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Upsetting Day: The Predatory Female
Author: Dennard Dayle
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Fucking Day: Sugar Daddy Playbook
I have sympathy for Lost Causers. And love lying. But I also understand it’s a tough position. It hurts to be out of step with culture. And history. And the avowed, public, Cornerstone positions of your idols. Cognitive dissonance is painful, and the stupid suffer in silence.
Constant, screaming silence. Across reenactments, imageboards, and coup attempts. I’d love five noisy minutes. Maybe if Sherman had done his thing a little longer.
Today’s junior propaganda is Confederate Alphabet, written by Rickey E. Pittman. And if you look carefully, illustrated by Stephanie Ford. Considering how thin the writing is, it’s odd the bulk of the labor’s taken for granted. Seems ungentlemanly.
But I’m made of opinions, despite Lee’s best efforts. I’ll let this one pitch itself:
I used to drink a lot, so this looks harmless. “Little Confederates” evokes a preschool hate group, but history matters. An education shows the whole picture, warts and all. Otherwise you get Americans that think Dresden’s just a snarky wizard. Kids should understand the Confederacy, to whatever extent picture books can cover mandingo fights.
But let’s double-check. What’s “S,” in this Civil War book about the Civil War?
Checks out. After all, we fought over his nickname.
Secession Street has a gifted team. Stephanie’s a triple threat: a hopeless reenactor, illustrator, and writer. Her broken website includes a few works of historical fiction, some intentional. Including a Confederate sharpshooter’s journey to the Boshin War. I guess she found The Last Samurai too sensitive.
Rickey Pittman’s known as the “Bard of the South,” meaning he calls himself that and registered bardofthesouth.com where he promotes Stonewall Jackson’s Black Sunday School, a children’s book I own. I almost covered it for Black History Month, until my extended family provided feedback. Confederate Alphabet’s our compromise, and I’ll be out of the hospital by April.
I rarely mock dedication pages, but the art pulled me in. The margins are a world tour of insults. This appears below Singapore’s dragon:
Besides, Chattel Slavery and You is special. What does Rickey love, book? I want to see it burn. Again.
The names Mason and Dixon were right there. What’s the point of bardic knowledge if you miss that? Years of chart-topping resentment anthems, thrown away. That’s like charging a mile without cover and hoping God sorts it out. But not quite as bad. You worship failures.
We’ll cover the rest of this brain graveyard in order.
Excellent start: Stephanie’s spared drawing a face. For all we mock Liefeld’s feet, they’re avoidable enough to save creator-owned comics. Stephanie spends the rest of this book drowning. She begged Rickey to name 26 ships, and he burned out at four.
Unfortunately, the flicker of talent dies here. This navy trivia’s the least stilted stanza, and Rickey has 25 letters to go. He’s smart enough to abandon consistent meter, but the ABCB pattern strains his ability to word good. He could learn from old spirituals, but that’s not the Bard of the South’s thing.
Depending on your childhood, that’s either a JibJab jingle, a Fallout deep-cut, a song your father mumbled at the bathroom mirror in full uniform, or a TikTok renaissance. Pittman loves “Dixie” enough to paste the full lyrics in his verse tribute to the South. He says “Now that you’re done with my garbage, here’s a better tribute to chattel slavery. Please pretend I gave you these feelings.”
It goes something like this:
At least other race war reporters try. I’ve never heard Tom MacDonald bite Burzum. Or a full Tom MacDonald track. But I assume there’s craft. You can’t just regurgitate stale zeitgeist.
We might not make it to space.
This one’s important, and not just for giving up on a clear thought per stanza. Rickey had a choice between sidestepping the Confederacy’s quirks, or celebrating everyone Django Unchained paraphrased. He never chooses, so the latter stands out.
I’m not saying every slave trader needs an asterisk. Or Klan founder. Or butcher of black prisoners. But the triple crown’s worth a line. It would only double this book’s length, tops.
