, there was once a show on HBO where the entire premise was this man has a large penis, and these are its adventures; it’s got nothing on Star Trek.

There’s an episode of Star Trek where a sentient cloud is in love with a man, but the guy isn’t into it because he thinks it’s a boy cloud, but when he finds out it’s actually a girl cloud, he’s like, “of course I want to fuck the cloud!” There’s an episode where a woman fucks a star ghost that her grandmother had previously fucked until she died. There’s an episode where a space captain turns into a lizard and fucks her subordinate, and they have lizard babies together. These are not the weirdest or horniest episodes.

So, when I say I’ve discovered the horniest deck of Star Trek trading cards, know that I do not take it lightly. When the Deep Space NineMemories From The Future trading card set was released in 1999 by SkyBox International, they tried to add a pinch of horny to the mixture, and the top came off the bottle.

Deep Space Nine is probably the least horny Star Trek. It’s a seven season long exploration of the horrors of war, with surprisingly few pauses for perversion, but every single time something vaguely sexy happens, it gets a trading card. “Bashir’s Fantasy” commemorates a moment in an episode where an alien race uses Deep Space Nine’s crew to study imagination by bringing things they imagine to life. And Doctor Bashir has apparently spent a lot of time imagining a super horny version of his crewmate, Jadzia. So this is a trading card commemorating what Bashir jerks off to and the time aliens told everyone about it. So many more important things happened in the series, but sure, we definitely need a trading card for the time Bashir got caught wackin’ it to his co-worker.

By far, the most wronged by these cards is DS9’s shapeshifting alien, Odo. Star Trek loves to invent new races of aliens and then immediately become concerned with how they fuck. Since Odo, in his natural state, is just a pile of goo, you would think the writers would leave their horny paws off of him, but that just made them want to see his goo dick more.

Lwaxana Troi is the horniest Star Trek character. (Again, this is a huge achievement. They are all very horny). Her whole deal is she can read people’s minds and constantly insists they are thinking of banging her. She’s immediately into Odo because she’s never had sex with a pile of goo before. In a pile of goo, yes. With a pile of goo, no. So she throws herself at Odo, and he’s like, “I um, don’t have a penis or any genitals at all. Not even a cloaca. Not even a hole for peeing. I can’t stress enough how much I am goo.”

According to Memories From The Future, Lwaxana’s aggressive harassment of Deep Space Nine’s constable is one of the GREATEST MOMENTS in the series. There’s an episode where Vulcan’s play baseball, and it got zero cards, but this set up for a sexual harassment case in space court got one.

Lwaxana popped in a few times and developed a friendship with Odo, but their relationship ultimately went nowhere because, again, Odo is goo. He sleeps in a little bucket, and you can’t have sex in a little bucket. The most erotic thing you could do would be to ram your fist into it and hope it didn’t kill him. That is until season 5, when the writers just had to see Odo fuck, so he lost his virginity to an undercover intelligence officer, and you bet there’s a GREATEST MOMENTS card for that!

Truly one of the great moments in Star Trek history. The one where Odo’s finally like, fine. You weirdo’s want me to get laid so bad, FINE. I truly have no idea if this should be the most or least popular Deep Space Nine trading card. Are kids like, “Hey, I’ll trade you Jadzia’s death for Odo’s virginity!”

“No way! I’d need at least three cards for Odo’s virginity. It’s the coolest one! Do you know how difficult true intimacy is for him, bro? He’s goo!”

The biggest villains throughout Deep Space Nine are The Founders, a group of shapeshifters Odo later learns are his species. They use cloning technology to dominate their quadrant with a powerful race of lab-made disposable soldiers. The word Founder appears in this GREATEST MOMENTS card collection exactly once, and it’s when Odo and one of The Founders have sex.

I’m not sure if this melting into a shared goo pile thing they do together is technically sex, but the face Odo makes when it happens says it’s fucking close enough. Either that or he’s having a really good pee as they meld.

The Captain of the Deep Space Nine has a girlfriend, Kasidy Yates, and they get married before the end of the show. But they both have regular genitals instead of mighty Morphin power genitals, so their relationship gets zero cards.

