Author: Robert Brockway

Experience… The Chermen

An “All-Cher production of Westside Story” seems like one of those thin Saturday Night Live sketches they only air after the second musical performance. It sounds like-

W-why did… I don’t even want to do this anymore. God dammit, Topper. One sentence. I was one sentence in. I guess I’m going to push onward and hope I find joy again?

…

“Westside Story but all Cher” sounds like the kind of idea that Cher’s handlers have to pretend to write down. It sounds like some breathy theater kid with an obnoxiously-spelled name found a magic lamp but didn’t think their wish through all the way. All genies are pedantic assholes, Mychaell, if you don’t provide qualifiers then you’re basically asking to be cursed. You’re going to technically get what you want, but in a way that makes you wish for death, which actually counts as your second wish, and wow — you are just getting schooled by this genie. Here’s your deepest desire, idiot:

That awkward, shuffling greenscreen gangbang looks like a warning that the hallucinogens are about to turn on you, but don’t throw away your faulty eyes. That’s real. It shouldn’t be.

The special effects budget here was “it’s CHER, I’ll LEARN computers!” and the costumes are sub-Klump. The choreography is done entirely by Cher trying to guess what Cher’s going to do next, a feat you may recognize as laughably impossible. And the set design is somewhere between high school drama final and Twin Peaks demon world. Cool, at least it sounds like somebody’s fucking four dolphins at once.

I hate you so much, Topper. I can taste my hate for you. It’s like over-microwaved burrito ends, just hard and dry and bitter and sharp in my mouth. Please just let me write this stupid fucking article that you have already destroyed.

…

I can never tell if Cher is joking about being Cher, and I think she lost that thread a long time ago, too. She introduces this whole premise by dressing up like a little girl, which she thinks is ‘oversized men’s button up,’ and pretends like her mother asked her what she wants to do when she grows up. Instead of ‘doctor’ or ‘astronaut’ or ‘artillery cannon crotch polisher,’ she says “I want to play every part in West Side Story.”

Before the audience can even laugh she spins to her feet, stares the camera down and savagely confirms this is actually happening, motherfucker. Then the portal opens and you are sucked into Cher-world, where most everything is Cher and things that are not Cher are there for Cher to destroy at her amusement. Four Chermen leap out and dance at you so aggressively, it might not actually be dancing. It might be a Cher Shadow Clone Jutsu where you have to find the real one before her blade finds you.

Joke’s on you, Cher-san, only redshirt has a shadow! Now let’s see you dodge my Fireball Jutsu!

Listen: You just stumbled into an article where everything is Cher and she’s trying to both intimidate and seduce herself through song. You know what we’re here to do. We’re going to rate the attacking Chermen on their intense fuckability.

This is Fucking Day. Cher up, assholes. You may not survive this.

First up is…

It’s appropriate that he’s wearing a red shirt, because Dumb Cher will be first to die. He lives in the high-stakes mirrorverse of Cher’s ego, where everyone is Cher and everyCher is replaceable and this dork can’t even figure out a lighter. He has the pure unmitigated confidence of a Cher in an elvis wig, and obviously that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. But the way he fumbles and then immediately gives up on that Zippo tells me he channels the pure Cher Narcissism, but none of the Cher Lust or Cher Competence. He thinks orgasms are a myth and sex is when you look into a mirror with one other person who’s only sort of cosplaying as you.

Dumb Cher gets:

One Weird Cher-squeal #17 (ArooUHNNN) // Ten Weird Cher-Squeals

Mook Cher is big and dumb and fucks like a rocket: all thrust, immediate separation, massive explosion, no survivors. Mook Cher is the Cher enforcer, and god help you if you wrong the Chers. He comes with a special jacket and a baseball bat and I’m using ‘comes’ in the other sense of the word.

Mook Cher gets:

One entire Cher // Six half-Chers, all torn asunder for not recognizing the one true Cher when challenged.