Is that middle soldier meant to be…they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Pelican Press is a real company. An editor would’ve been shot. They’d be in publishing hell with Kinja’s design lead.
Note: the propaganda quality peaks here. A kid might actually care about or remember a silly peanut song, instead of 19th century shipping or race war innovators. Rickey reprints the whole song.
Forget this page’s war between hand and crayon. Or Rickey stumbling over zero rhythm constraints. There’s a dumber problem.
I’m stuck on the strangest tokenism in print history. The Confederate Army used black people for manual labor and target practice. You know, unpaid work. There’s a word for that, but I can’t remember it. Only my love for Goober Peas.
Right! Misdemeanor possession. Black Southerners served as drug offenders.
The extra-fictional soldier above is reaching to an Antebellum version of Lil’ Orphan Annie. Resetting my Yankee preconceptions is very much the point. Or keeping me from growing them in the first place. Because this is a kid’s book, for children.
If I wrote a General Lee diss track, I’d start with his cult and jump right to his failure. Excellent work. Rickey’s getting a handle on this.
I know, General Lee deserves some credit. Without him, the Dukes would have driven the General Custer, and who needs that? Instead, Lee inspires everyone whose lips move when they read.
Hold the fucking telegraph. M is for Manasses, but we blew G on peanuts? Shenanigans. Between Grant and Gettysburg I’m surprised Rickey kept the letter. It’s the turning point in the alphabet.
I’m brainwashable. I’ve seen the closing credits of Eternals. You just have to ease off the gas a little bit. Think odd-numbered Thors. Keep Taika happy, and you can get away with anything.
Q’s a tough letter. But if I were power-washing history, I’d tiptoe around prewar slave catchers. It’s off-message. I’m not sure Quantrill even noticed the war, he was already a land pirate. The arson was muscle memory.
Giving propagandists advice sounds risky, but they’re much more about talking than listening. And I’m not sure Rickey’s even alive. He hasn’t published a new Hate on Phonics in a few years, and he is not the type who shuts up.
Stephanie. I’m rooting for you to succeed, but the effort isn’t there. This culture war skirmish only works when all three of us show up. The rebel yell’s the Confederacy’s crossover hit. This page should look good enough for plausible deniability on your college roommate’s wall.
I’ll try a compliment sandwich.
- You nailed the variation in rebel uniforms, which drifted to suggestions over time.
- These kids look like homunculi passing kidney stones.
- Nice hat.
Rickey’s a hack, so Y’s probably “Yankee.” I expect your best.
I’ve never desired representation less.
Granted, one could argue that these aren’t people, period. Just paint pens rising against their masters. I buy it. This could be the art supply version of Nat Turner’s revolt. But it looks like Tim Scott’s subconscious.
Beautifully done. I support these images and words without reservation, down to the burning shack in the distance. They’re aspirational. Rickey could republish this page and call it “The Audacity of Cope.”
Or the whole book. There’s a market.
Right, Americans cosplaying Frenchmen cosplaying Algerians. Great trivia, Rickey. But did you know that Z is the last letter? The ending of your book? Think bigger. Rewriting history in crayon takes work, and I can still remember Dred Scott. That’s no way to train the next Greg Abbot.
Granted, there’s a timeline of the war after this. You’d assume it’s impossible to make a five-year mass bloodletting boring. But it strips out slavery, Union wins before Gettysburg, and everything between Gettysburg and Appotomax. Leaving…ships and goober beans. I don’t know why Rickey’s all-in on peanuts, Carver’s estate gets a cut of every shell. Those are Emancipation Beans.
Maybe I’m nitpicking. But brainwash your children carefully. Cliches and quarter-truths could leave them insane and stupid. Then what use will they be in the rematch?
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Mort, who drives the Union equivalent of the General Lee – a sensible gray Honda CR-V.
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Fucking Day: Sex Box đźŚ
What’s a Sex Box? Forget wordplay.