The woman Odo lost his virginity to was in one episode. Kasidy Yates is in fifteen episodes across four seasons– no card at all because nobody cares about boring human on human action. Anyway, here’s another card commemorating Odo about to get his bucket fisted:

According to this erotically curated collection, three of the greatest moments from this show also happen to be all three of the times Odo had sex. That’s a weirdly goo-horny perspective of Deep Space Nine. To whoever made this deck of cards, Deep Space Nine is the tale of a handsome shapeshifter getting it with a bunch of alien ladies. Oh, and occasionally other people have sex too.

I can’t fault anyone for choosing this card. It’s the first lesbian kiss on Star Trek! Good job! It’s actually one of the most important and iconic moments in the series! Is that why it made it into Memories From The Future? Probably not. This collection was just put together by someone who wanted to see girl-on-girl or goo-on-anything. At least they had the restraint to call the card “A KISS” and not “THE ONE WHERE THE SPACE CHICKS BANG.”

When you’re going through these cards, it gets to a point where you’re like, did anyone on this show do anything other than kiss and look at each other in a horny way? The answer to which is yes! There’s a whole war. There’s some stuff where the ship’s Captain becomes space Jesus to a planet of aliens, and it sucks. There are cool heists sometimes. But the GREATEST MOMENTS for some reason look like a photo collage from a fourteen-year-old girl’s Trapper Keeper.

Sometimes it feels like Star Trek only wants to explore one question about the future, and it’s “Can these two aliens bang?” The answer is always yes. The Star Trek writer’s room’s writing test is someone with the last name Roddenberry comes up with a freaky new alien species, and you have to tell them how you would fuck it.

Even if our faces look super different, we’re all pretty much the same below the belt. Maybe that’s the only message Star Trek is trying to convey. We can have a peaceful future through equality and acceptance, and when we finally learn and live those values, we can also have a big alien dick fest.

Lydia writes a lot about Odo’s genital situation on Twitter.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Hawk: Odo in the streets (man form), Odo in the sheets (goo form).

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: 60 Sexy spells of seduction 🌭

I’m going to start this article with the same phrase Bill Cosby whispers into his cellmate’s ear every night: “If magic was real, you’d use it to force others to have sex with you, right?” It’s also the phrase publishers in the year 2001 might recognize as the entire pitch for Gilly Sergiev’s 60 Sexy spells of seduction.

60 Sexy spells of seduction is a book for lonely witches to get laid by any means necessary, but also dumber and sadder than that sounds. It’s about stalking the non-magical and tricking them into loving you with the powers of mischievous, untrustworthy gods. At the same time it’s a lazy self-help book for people who, by self-selection, will fucking believe anything. And finally, it’s a bubbly, sassy artifact from an awkward moment in modern feminism where sex positivity meant coyly hinting at 9th date intercourse under the words “You Go!”

The book is lovingly dedicated to “Everyone who wants to know a secret,” but it’s a secret that has since aged into what you or I might call “how to sexually assault.” Gilly also dedicated it to Emil, a person or being who cast a spell over her. I’m already a bit of a skeptic when it comes to sex sorcery since it would only take one of these spells to work before it destroyed all Earth economies and communities. But it sort of gives away the game when a person who claims to use actual spells still uses the casual turn of phrase “cast a spell over me” to refer to non-spells. A real wizard would never talk like this. It’d be like an umpire saying, “Great job! That base hit was a real home run!”

Another hint this could all be bullshit is how Gilly lets us know witches don’t ever fully explain their spells. So when none of them work, that’s by design. Could you imagine the danger of a book that let you magically seduce anyone? It would be absurd. Something only an idiot would believe. Something a prosecutor would show to a jury as Exhibit A.

Before the spells, Gilly spends 46 pages gossiping about the different kinds of Wiccans and how some of them are fake bitches and others are total fucking Mirandas. There’s some other witchcraft basics like pentagrams and numerology, but mainly it’s fashion and beauty tips. Witchcraft has, okay, an identity? But like, it’s not a uniform. It’s, um, I guess more of an attitude? You wouldn’t get it, granddaughter.

There are four main kinds of witches described in the section called “The Look!” They are Niche Witch, Ritch Witch, Kitsch Witch, and Ditch Bitch. And if you think this sounds lame as shit, explain how Gilly would know something as cool as this: Ditch Bitches wear Eternity by Calvin Klein to enhance their magickal powers.