Oh fuck it’s…

My god. It’s Cher dressed as a boy dressed as a character in a play dressed as a gang member dressed as Fred from Scooby Doo dressed for Lolli Fetish Con ‘72. This is too much raw sensuality and I’m afraid I’ve just sexually imploded any of you that can’t hit the high note in “Believe.”

Lolli Cher gets:

An extremely loud sucking noise that goes on way too long while making hard eye contact // Five

Spicy Cher is bringing that libidinous Latin fire, unless that’s racist for me to say, in which case he just has strong #1 Henchman energy. Spicy Cher is here to do three things: fuck, salsa dance, and attack Roger Moore in the midst of a hectic parade. And friendo, he’s going to be doing all three at once because that headband is due back to Headband Cher’s Headband and Electric Bra Emporium by 6PM. There are no late fees in Cherverse; there is only immediate banishment from the Cher Collective, a fate worse than Cher.

Spicy Cher’s raw sexuality defies all measurement, so he gets:

A Spicy Cher // Spicy Cher.

Fuck it, Spicy Cher and a Half! A new record!

…

We’re delving too deep into Cherspace. There’s no way back. There’s only farther, harder, Cherer. But who would want to return? Each new Cher is better than the last, as they must be, by Cher law. Let’s meet…

Oh. Oh, it’s…

So this is how you die. Writhing in both ecstasy and disgust, your various orifices distended and bedazzled. In a way, it’s perfect in its symmetry: You became enmeshed with this dimension because you could not restrain your love of Cher, and now you’ve met a Cher who cannot restrain his love of you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it, Mychaell? This is what you asked for. You should have spoken more carefully.

Anyway, that’s my time.

Be absorbed by the gnawing hunger of Cher’s ego and unbecome, everybody!

Topper I- holy crap, that was actually a pretty good burn. What the fuck, Topper?

Tags 2020, Free, Music, tv

PUNCHING DAY

Exiles 🌭

Malibu Comics was a short-lived imprint in the 1990s that acted as a sort of comic book Drain Trap — a stagnant place you could dump your worst ideas to keep them from rising up and poisoning the rest of the industry. If Marvel was the appealing picture of the Whopper on the Burger King menu, Malibu was the soggy slab of gray meatpoison you actually got. And Exiles was the caustic grease at the bottom of the bag that ruins your pants.

That’s seriously the cover of their very first issue. That’s the first impression they were comfortable with for the whole series. I promise I didn’t photoshop that mouth — that’s really something Malibu drew on purpose, looked at, somehow did not destroy out of reflexive shame, and then actually had the gall to put up for sale. Here’s the very first page:

We’re not one full page into, again, the very first issue of a brand new series, and we have multiple redirect arrows. Redirect arrows are how normal comic book artists apologize for coming to work drunk. In Japanese comics, they’re widely regarded as an acceptable suicide note. This is a worse first impression than going on a blind date in blackface and then explaining that it’s not what it looks like — you just have “Jungle Fever” and you jerked off to a mirror earlier.

In keeping with the theme so far, the very first character we’re introduced to, Amber Hunt, is immediately established as a vapid dipshit that we should all hate. Sure hope the whole book doesn’t hinge on this horribly sexist caricature doing or saying literally anything els–

Well, shit.

Amber Hunt is our protagonist.

So Malibu comics wants us to know three things right from the jump: Our heroine is stupid, our heroine is self-centered, and they’re sorry for being repetitive when they could have just said “she’s a woman in a Malibu comic.”

That grocery store toy aisle “Iron Guy” up there is Supreme Soviet and those are his Cybernoids. “Supreme Soviet and the Cybernoids” is a kickass name for a Russian Daft Punk cover band, but they’re terrible names for comic book characters. They sound like Honorable Mentions pulled from a Dr. Who name-the-villain contest, but don’t worry — those aren’t your main villains.