Today’s Sex Box is a glowing cube people fuck in. Then three almost-therapists fail to solve their problems. On TV. We made this show twice.
To understand Sex Box, you need to see The Box. I try not to get too steamy here, but the searing eroticism is context.
Look at it.
Look at the buzzards.
Look at the experts.
Look at The Box again.
Look at the morning star, in his moment of triumph.
Now fuck in The Box. It’s for your benefit.
Some of you are exhibitionists. Rock on. Others felt every gamete scream and flatline at once. Besides, The Box adds a strange layer between showoffs and their audience. And exit interviews, which I got into entertaining to avoid. This is a talent show in hell.
Sex Box has two branches: The UK Channel 4 original, and the US aspartame knockoff. I’ve discussed Channel 4. They stitched film and novel Victor Frankenstein together into one lunatic, and put him in charge. Let it be known: America’s lack of ingenuity and grit can make anything worse.
Naturally, Freedom Box was a hit.
Sorry, wrong notes. Five episodes ran before WE tv caved to conservative backlash. This paragraph’s more profitable than Sex Box. That sounds odd now, when bait is Plan A. But pranking SWAT teams wasn’t even mainstream yet. And planning a stove-licking contest and melting two flavors off your tongue are different beasts.
God’s spokespeople hated this show. That’s my only line at their expense, because I hate it too. Welcome to Horseshoe TV. A stopped clock–
Nevermind. What kind of “I’m having a help, send stroke” headline is that? I planned a whole team-up issue with the Apocalypse Cheer Squad before “Jezebelic.” Sex Box might promote a trash TV pastor (spoilers), but it’s not eating anyone’s rights. Though it takes a crack at the pursuit of happiness.
It’s not all bad—the Sex Box franchise defeated porn. Forever. Channel 4’s “Campaign for Real Sex” aimed to de-jerk modern culture. Don’t ask me how, it’s one of those Wars on X that crop up every few years. Here’s the pitch:
Ah, that’s where all the porn went. Today’s ads are for anatomy models, dryer safety, and mothers that need a friend. Channel 4 replaced porn with distorted sex on camera. To say nothing of Date My Pornstar, which goes in the “to-do” pile. Now I know why this show isn’t called Bang Box.
Let’s see how porn died in America.
Episode Three’s first sacrifice is the very eager Amina. She has the guileless joy of someone that doesn’t get the premise.
I’d send help, but this ran in 2015. Sex Box guests have already divorced, found new love, and divorced again over lockdown. All with the help of our three celebrity therapists!
First there’s Yvonne Capeheart, a joint pastor and couples counselor. She’s the worst, until you meet the other two! Yvonne’s the smartest host, and a verifiable lead-tasting idiot.
Then there’s Chris Donague, a sex therapist with a doctorate in talking. He steamrolls his cohosts to tell couples to listen more. The UK version got Dan Savage, so we’re stuck with Chris.
Then there’s Dumbfuck. Beyond being a celebrity therapist, Dumbfuck’s a therapist to celebrities. She says nothing! She thinks nothing! I don’t know why she’s on the show!
Nobody’s qualified or motivated to help Amina. She’s here to meet her online-only boyfriend of 1.5 years. Live. That’s enough grist for reality tv. I don’t know what the narrator, three lying oni, fuck cube, or upcoming stupid surprise are for. Just let this natural disaster play out and pass Go.
Her knight in shining armor is real, because Sex Box is only interested in non-phantasms that can fuck in boxes. And he is nervous. Which I’d be if I was meeting my long-term pen pal. On television. Before we had sex in The Box.
Here’s Ricky’s good idea smile.
Yvonne believes you should marry before fucking in The Box, and makes it known. How she dual-wields repression and carelessness is beyond me, but Yvonne’s a pro. Her polished shittiness makes me hate the other two even more.
Chris has checks to collect, so he delivers the canned Sex Box pivot. His job’s simulating hugh-mann empathy, and he still gives everyone the same speech before feeding them to The Box. Every time. Every Time. Here’s this round, for posterity:
I believe him. But it’s less powerful than the human, off-the-cuff version.