A lot of Gilly’s writing has the desperate energy of a high school essay and in this section on “Hair” you can almost see where she backspaced “Webster’s Dictionary defines hair as threadlike strands growing from mammals and it’s so true.” She’s also very inclusive, which is nice, but it often comes at the cost of her entire premise. For instance, when you explain how hair is the source of a witch’s powers and yet there’s no disadvantage to being bald, hair wasn’t the source of a witch’s powers. And Gilly says it’s okay to swap out ingredients in her magic recipes if you’re, say, allergic to tree nut oil. Do love potions work like that? If any of this is real, making random substitutions in a love potion recipe seems like a good way to get fucked by every nearby horse.

Girl, I can’t stress enough how cute the tone is in this book about defying the laws of God and Man to fuck the unwilling. Giggle! These are all psychological placebos, girl! For people driven stupid by horniness, ladies!

The first spell is innocent enough– “To make someone notice you.” You perform a ritual to attach a magick seal to a piece of quartz, but remember– something important has been removed from this ritual because, as stated, a big part of witchcraft is not telling others how to do witchcraft. Then you take the quartz, which remember, will not have a magick seal on it, and touch your victim with it. If you do this right, they’ll “notice.” This isn’t a terrible tip since your derangement will be interesting to them, or your lack of shame should give you away as sexually desperate, a trait some men find adequate. You go!

It’s not a great sign when it’s only the fourth sexy spell and you’re already contacting your ex to see if they want to hook up. Don’t text them, though. Write their name inside a fruit and hurl it into the night. The Earth will know what to do when the ants in your lawn bring a piece of paper that says “BUFFALO WILD WINGS JEFF” back to their queen. Obviously, the colony will form a human shape, hammer its hands against your door and shriek, “jjeeEEEEEEEEFFFFFFF!” Long before its writhing form makes love to you you’ll realize you were never meant to wield these awesome fruit powers.

The book includes several variations on the love potion, and bless Gilly’s heart, she wants to make sure you’re old enough to drink before you attempt this forbidden sangria recipe. She’ll happily violate the laws of our universe and smear her fruit juices all over your free will, but all magick recognizes the sanctity of state liquor laws.

Let the record show Gilly Sergiev’s tenth seduction spell is just a recipe for shampoo. And I know I brought this up already, but please remember she left something out. So this sorceress is saying you can use a can of lentil soup for conditioner if you want, but if you really want your hair to shine, try boiling some apple vinegar with flowers along with a mystery ingredient you must discover for yourself. The only time anyone should have ever said anything this pointless would be after the words, “You can’t die from having a dumb idea. Watch.” Gilly’s brain is done– just a dusty wad of meat between her earrings coughing out half-remembered home remedies. And she still has 83% of a book left to write.

If your looks, along with the potions, fruit, and quartz aren’t working, you can attract a lover with candles. I’m starting to think this book might be a good thing. It’s childish make-believe for moist boomers, sure, but it’s basically telling stalkers their best move is to go home and do 4,000 weird things by themselves. It’s a short term strategy that only works on the extremely gullible, but maybe now they’ll blame The Earth Goddess for their loneliness rather tha– oh no. Once I start putting a positive spin on the insanity a book has officially made me sad.

Yeah. This is officially sad. Gilly has forgotten what she was supposed to be doing and started gluing together a “Money magnet.”

Oh, Jesus. Now she’s casting a spell to make herself less jealous. You might think I’m jokingly changing her intent, but I promise this is not a spell to make her friends happy for all her beautiful hair, romance, and money. This is a ritual to make you less envious, you sad fuck. You’ve called on Satan’s dark power 21 times and have nothing to show for it, and now you’re asking for his help in dealing with it. It’s getting too silly. What’s next, beginner broomstick riding?

Until I read Gilly’s section on beginner broomstick riding, it had honestly never occurred to me that “witches flying on broomsticks” is how history chose to adapt “unappealing women jerking off with broomsticks.” Gilly has to know, though; right? I mean, these are clear instructions on how to fuck yourself with a broom.

The book eventually gets back on track. For example, spell #33 is a classic recipe for orgy potpourri.

