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Author: Dennard Dayle
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Ape Week: Rasslor đźŚ
I was wrong: hats on hats kick ass. Today’s feature is a concept nesting doll, and fantastic. The superhero spinoff (pink bandana) of a boy genius comedy (wraparound shades) parodied a Marvel storyline (backup shades) by adding a wrestling parody (black bandana) featuring our savior (10-gallon hat). That’s rare, and I own a stereotypical number of hats.
Meet “Rasslor.” The apex of Dexter’s Laboratory. Impressive, since it’s in the second episode. Westworld took longer to peak.
Unlike Westworld, the rest of animator/director/Warner Bros. prisoner Genndy Tartakovsky’s catalog hits. “Rasslor” just feels like a finisher opening a match. After Galactic Conqueror Randy Savage, it takes burning furniture to keep viewers awake. Or samurai in the future. Depends on the crowd.
Some context helps the monkey-power shine.
The short’s a parody of And They Shall Call Him… Champion!, a fan-favorite Marvel Annual. I’m the fan. When Earth was young, a crossover brawl could unfold in one issue. In this case, an alien boxer called Champion is the champion of the universe.
First contact goes poorly: he’s here to beat the piss out of all our non-champions, and blow up the planet if he feels like it. If you remember Good Futurama, you’ve seen another riff on this. More importantly: if you remember Good Futurama, check your cholesterol. Lifelong health starts today.
It’s a great time, but there aren’t any apes. Unless you have a hardcore misanthropy issue, in which case all media’s been downhill for you since cave paintings. Even more damningly, there isn’t a single panel of Randy Savage. I’ve covered some flops/tragedies/crimes against humanity, but that may be the darkest.
Champion also refuses to say “boxing.” He speaks Earth-peasant otherwise, or at least my mortal brain reads it that way. But Champion dodges boxing like “zombie” or “war crime.” Everything is “sport.” But the sport is boxing. There are gloves and everything. And they care way more about the rules than on Earth.
Thor gets disqualified for violating the rules of boxing. Hammers are for construction and ice skating.
Sasquatch gets disqualified for unsportsmanlike bleeding.
Hulk gets disqualified for fuck off we need a story.
Leaving the Thing, who’s on the cover. This came out a year after Rocky, so you can imagine what uncopyrightable pluck and resilience he shows before a cosmic assbeating machine. Not to spoil the next MCU phase, but Earth doesn’t blow up, and they’re swapping Kang for Doom.
Gags aside, it’s a great story. I just call our sun “the broken flashlight keeping me awake.” Doctors say compulsive mockery’s treatable, but only for people with real insurance. Until then, I have vintage comics.
“Rasslor” is better.
That’s not the usual line for a parody, sequel, or open theft (the three dominant American modes). “Rasslor” gives each hat enough TLC for mandatory smiles. You can trust me: I’m famously neutral to animation, wrestling, and callous violence. A relatable outsider, just like everyone in campaign ads.
“Wait, how does a ’00s cartoon expect kids to get a parody of a ’70s comic book?” That’s the thing. If you’re good enough, no one has to know what you’re talking about more than half the time. It’s like Zhao Gao told the emperor: “Don’t worry, my lord. Everyone understands Haman Karn jokes.”
Randy Savage aside, “Rasslor” has two key observations on the original. “That’s a peak Russo number of DQs,” and “this could use a telekinetic monkey.” Leading to this image:
Sorry, that’s the first segment. Dexter’s Lab had variety. I meant this image:
Dial M for Monkey’s first impression. When aliens get bored of watching us boil ourselves, they won’t punch Earth to death. They’ll DDT it through Mars.
Dial M for Monkey’s a show within a show. The main show, Dexter’s Laboratory, follows a preteen mad scientist. Nominally. Where an episode ends up is anyone’s guess. “Unstable genius copes with normals” prints money at least once a decade, thanks to the built-in blank check for whatever you feel like doing that week.
The sub-show’s about this monkey.
Who’s secretly this monkey.
Summoned by Genndy’s subsconscious.
You might assume the monkey talks. Fuck that. It’s all chirps and screeches, as the comedy gods intended. If I cared what a monkey thought, I’d read…where should I aim this ether? Who deserves the heat? I haven’t bashed my brain with Times op-eds in a bit.
There’s a chance I’m biased: I’m a lifelong Genndy advocate. I’d tolerate seven Jar-Jars and two Palpatine cranes for his Star Wars shorts. I even considered watching Hotel Transylvania for human money. I think of him as Walt Disney with a much worse contract and no eugenics cred. If I’m wrong about that last bit, smother me instead of telling me.