Do worry, your main villains are stupider. Like Bloodbath:

Who’s a ripoff of every single Wolverine ripoff, and looks like Dr. Frankenstein tried to build Dave Bautista out of Rob Liefield parts. He looks like somebody tried to break the Character Creation screen. He has a fishhook tattooed on his face though he’s in no way nautically themed, and he couldn’t decide between skullwings and Pippi Longstocking braids so he told his barber both and hung strong through the laughter. He’s trying to pull the old Reality Show “I’m not here to make friends” gambit, but it’s definitely coming across as “I wore sweatpants to the prom because I knew nobody wanted to dance with me anyway.”

Hey, meet the only character in this entire series that I like:

Her name is Hot Rox. Have you guessed her power? It’s elocution.

Our heroes are no better!

Everyone in the Exiles sucks so hard it’s difficult to overstate. I’ll try: They suck so hard, if they were an album they’d be Imagine Dragons ironically covering NWA songs. They suck so hard, if they were a car they’d be a brown Nissan Juke. It’s not enough! They’d be a Nissan Juke with one of those family stickers in the window, only every member would be a Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin until the final Calvin, who has to pee on himself. They suck so hard, if they were a sex scandal they’d be Martin Shkreli caught masturbating in a Foot Locker. Fuck! Nothing is landing. You’ll just have to meet them.

This is Tinsel. That’s seriously her comic book name, and this is seriously her comic book power.

Malibu ripped off Jubilee and Dazzler, two characters nobody wanted, and found a way to make the combination of them worse. That’s like pairing hot pickles and warm oatmilk, only you put the warm oatmilk inside the pickle like a briny gusher so it can ejaculate into your mouth when you bite it. You were wrong from the start, and every step you took afterward made it exponentially worse.

The rest of your crew are:

Mustang!

Shitty Gambit got to design his own superhero persona and the toughest thing he could think of was to wear boxing safety headgear and name himself after a powerful horse.

Ghoul is the zombified corpse of that art teacher who constantly jokes about smoking weed. It’s strange how all of his most talented students are young women who look like they can keep a secret. It’s even stranger that his “after hours intensive portfolio review” always takes place in his Volkswagen Jetta.

Catapult is our Michaelangelo character, three years after we as a culture accepted that not everything had to have Michaelangelo character. He has none of the charm or self-awareness of Michaelangelo and twice the quips, but the writer was not legally allowed to be around actual teenagers, knew no actual ‘hip’ slang himself, and was also quite unwilling to look any up.

This is Deadeye:

Deadeye is, without question, the most useful member of Team Exile. Deadeye’s superpower is that he has a gun and can aim it.

Aaaand we saved the worst for last. That is Trax, who pulled his superhero name from an orthopedic hiking insole. Here’s Trax after taking a glancing blow from Super Soviet:

Later in the comic, it’s revealed that Super Soviet actually had no superpowers of his own. That was Trax after taking one medium human punch.

Trax’s only superpower seems to be smelling women from a greater distance than normally possible, or advisable:

To the surprise of nobody, he’s a sex pest:

That reprimand almost seems progressive, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, this is a Malibu comic. Female brains just take extra time to understand good jokes, math, and complimentary groping. That woman has time to think about it later and realizes she was wrong:

But hey, speaking of good jokes — where’s that choice Malibu “your friend that can’t quite do a Chandler impression” humor?

The wall of his classroom just exploded, so that kid turned around to ask nobody if they thought the flames would be on the test, which you might almost recognize as a joke before your female brain took that extra time and realized you were horribly mistaken. It’s kind of like following a strange adult you think is your mom only to look up half a block away and realize it’s a circus clown. That moment of dull, confused horror is the closest thing to a laugh a Malibu comic has ever gotten.

Now that we’ve met the colorful cast, let’s jump into the plot: Amber Hunt has latent superpowers, and is drawn reluctantly to the Exiles Team. Just in time, too, since a sinister corporation might be making their own superpowered army! The heroes go in to investigate, but find they’ve stumbled into an ambush.

That’s a pretty generic setup, but maybe they go somewhere interesting with it?

Oh wait, that’s actually the ending.

The Exiles scout out Evil Headquarters and Ghoul has all the bad guys cornered… then decides to fucking 180 noscope some fuel tanks, killing everybody:

Meanwhile back at the Exile base, it also explodes, killing… everybody else?