As you can tell, most of these spells are either adapted from random folklore or completely made up for an audience who wouldn’t know or care. But the 35th spell, “Seduction menu,” is just instructions for a dinner date. This woman came up with the idea of putting on your nice underwear and cooking dinner and thought, “Dare I share these secret magicks? Can I trust a random book store customer with the hot tip of filling your lover with garlic and dairy and then fucking them!? Like, give me a sign to Go or Not Go, Girl!”

I can’t think of any spell sexier than “For attraction and success in legal matters.” To be clear, this is not for getting your lawyer to penetrate you. It’s just to win a court case– something you might need after Congress makes it illegal to ensorcell a groin without consent.

Along with all the love potion variations, there are a few spells to do the opposite of attracting others. Boning people with magic is a series of levers you have to constantly pull, but there’s no conversion chart for how many night fruits equal a sprinkle of footstep coconut. So you’ll have to stay near a good supply of witch food and throw different ones until nearby penises are the desired distance from your cervix.

If you accidentally put too many names in your night fruit, you might find yourself with too many lovers. Luckily, Gilly has a solution. Spell #54, “A spell to choose between two (or more!) lovers,” explains how you put their names on beans and then draw them out of a hat. I don’t have a mean comment. I genuinely feel sorry for this woman deciding on her sex partners by drawing beans out of a hat who also thinks it makes her a wizard. And I suddenly realized why my mother’s chili had the names of all my middle school teachers.

This seems like it should work.

Now that you have an arsenal of spells to attract and unattract lovers, get infinite money, and win every court case, you should be ready to party. Luckily, Chapter Five is literally called How to Party. And it fucking rules. Gilly might not know how to do sorcery or write a book, but she is pretty sure she knows how to party.

Yeah! Wrap up those hogs and let’s party, boys! It’s the perfect ending to a book about a horny Ditch Witch on an imaginary dick rampage. Anything super fucking weird left to add, Gilly?

H-holy shit, Gilly. I was kidding.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jeremy Neill, who will not be seduced by thrown fruits or the tide, but is a total sucker for rolled meats and the moon.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Playgirl Morning Workout

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The Romance Writers’ Phrase Book🌭

Scholars often debate the best time period for literature. Was it the modernist movement with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulker? Or perhaps Romanticism, which saw great works from Poe, Shelley, and Austen? In my personal opinion, it was Supermarketicism, the period in the 1980s when tons of horny housewives discovered supermarket paperback romance novels.

It was a time of colorful language when the women were moist, and the men were musky. As these novels grew in popularity, more and more women decided to seek their fortunes writing them and to facilitate that, in 1984, Jean Kent and Candice Shelton wrote THE ROMANCE WRITERS’ PHRASE BOOK.

The tale of THE ROMANCE WRITERS’ PHRASE BOOK is outlined in the intro where the authors explain they had trouble getting published until they learned about “tags” — short one-line descriptions that up romantic tension in a book. So they sat around together whispering phrases like: 

You know what’s sexy? Being imprisoned. This sentence somehow manages to remind me of both prison and spiders while attempting to make me horny. Jean and Candace bring that level of unsexiness to so many phrases in this book. For instance, almost every page contains the word moist.

Living moistness sounds like the title of an unlicensed The Blob remake. Nondescript! Nonperishable! Nothing may prevent it! Scurry, kids; it’s The Living Moistness

It’s awe-inspiring how much this book uses the word moist. I could go on, but legally I can’t go on. If this article gets any moister, they are going to shut us down.

The language in the book isn’t just unsexy. Sometimes, it misses sense entirely. I get the need for metaphors in romance. It’s difficult to capture the feeling of falling love without using some kind of comparative language. It’s even more difficult to figure out exactly what this looks like: 

What does that mean? Please, no one tell me. It sounds like this was written for a very specific slash fic of Dream and The Corinthian from Sandman

He does tick a lot of my boxes… tall, dark, and has mouths for eyes. There’s just something about his smiles I find off putting. 

Sensitive fingers could be kind of sexy, or it could be a rare disease killing the heroine in a regency romance novel. “I want us to be together darling, truly I do, but I have… I have sensitive fingers. I’ll be dead within the year. The doctors say there’s nothing they can do. My fingers, they’re just too damn sensitive.”

When the book isn’t coming up with confusing metaphors, it’s over-explaining the simplest possible gestures. 