Why bother? My favorite movie has six minutes of Tarantino feet. I’m not even sure my next Fucking Day feature’s legal. An ass man is barely data. Just know that Billy Gunn’s probably Genndy’s second favorite wrestler.
In any case, Monkey’s powers vary by episode because it’s a monkey. Bemoan that on a battleboard and your soul is dead. For today’s purposes, he’s Spider-Man. Slot Pete in, and nothing changes until the Devil steals his wife again. Comics are odd.
Spider-Monkey is among the champions called to battle Rasslor, who we’ll call Randy Savage going forward. Beyond Randy’s delivery, he has Randy’s dialogue ticks, mega-ego, and planet-destroying lats. He also says “wrestle,” giving him a default edge on Champion. The following speech, delivered entirely in Savage, made Saturday morning glow:
We’re cooked. Time to wait for death. Our best counter wanders Gawker’s ruins, pondering the riddle of Hulkamania: should he have recorded slur-free sex, or sex-free slurs? Without a leg drop in sight, unshackled by fair use, Randy Savage crushes two decades of looming blockbusters.
Including Holiday T’Challa:
Captain Superman, avatar of Americana:
The Pewter Samurai:
He skips Monkey.
Black Lightning Minus Lightning:
Just Iron Man:
The Incredible Hulk, Extremely Copyrighted Character:
And Thor, but metal?
I have too many Amon Amarth albums for that joke. Still, a dark day for spandex and Gibson Guitars. Randy snaps a perfectly good Flying V/Thor’s spine, leaving mankind the same odds it has against climate change.
The episode’s wrestling hat stands out: EarthSlam 1995 includes a U.S.A chant, a commentary desk on the right side of grating, near fall spam in the final fight, and an invincible heel champion booked above every other possible concern. It might seem natural that a show shelling out for pro-wrestler cameo would get the format, but studios can always find money a fresh pyre. Little Hercules cast Big Show and Hulk Hogan as warring deities, and they fought by pointing, sneering, and hoping that the effects gods would have mercy. They didn’t.
Oddly, the wrestling version of this plot has cleaner finishes. Everyone in the Marvel Annual had a doctor’s note for losing (but Sasquatch), lest monthly sales dip. Dial M for Monkey knows Randy Savage needs no justification, which smooths things along. The full cast of Dexter’s Lab’s second spinoff goes on an all-pin cleanse.
Besides, it’s hilarious that both versions bury Thor.
Until one champion remains. Not Champion, or the champion, but a champion. You know what I meant. It’s Monkey.
Randy reacts the way anyone would: he ducks fighting an ape and goes back to battering parodies. Granted, his motives are reversed. Randy assumes he’d rip the chimp’s arms off. That’s not a human problem, despite the annual attempt, headline, and awkward funeral. Like Champion, Randy’s here for sport. Unlike Champion, he wields wrestling logic.
Monkey reacts the way any chimp would: screeching and attacking the rival primate. Revealing Randy’s one post-Elizabeth weakness:
Hold on.
Wait for it.
Here it comes.
Right, Randy Savage doesn’t have a weakness. This monkey’s boned.
But pluck earns Monkey victory’s understudy: pity. The force pulling most degrees, relationships, and treaties across the finish line. For the first time, Randy understands what it’s like to have biceps smaller than a second, also-jacked person. He finds respect for the weakest creature he can imagine: a psychic supersoldier designed by Earth’s greatest genius.
Sorry, I forgot a line.
Heartwarming. And proof that you can’t just jam monkeys into something and expect it to work. You need to jam in monkeys and kickouts.
Don’t worry, he can’t tell the difference.
And that’s why we celebrate Ape Week. To honor our savior –Randy Savage, not the monkey– sparing our small Terran lives. And embracing that scientifically-modified gorilla –the monkey, not Randy Savage– as a role model. Remember: Randy Savage could return one day, and find us wanting. Cleanse the faithless among you, until only the Children of the Bandana remain.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: John Minkoff, the Champion that challenges all comers at every daycare in the greater Fort Worth area.
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Punching Day: Rope Opera
Do you ever feel…Evil?
I don’t, doubling the odds that I am. Thankfully, Book of Vile Darkness helped me imagine a world in which me, my empire, or anything we funded could be called Evil. A stretch, but I’m into high concepts.
The concept’s simple: take D&D beyond the tame playpen of PG evil, into the lawless playground of PG-13 Evil. And miss. Book of Vile Darkness sold a dull edgefest, and delivered a fun guide to playing Snidely Whiplash. Seasoned with a few flakes of vintage edge.
Along with Hell’s phone book. That’s one of nine versions of Satan. If you want stats for a fiddle duel with the devil, you’re home.
The promo milked “mature.”