This has been an accurate synopsis of the entire Exiles series.

The end.

What, did you expect something more?

The writers knew you would!

So they put in one last panel just verifying that you were an idiot for expecting that.

Exiles lasts four issues, does nothing interesting, and then they all die abruptly. That’s the worst ending you could possi-

Oh wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t turn the page. That’s not the end! There’s an epilogue… in the form of a written apology from the Exiles team.

In which they explain why they wrote a bunch of characters who exist solely to suck and then die. The answer is: Some people just suck and then die.

They wrap it up by further acknowledging that you, the reader, probably won’t like this story, but that’s only because they don’t know what they’re doing.

Although I gotta say, “Drunken Magician” is a killer euphemism for “incompetent fuckwit.” I’m going to change all of my business cards.

Tags 2020, comics, Free, malibu

UPSETTING DAY

Your New Damsel Fetish 🌭

I delve into troublesome YouTube channels like dwarves dig into the accursed earth. It’s not a matter of if my meddling will uncover a monster, but when, and how many subscribers the Balrog will have. I’ve so utterly fucked the YT recommendation algorithm now that half of the things it thinks I’ll like are surrealist toddler videos and the other half are abduction pornography. And sometimes it’s both!

This here is an entire channel dedicated to fans of Damsels In Distress, or DIDdlers. Do they proudly call themselves that, or did I make it up to insult them? You don’t know, and unless you criminally compromise your search history, you never will!

At first glance, this isn’t so bad. The channel makes me a little sad for the squandered potential of humanity, just like everything else on the internet, but really it’s just bondage for people who somehow haven’t heard that word yet. It’s like the My First Playset for rope fetishes. I hate it, but you kind of have to assume it exists. But let us dig deeper, for there are gems to find and the Balrog is just a legend, you fools!

The channel is solely focused on kid’s cartoons, and that’s sort of understandable when it features stuff like this:

Right, Harley Quinn tying Catwoman up has its own genre page on PornHub. Having a softcore version of it so you high-risk dangerwank at work only makes sense. But uh… there are a lot of these clips.

Oh no.

No.

I meant A LOT.

The account spans nearly a decade and hosts thousands of videos.

The tone of sexual obsession absolutely changes when you buy in bulk. Got a couple dozen weirdly specific porn clips saved? That’s called “being prepared.” What if the internet goes down and you absolutely must masturbate to Overwatch cosplay? You need a virtual boner bug-out bag. Cross that terabyte line though, and there’s no coming back for you. At some point it stops being a sexy collection and starts being the research folder for a serial killer manifesto.

Much of the DID channel features provocatively drawn adult women bound up like this:

Oh shit, I recognize that clip! That’s from the Police Academy cartoon!

Wait, there was a Police Academy cartoon? And you knew about this, brain?! Did you think you could hide it from me? We will discuss an apt punishment later. Right, I was saying:

Having a thing for busty cartoon ladies in sex-adjacent scenarios is understandable — it’s a little weird that you’re jerking it to Police Academy but god and Moses Hightower know that I can’t throw any stones on that front. But here’s one I remember from the Problem Child cartoon and — really, brain? You tried to bury this one, too? Somebody’s getting the dust-cleaner fumes later. The storebrand kind.

Anyway, this clip from the Problem Child cartoon is where things start to stray:

That girl looks a little young. And that janitorial closet looks a bit too filthy for a child to go entirely unmurdered in. The implications here are troubling. Maybe it’s about the rescue in this case, though — I can see a fetish about women with huge asses using them like battering rams to save captives. I’m actually into that. I’m actually way into that.

This is from Adventures in Odyssey, and now there’s an actual child involved. Also that woman is in no way erotically drawn or posed. There’s nothing inherently sexy here, so it has to be about the abduction itself, and that’s… troubling.