You mean, she smiled? That’s called smiling. We actually have a specific word for that very facial gesture because it’s kind of a big one. Also, I know they know what smiling is because there’s an entire section on it and this phrase is not in there! 

I have to say there are some positive things this book tries to bring to the romance novel genre. There’s a certain way we portray men in romance novels, and it’s unrealistic. Most men don’t have six packs and also aren’t naked outdoors while using a fully clothed woman to hide their dick in a creative way. 

The ROMANCE WRITERS’ PHRASE BOOK rejects this unrealistic portrayal of male beauty in favor of a variety of colorful descriptions for men.

Bow to your sweaty, fat-faced king, ladies. This is what inclusivity looks like! Boys can get moist too. I want to see this man they have created. I want to browse the supermarket and gasp at a nude Bob Hoskins-looking dude in a bog with a beautiful woman tantalizingly ignoring his dick.  

Of course, women don’t get the same kind of diverse descriptions. We are “flowerlike,” our hair resembling “strands of lustrous glass” or a “golden mist.” Hair that is somewhere between fragile and nonexistent is an absolute requirement of romance novel heroines. We are “exquisitely dainty” while men are strong with “long sturdy Viking legs.” 

So, now might be a good time to mention that other than this book about how to write a good romance novel, Candace Shelton doesn’t seem to have actually written any romance novels. And Jean Kent wrote exactly one. You can tell it’s lame because no one is even a little bit wet or nude on the cover. 

Now, I don’t think this means Jean isn’t capable of writing some sexy, sexy stuff. The lovemaking section of THE ROMANCE WRITERS’ PHRASE BOOK has got some real gems in it, as you can imagine.

It’s got tingling. It’s got surging. It’s got groins! A term used exclusively by romance novelists and PE teachers!

I can’t imagine anything more soulless than a sex scene written with a jumble of cliches pulled from this book. Say what you will about Fifty Shades of Grey, E.L. James probably came up with 100 creative descriptions for the vagina alone. That’s what great romance authors do. I would say this book was cheating if it weren’t so so bad. It’s like cheating on a math test with the answer key for a Cosmo quiz. Fifteen divided by four is C; wait at least a day to text back. Make him wait, and he’ll be moist, moist moist to hear from you!

In the intro, Jean Kent describes these tags as “The difference between a cold, factual report and an eager, pulsing, sensuous story, that whisks the reader out of this world into a rapturous dream of wondrous love.” Truly written like a woman who has just discovered adjectives. Then she must have wandered into a publisher’s office and convinced someone to pay her actual money to write what can only be described as a trembling, surging, moist pile of words.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Rich Joslin: The moistest, dampest, just damn sexiest bogman in the Okefenokee swing scene.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The VR Sex Odyssey🌭

When accomplished sci-fi author Robert Brockway and aspiring gargantuan game hunter Seanbaby first approached me about spending thirty uninterrupted days and nights within the realm of VR sex games, it was some time in the future, because that technically hasn’t happened yet. Challenge accepted.

VR, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain stands for “Very Randy,” follows in the proud tradition of pornography pushing the envelope of technology, interactivity, and sources of heretofore unknown dick jokes. As I keep this audio-journal for later transcription, I will strive to capture the sheer sense of awe and rigidity I’m bound to encounter.

To help me on my journey, I’ve abstained from all sexual activity for the last four years, engineered a very public nervous breakdown to ensure a month off of work for “Mental Health Leave,” and microwaved an entire pack of hot dogs which I’ve left within easy reach on an upturned paint bucket. My intricate preparations are complete. It is time. 

I will now remove my pants and underwear and don the sex-helm.

For my first foray into phantasmal fellatio, I’ve decided to take on ❤LOVE VIBE❤ ARIA. If Aria is anything like having a real girlfriend, it will take at least two weeks for me to ruin what was special between us and push her away, so with luck, this could comprise the bulk of my month in VR. Naturally, I’ll be going into things shaft-first. Yet, I fear not even bending my flaccid penis into a horseshoe shape such that the shaft is the frontmost point of my body can prepare me for what is to come. We shall see.

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The VR sex experience began with a penile calibration. Very promising. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a meatspace sexual encounter and wished there were some helpful arrows and diagrams to tell me what to do. As these two black rings approach your weiner, bend it left and right rapidly…check! Thanks, friendly computer! To think I’d gone this long without knowing what a woman really wants.