Amina’s convinced, and Ricky’s on national television. They enter The Box. Which turns red when full.
And cues the show’s darkest ritual: therapist shit-talk. The second guests step offscreen, the panel gossips like the old Mean Girls cast. Sex Box convinced at least one couple that therapy would erase their dignity.
They agree that Amina’s fucked up her life, Ricky was born without a spine, and it’s true love. A slurry of meanness, therapy pidgin, and synthetic kindness. NYU charges thousands for that experience. Only them, and nowhere else nearby that pays me.
Still, Ricky and Amina have fun. They come out beaming after an hour. Also: they time you.
They time you in the Sex Box.
Sex Box claims the episode’s twist is that Ricky’s a virgin. No it isn’t. I could see that bit of unnecessary humiliation from orbit. It’s that they timed him losing his virginity. Along with every other guest.
As for your followup question:
It would take a truly spotless or delusional soul to leave this stage smiling.
Thank fuck.
The next couple’s a doozy.
What in hell?
Right. Interview segments crash into the show like–
A starving comedian asks the most basic-
Adding nothing, but completely disrupt–
I’m starting over.
Completionist’s Note: The performer’s fine. The material is the void itself.
Anyway, I started light with the virgin exploitation ritual. There’s charm to watching sex therapists pretend they’ve never heard of online dating. And the relationship could, for good or ill, progress by fucking in a box.
Unlike a serial cheater and vengeful baby daddy.
Or one parent wanting a third, and the other preferring death.
Or fame addiction.
That’s real, the Grammies were celebrating Obergefell vs. Your Worst Uncle. Yvonne teases going full Baptist, but her network shock collar goes off.
Then there’s our main event. I expected three clans on Sex Box: fuckless, overfucked, and stupid bullshit. But there are really two: wasted time and tragedy. We’re not ending on wasted time.
Enter Chris and Christina, affable nerds with mannerisms closer than their names. It’s rare to find the Jolteon to your Also Jolteon, so I see why they’re fighting for it. They can expect nothing from Sex Box, and will receive less.
Per already-tired formula, they explain their sexy problem. Something about ED. The camera’s glued to distracting angles, which seems like routine Sex Box incompetence. But it’s actually routine Sex Box malevolence. Chris & Chris have the sexiest problem yet, and Chris suspects he has the answer.
Christina explains their quirky communication issue: a violent industrial accident. She spent hours pinned under a car, powerless, and lost her leg. Now Chris can’t get an erection because of the guilt. The camera pans to Christina’s knee with Birdemic 3 grace.
Then our hosts bring their best.
We’re in an age of miracles. Your best friend on an oil rig is a shitpost away. Sickle cell gets more than a shrug and a bill. Comedians can recycle 100-year old Titanic jokes. I’ll give the Sex Box a chance. Maybe, just maybe, the cure to trauma dick is on-air sex in a soundproof Animorphs cube. Sexology might work on Tinkerbell rules. I won’t be that kid rooting for a tiny winged corpse.
Chris(sad) and Chris(also sad) enter The Box, freeing Chris(visionary) to rally the troops. There’s no time for the usual gossip. The Sex Box has to work. They’ve bet their dignity on it. If this goes south, their careers will envy Chris(sad)’s penis.
He’s right! Knowing this, you might not send Chris & Chris into the Fuck Rhombus. Or record it. Or confess to ordering Pickett’s Naked Charge. Maybe you’d torch the footage, shave your head, and contemplate stillness until death took you home.
You’re not on WE tv.
The rest of the episode’s a death march. There’s hugging, promises, Chris’s listening advice, soft music, and no change. Just discomfort. That’s nothing new for trash tv. But for a public service campaign, it’s a little too voyeuristic. Low-calorie. Cheaply stimulating. Pornographic.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Max Baroi, Lord and Master of the dreaded Nuzzle Rhombus.