There is no acceptable sexuality in this. Those waddling Lego figurines barely register as human, and I can think of zero scenarios where it’s okay for a magical mannequin to powerwade out to a boatbound captive woman-bot and start tonguefucking her mouthgag. So this whole thing, it’s not about the people at all. Right?

Right.

Gotcha. All right. Do the YouTube comments confirm this is exactly what I think it is?

Yes, they do. They always do.

Maybe it’s a one-off thing?

Could be a one-off thing.

It’s not a one-off thing.

And the comments, are they as terrifyi-

Yes, they are.

I could go to therapy for years and never find a better way to communicate my feelings about this than, “thang you stop.” But okay, well, I know furries are a pretty harmless thing, and they’re probably a thing in the first place because of shows like this — when you draw a sultry-eyed dino lady in an evening dress maybe we can’t act surprised when the internet celebrates her being chained to a wall. And if you take special care to give your foxlady some ass, I guess we should’ve expected the internet to unzip when you threw her in a trunk.

So that cements a few things about the sensibilities of this channel. Namely that: It has to be specifically about children’s cartoons, it is a sexual thing, the sexuality does not come from anything resembling consent, and in fact much of the allure comes from how apparent it is that the victims are going to be murdered. Like so:

I know Filthy Janitor’s Closet is a part of your Jerkoff Mise En Place, but the tone of this image is absolutely not “playful distress” and absolutely is “oops, this Czech horror film I’m watching might be real.” Those kids are probably not of legal age, and they are definitely not long for this world.

With all of that in mind, including this clip from Donkey Kong, Jr. in your Sexy Abductions YouTube Channel:

Is going to land you in the most embarrassing jail. The one they only use for people who molest the animatronic robots at Chuck E. Cheese, and Roger Stone.

Don’t worry, you will have so much company…

40 million views! This dude bought a yacht from the money he made capping Remedial Wank Material from Saturday Morning Cartoons. I may have said it before — aloud, and literally every day I wake up to find I haven’t Freaky Friday body switched with a mid-level programmer — but I am in the wrong industry. The real money is in ‘contextless cartoon gagporn,’ just like my guidance counselor said.

Tags 2020, anime, Free

NERDING DAY

Behold: SuperBook

When I first moved out on my own, I was so poor I couldn’t afford both cable TV and Pabst. It was clear that cable had to go. Also food. Sometimes rent. I lived just a few blocks from my local Christian Broadcasting Network affiliate, so that was pretty much all I could get with the bunny ears. I spent many a late night watching Kirk Cameron fight Satan using… the internet? Maybe Satan was the internet? And Kirk Cameron was actually Mr. T? I can barely recall the programming, and I certainly learned nothing of Christianity. But while most of my memories of that era might be smeared across a Denny’s bathroom, I’ll never forget the cartoons.

Let us discuss SuperBook, the very first and quite possibly only Christian anime. I’m not sure if Evangelion counts, because I’m not sure what happened in Evangelion. Let’s say “only.” We’ll stick with only.

I can hear that image. The theme song for the first season was performed by a man who only had music explained to him, but never experienced it firsthand. There follows his two-minute long best guess. He stretches words out in the oddest ways, as though he’s watching someone just outside the booth give him hot/cold signals while he tries to zero in on “human singing.”

SuperBook wasn’t ‘anime-style’ — it was an actual anime. Written, produced, performed, and entirely confused by Japan. Christian anime! What a hilarious setup for absurdist jokes about what anime thinks Christianity is — “haha, where do they put the robot?”

Right here:

That’s Gizmo the Crusader Robot and don’t worry, it’s not just a name. He will commit ancient war crimes before this article is done.

He’s there to protect Chris Peepers and Joy Quantum:

Our main characters, who were named by running a Silver Age Comics Secret Identity Generator and picking the bottom two results.

So what did Extremely High Young Brockway see in SuperBook? Was it the bizarre retellings of thrice-translated gospels? The weirdly shoe-horned antics of two anime children highjinking their way through Biblical tragedies? Was it the awkward dub that sounded like every voice actor was recording their lines from the bottom of a bricked-over well?