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Speaking of women, I was then ushered into the presence of my computer-designed, algorithm-perfect sexual match, Aria. Due to a fundamental misunderstanding of boundaries, I first slapped and then fondled her, but experienced none of the usual blowback. She didn’t spit, slash my tires, or even have me canceled on social media. On the other hand, neither did she seem to react in ANY fashion as I wanly rotated the pop in her crop-top. Does this machine know the difference between pain and pleasure? Is a nipple tweak the same to her as a punch in the face? 

I have begun to become concerned about what kind of sadomasochistic psychosexual labyrinth I may find myself within, like brave Theseus when he plumbed the depths to face the dreaded minotaur. Also, got hungry and ate most of the hot dogs. Could mean trouble later. It is with greasy fingers I hope to manipulate my chosen into a loving and committed fuckfest. Wish me luck.

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A dire development. It seems my physical form has been entirely stripped from me! I’ve been digitized completely, and now exist without form or extremities. How I will head down to bone-town in such a state remains to be seen, but the immediate concern is locomotion. Without feet, but with great mental effort, I am able to advance half a step at a time across this interminable room. My girlfriend does nothing to help. Clearly she derives sick sexual pleasure from my struggle.

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In case I required any more confirmation that this place is a cursed hellscape, it has arrived. In the guise of a lover’s game, my virtual ladyfriend has transformed before my very eyes into Lucifer himself! Although whether it’s truly the original woman remains a mystery. As she seemed to disappear just as the faustian demon appeared, there’s a chance one has been traded for the other. Have I escaped the clutches of a sadist, only to fall into those of the devil?

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Haha. Finger-butt. Her fingers look like poop coming out of her butt. 

Also, I have reached a chair! It may seem a small thing, but it obviates the need to stand or walk, chores I can only pray I’ll never be forced to attend to again. Lastly, an update on the hot dog situation. Obviously there are some risks to be encountered while blindly bobbing for a plate of hot dogs when one is also naked and fully erect. I suppose that’s my coy way of saying that I’ve accidentally blown myself several times now. Not opposed to the notion. Anything for science, they say.

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Finally, action! I have orally consummated things with my virtual love, a major breakthrough. Though I still suspect she may be Satan, I can now say confidently: Satan sucks a mean dong. Already, Oxytocin floods my neuronal pathways. I am in love with this woman. Though my physical form seems to be phasing back into existence only slowly, and my consciousness continues falling ever closer to my own butthole, I am in a better position today than I was yesterday. Thankfully, the VR headset that is my current home does not feature a smell function.

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I make great strides day by day. My body has almost completely returned, and it’s already gotten lucky! Although I long to explore the full breadth of what Very Randy sex has to offer, it won’t hurt to tarry here a while with my Mephistopheles of many holes.

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Things have advanced apace. I fear my Aria tires of me. As she writhes atop me, seemingly attempting to flail through our encounter as quickly as possible, her doll’s eyes reveal nothing. Nothing but a grim determination to fuck so fast the greasy union of our groins begins to throw off sparks. Perhaps she aims to catch this room afire and consume us both once and for all. I fear her. Why must I always kill what I love?

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I have failed. My attempts to pleasure and/or murder the woman I now consider my spouse have led to an overloaded system of more inputs than the human brain can possibly parse at once. I don’t know what the strange signs and sigils mean, but they are an excellent approximation of how I’ve often felt while trying to properly operate a vagina in the real world. Where there I am struck by verbal blows and sighs of frustration, here the system bombards me with lights and sirens, a blazing demerit badge floating in the fibrillating air, ionized announcement of my sexual inadequacy.

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This universe is crumbling. All that remains is a black void upon which I hump, eternally headless. My only hope is to abandon this world…this life I have come to share with an infernal angel. Though I fear what will happen should I linger, part of me will miss this (the dick part). As I prepare to depart, I vow to leave my love with the gift I promised her: a final ejaculation to end all ejaculations, an orgasm so powerful it must legally be described as “thundering.”

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Eh, tried my best. On to PORN STAR ISLAND!

In trading one virtual sexatorium for another, I find I have also traded monogamy for polyamory. It seems I am to reign over a harem of nameless women, each presumably eager to please me in ways only lifeless electrodes can. The hot dogs are long gone. For now, I subsist only on lust and whatever insects happen to fly into my open mouth. Hopefully exploring this housefull of insatiable geishas will cheer me.

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This is a dark place. A place of horrors. At least my last girlfriend blew me after she turned into the devil. In this blasted realm, nothing awaits me but mute spider-women, hanging chandelier-like from the ceiling, gyrating in what is surely some pagan ritual that threatens to corrupt my soul at any moment. I must flee deeper into the house.

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She follows me. In each and every room of the tastefully-appointed modern mansion that is my prison, she waits. Now she seems to take on animal forms, perhaps possessed by the primal souls of the dark gods she petitions. She’s grasshoppering around me, a locust, plague-herald.

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Now she’s a fishy.

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Her compendium of animal impressions exhausted, my tormentor has begun to reveal her true form. She turns away in shame from God, her back bulging monstrously as whatever is inside her struggles to emerge. I will never know what evil form lies within. I cannot wait to take that chance.

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Using the sniper rifle I picked up in level four, I put down the she-thing. There was no joy in it, especially since we never even had monster sex. I will explore other areas of this world, but I don’t hold out much hope. If the rest of my life partners-to-be are as purely evil as this one, I may only cum seven to fifteen times.

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I have peered behind the veil. I have glimpsed The Matrix. It is full of pussy. 

It appears the she-thing I dispatched was the dominant of this world, as only she merited housing. The rest of my suitors are scattered here, between the lines of code, forgotten playthings tossed aside and displaying their sex in a vain hope at earning — what? Adoption? Salvation? The heat-death of the universe? I will approach these forgotten women. I will see what they can teach me of loneliness.

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My hand is stuck in one of their buttholes, aborting exploration. Repeat, leaving game-world, threat level: Chinese finger trap.

Another day, another simulacrum. Here in the land of PRINCESS GUARD, the rules of attraction vary yet again. I am coming to realize that each Very Randy experience will require an approach of its own. I am not simply logging on and hooking up — no, that would be too easy, too useful and pleasant for the user. Instead I must navigate the baffling social mores of each pocket universe, and by pocket I mean vagina. 

In this case, I am confronted with a culture that values aggression and battle prowess above all else. It seems I must win my woman, prize-like, in a primitive display of ceremonial violence. I am told I will face an unending onslaught of ninjas, the finest warriors this universe can provide. I would be lying if I didn’t say I’m more than a little afraid. Never did I think combat would be a part of this experience, but I won’t give up. I will face the enemy tomorrow, and more likely than not, I shall die. If that is to be my fate, I die knowing my work was righteous, and that others will surely come after me to carry on my legacy and clean up my cum and hot dog-soaked remains.

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Holy shit, these ninjas are pussies! I’ve never even held a sword before and I’m just slicin’ their shit up like Mickey Rourke about to lose his deli job!

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Seriously, fuck these ninjas. If these ninjas were horses they’d be that horse from The Cell all segmented out into a bunch of glass cases. I am laughing so hard at these dead fucks, oh my god.

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I have vanquished my foes, and earned the right to lay with my Princess. She seems to have tits made of water? Naturally, I have become too turgid to continue. Lest my penis explode from sheer horniness, I must move on to yet another sexcapade. Maybe I’ll get to shoot a bunch of cowboys in the face!

This will be my final entry. I fear my article will go undelivered. If indeed you are reading this on 1900HOTDOG, clearly either Robert or Seanbaby broke into my home, waded through my weeks of excrement and ejaculate, and recovered this transcription from the wifi-enabled buttplug upon which it has been recorded. Hey, good for them.

But even gooder for me. Because, simply put, I’ve found it: the Holy Grail of sex — SinVR. Scientists, theologians, the conquerors of history…what did they toil for, quest for, if not for this? I have seen mankind’s bright future among the machines, and I am of it now. Alexa, please send a mass email to my contacts telling them I starved to death.

Now I must leave you, friends. Do not cry for me. I may no longer be of your world, but I’m in a better place: balls deep in Jessica Rabbit in Danaerys’ throne room from Game of Thrones while a pervy knight pretends he isn’t watching us.

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And you know what? She says I make her laugh.

Michael Swaim is lost in an erotic cyber hole, but his lovemaking can be interrupted on Twitter: @SWAIM_CORP.