Yes.

But mostly it was the pretty colors in the time travel sections:

That is primo early-2000s stoner fodder, up there with Winamp visualizations and scrambled Cinemax. I’m pretty sure Extremely High Young Brockway had some theories about those time travel scenes. I’m pretty sure he’d talk to you about them for 45 minutes before realizing you were his cardboard cutout of James T. Kirk.

Here’s the premise of SuperBook: Two plucky young children find out they can time travel… but only to bible stories. It’s one of those ironic genie scenarios. A ‘fine print on the devil’s contract’ kind of deal. You get a cool wish, but it’s followed by a really shitty ellipsis. These kids joyride time back several millennia and the first thing they do in every episode is trust the holy shit out of a stranger.

Here they are five seconds after meeting Gideon, and subsequently following him into his cave:

Here’s how he managed that feat:

He said, “Hello, I’m Gideon… it’s more pleasant in the cave.”

These children have never met a van floor they didn’t like the taste of. Murderers ask the pair to get into their Ford Taurus and before they can say “I’ve got candy,” Chris is buckling his seatbelt and Joy is stuffing her own sock into her mouth.

Here’s Joy and Chris, five seconds after meeting Job, and immediately following him to his house.

Here’s how Job managed that feat:

He said, “you must be strangers here, why don’t you come to my house?”

Every single episode starts with these oblivious children following strangely dressed men in order to watch atrocities:

Don’t pity those kids. Here is, no shit, what Joy had to say about those men above burning alive:

“The flames are beautiful!”

I think the original pitch for this series was about a Hard Candy-esque time-travelling vigilante squad, but the CBN cut all the best torture scenes. Not all of them, mind you. Just the best. Pity the suspiciously single men of The Bible, who were so sure they knew the face the devil would take.

Let’s check in on Job’s children, minutes after meeting Joy and Chris:

That scene caps with ten seconds of Job just brokenly screaming “oh my children!” over and over and over again. I’m not even slightly joking:

Even if these kids weren’t using time travel to hyper-typhoon the families of child-murderers, they are absolutely destroying the timeline just by existing and — oh yeah, introducing everyone in The Bible to a furious robot.

There’s none of that “what a strange looking boy this is!” stuff — Gizmo the Crusader Robot does not give a shit if you know he’s a robot. In fact, if you doubt it, he’ll show you. Here he is just straight fucking up some old-timey guards, firing rockets out of his head and at their faces until they flee screaming “No! NNNOOO! SORCERY!”

Gizmo’s extremely low tolerance for bullshit is why you’re reading this on a jellyfish inside your Magnodome. He destroys timelines like they’re Aramaic sex criminals, and if you even tried to explain the concept of consequences to him you’d wake up tomorrow with tanktreads for legs thinking ‘autonomy’ was the worst swear you had ever heard.

Let’s check out the Sodom and Gomorrah episode, that’s always my flagship for determining biblical cartoon hilarity, this one’s called…

Oh, n-no! He’s been watching! He’s in my chronology right now. I can feel my history bleeding! Gizmo, I knew not what I did! I wasn’t-

Tags 2020, anime, cartoons, Free

LEARNING DAY

Jack Horkheimer – Star Hustler 🌭

Post author By Robert Brockway
Post date 07/06/2020
4 Comments on Jack Horkheimer – Star Hustler 🌭

Jack Horkheimer: Star Hustler was a PBS mini-show about amateur stargazing, and not an obscenely pornographic science fiction rock opera. Not until I finish writing it, anyway.

Star Hustler was a quirky little educational show hosted by a nice old man who just happened to have an obscene sounding last name, and used a word in their title whose meaning changed over the years. It’s not like astronomers in the 1970s were a swingin’ bunch of fuckdorks who filled planetariums with their Laser Orgies and jammed telescopes you could use to see the fabric of the universe straight up their assholes.

It was not that.

It just really looked like that.

He just really looked like that:

Showrunners even had to change the name in the late ‘90s — it became Jack Horkheimer: Star Gazer, and while Jack Horkheimer: Star Gazer still fucks, it doesn’t fuck sideways and twice at once like Jack Horkheimer: Star Hustler.

There’s just one problem: All of that is bullshit.

Maybe the word ‘hustler’ didn’t have perverse connotations until the magazine launched back in — let’s check, 1974? And Star Hustler started in 1976? Huh, that’s weird timing, isn’t it? Well, let’s ignore it. Before Hustler Magazine gave the word pornographic connotations, it could mean one of two things: Minor conman, or prostitute.

There is no scenario where these people named their show Jack Horkheimer: Star Hustler with big ol’ innocent cartoon eyes unblemished by both cocaine and semen.

The series seriously, no joke, opened with this poem:

Some people hustle pool,

Some people hustle cars,

Now here’s that man you’ve heard about,

The man who hustles stars

You cannot be more explicit than that, at least until the kids leave the planetarium and ‘Stars After Dark: Thick Thursday’ kicks into gear.

So the opening of every show straight up says that Jack Horkheimer is a space criminal and then he rolls into the episode like this:

That’s the third pimpest thing I’ve ever seen, and that’s only because I have led a shockingly pimp-rich life. I’m not using that word in the slang sense, either — I mean Jack Horkheimer literally looks like he runs prostitutes. You put a red fur coat and aquarium shoes on that man and he’s MCing the next Player’s Ball.

But that’s just how The Hork does it:

He spends the whole show zipping about in increasingly hilarious ways, and while that’s not technically listed under “pimpalicious” in The Pimp’s Almanac, it is very much in the same spirit. Dude is one shatter-wipe to a red convertible away from a Bad Boy Records video.

Here he is shatter-wiping to a red convertible.

The elevator pitch for the Hork’s show was “5 quick minutes of naked eye stargazing,” and that’s also how he asks you to watch him masturbate. His episodes were full of weirdly suggestive titles that took their cues from romance novels, like:

Which sounds like a naive young woman about to discover fantasy horsecock. Notice it ends in an ampersand. Here’s part two:

I don’t know what that means but I am sure it’s a sex crime, Hork.

I’m sorry, that’s disrespectful. According to a profile piece on Horkheimer he prefers that:

“…friends call him “His Horkiness.”

You look that man up there straight in the eye, and you picture him saying “please, call me His Horkiness.”

Now, be honest with me: in your mind’s eye, is he wearing pants? No, he is not. Is he wearing a jaunty little bowtie specifically tailored for his penis? Yes, of course he is.

‘Star nerd’ just seems like a weird career match for the living avatar of 1973, right? Astronomer isn’t an inherently perverse profession like ‘disc jockey’ or ‘nightclub jazz musician’ or one of those theater directors who are just a little too excited about amatuer nudity on stage.

All of which Hork was:

“Before becoming a disc jockey and nightclub jazz organist… he dabbled in theater, and once threatened to sue his university if one of his plays – a ribald, nudity-laced comedy called “If the Shoe Fits, Eat It” – wasn’t put on (it was).”

Jack Horkheimer was a space skeeve, I defy all rebuttals. I do not yield my time!

“Horkheimer dabbles in bonds, has an American Express Gold Card and belongs to the Playboy Club.”

The Playboy Club membership suggests I’m on the right track here, but it’s that Gold AmEx that really seals the deal. That is the shag-carpeted hot tub of 1970s credit cards. You can choose the picture on a Gold AmEx but only from a selection of vulgar ukiyo-e prints. That card has a special lubrication strip just for sliding it through asscheeks.

“[Hork] wears a $10 electric watch and a ring set with a second-century BC bronze coin from the reign of Ptolemy VI of Egypt. He has a heavy metal plaque embossed with the word “HUSTLER” on his key ring.”

Just existing like this is a crime in the less funky states. There are heavy fines in Delaware for wearing jewelry that gaudy. You get two years for a HUSTLER keyring in Connecticut. In Rhode Island, it’s the death penalty. There is a 97% chance that the keys on that ring fit into a Rambler RV with Uranus airbrushed onto the side. There is a 104% chance that Hork calls it “the Rimbler.”

“[Hork] drinks only champagne, which he buys 10 cases at a time, in vintages varying from cheap, oversweet Andre to dry, costly Moët & Chandon. He makes champagne cocktails by pouring the bubbly over a lump of sugar laced with Angostura bitters, and laps them up delicately, cat-like, one after another.”

If somebody said that shit in a literal documentary about pimps, you would laugh, because it’s too pimpin’. I am not praising, or even endorsing his behavior, but I hope I have left no doubts in your mind that Jack Horkheimer: Star Hustler taught the repressed PBS set about watersports and perhaps (double)handedly dicked astronomy into the public consciousness.

Hork out.

Tags 2020, Free, tv

FUCKING DAY

The Time The Dirt Bike Kid Fucked His Bike

Post author By Robert Brockway
Post date 07/02/2020
1 Comment on The Time The Dirt Bike Kid Fucked His Bike

Good morning. I have come to you today with a simple task, unadorned by superfluous arguments and tangential frivolity. I aim to prove the following: In the 1985 movie, The Dirt Bike Kid, director Hoite Caston did knowingly and with malice aforethought commit to film a two-minute long sequence of a young child jacking off a sentient dirtbike.

Welcome to 1-900-HOT-DOG. This is Fucking Day.

I shall now present the evidence.

The Dirt Bike Kid is the scum that floated to the top when Hollywood scraped the very bottom of the E.T. ripoff barrel. In the 1980s, every third movie was about a shitty child solving a trivial injustice with the help of a magical Alien, Robot, Dirt Bike, or Nintendo Brand Power Pad Accessory. It’s a movie about the kid from A Christmas Story trying to save a hot dog stand with his mystical motorcycle. It is also an unacceptable catalog of filth and perversion — a dementedly whimsical instance of child pornography that must be banned by all moral societies. To prove these assertions, I need only establish two things.

First, that the vehicle in question is sentient, and has autonomy.

This is easy enough. In the film, the titular dirt bike is seen ‘swiveling’ its headlights to convey emotion. It also makes various noises, from honking to revving to inexplicable beeps when Mr. Caston forgets the premise of the movie he’s making and just lapses into blatant Star Wars IP theft.

Perhaps the above scene only conveys intelligence on the level of, say, a lesser ape or YouTube personality, but later we are explicitly shown the dirt bike:

Moving on its own
Displaying a full grasp of human language
Which it uses to navigate the United States address system

And now, to point the second: I must prove that the dirt bike has sensation.

Part of my job has already been done. This motorcycle was able to feel the weight of the package on its seat, and to gauge said weight in order to calculate the distance of its throw. That displays tactile awareness, but I can further prove both sensation and emotion.

Here we see the dirt bike…

As it… revs in pain when exposed to police brutality? Jesus Christ, Dirt Bike Kid, cut me some slack here. I am not the man best equipped to tackle this issue.

Clearly, this motorcycle is a thinking creature. It is capable of understanding the English language, the US postal code, and even the morality of practical ownership vs. legal ownership as regards a hot dog stand. It is able to sense human touch, and feel emotions like fear and anger. It follows that it might also feel lust. Through whatever unspecified magics animate this dirt bike, it is no longer a mere collection of metal, but a sensuous creature.

Therefore, to portray the ‘washing’ scene as such:

Is a crime against humanity.

From the lingering shots of this young boy’s hands scrubbing its filthy haunches, to the flaccid but eagerly bulging erection of its fenders, this entire scene is explicit and illegal child-on-dirtbike pornography. I ask that Mr. Hoite Caston be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and if there is not a law about filming children giving handies to magic motorbikes, I propose that there should be, and that again Mr. Hoite Caston be made to suffer the fullest extent of it. May god have mercy on your soul, sir, for there is none left in my heart for you.

I bid you a solemn and sober Fucking Day, Hot Doggers.

Tags 2020, Free, movies