Familiar.
Whoever pitched RIAA labels for spreadsheets is a brand genius. I hope they survived the Hasbro purge. More people bought this than the book that fixed grappling. You know, the first thing that happens in real and fake fights. Gamers avoided it just to get home before sunrise.
How mature?
See why we’re here a week later?
Stay calm and/or zip up: this isn’t another Book of Erotic Fantasy. For one, Wizards put their logo on it. And there’s nary a testicle curse, testicle monster, or normal testicle to be found. Instead, there’s Evil.
Too much Evil for players.
Good luck. Your friends either have their own adult money, an active rebellious phase, or preteen gamer social skills. They’re reading the book. A player gave me my copy. As for non-DMs reading this sentence, shame on you. What kind of ungood person does that?
Still, this one’s explicitly for DMs, so no game balance soliloquies today. You either tweak numbers on the fly or suck. It’s funny the first time that Jack drowns in a ditch ten minutes into the story. The third time, your friends switch to the latest Baldur’s Gate. Even the Diablo clones.
Especially the Diablo clones. I punched a lot of rats.
But what is Evil?
I was kidding.
D&D ethics start at “don’t be a skeleton” and end with “avoid plotless murders.” I love it like bone marrow, but deep isn’t the first or fortieth word I’d use. You won’t settle Philosophy 101’s annual fistfight.
I’ve called people lazy for two years, but you can aim lower. All a dice book needs to break even is a new class and art by a human. Even a dying toy conglomerate can’t burn that money tree. Well, quickly.
Alright, we’re swinging for the fences. I hope you didn’t expect more dick spells, today we’re learning why US churches fund Ugandan hate crimes. Wait, I forgot our in-joke quota. Why Red Wizards fund Underdark Elf-Hunts. Happy?
I didn’t expect Arthurian Ethics before the talking skulls, but I’m always down to learn or get dumber. Let’s build a red lightsaber.
Consider who? Is Zophas an invention or a reference? Is this what I sound like?
Flawless defense: clowns compare you to math homework, and you bring in a second genre of homework. A harder one, if you have a demagnetized moral compass or no idea what a paladin is.
I’ll get a pencil.
How’d I do?
Crud. It’s Classics all over again. What’s next?
Ha! Can’t fool me twice.
Nice. Back on the moral honor roll.
Shit. It’s salsa class all over again. I can fix this.
What the fuck? I came to mock thrash metal mascots, not get kicked off Gondor’s ballot. If this book calls me Evil one more time, the world will pay.
There, moral dynamite. How long is Athenian trivia night? Can I do Teamworking Day with Aristophanes?
Bang. I’m even better at this than marriage fraud. Ethics and USCIS can eat crow. I assume my shadow diploma’s en route. Or do I steal it?
Either way, I’m getting a few mixed messages. Evil in D&D’s an object. You can throw it like a dodgeball. Or have an allergic reaction. You can fill a ladle with Evil, taste it, add salt, and put the neighbors back in your gingerbread oven. That doesn’t square with relativism’s Wikipedia page. I’m missing something.
Maybe I need a little more guidance. Could we get away from Zophas and the world’s unluckiest river valley? Some general principles? Applied Evil, even?
Now we’re fracking. What actions fit a well-oiled mustache? I’m ready for Shell’s orientation pamphlet. Bathe me in darkness.
As Killer Mike foretold! Thank you, king below. Though lying’s a little old-fashioned. Our masters sin loudly and proudly, facing the hard cam.
The other Evil acts ring true. So true, they seem obvious.
Really obvious.
Are we riding the short gargoyle? I’m insulted: I learned to bring despair in freshman year. They don’t let you into Princeton without a referral from your nemesis in blood. The reunion is a drinking contest with the Luthors.
Spells! Right! This is a game. I’m talking about a game.
There’s a lovely centrist flavor to “hell magic is okay in moderation.” Imagine a Baptist parent skimming that. I don’t have to, because mine found this and landed there. I braced for Satanic panic, and she called me a nerd. An early tone setter.
As for gameplay, hell magic whips.
An amateur kills the Turtles. A master puts them on the Freedom Caucus.
The kicker? This lasts three hours, tops. You sober up halfway through the orphanage. Evil is a status effect like Tired or Confused. Tell a doctor you’re Evil, and he’ll send you home with Advil and a campaign donation.
I see why players treated the ban like a disclaimer in a game they’ve paid for multiple times. Though using it does dilute the fun. You spend 18 levels waiting for Eternity of Torture.
An election year, forever.
That’s a unity candidate for clowns, edgelords, and people looking for a “win” button. And a marshmallow test. You could wait for something important. Or unload on the first canvasser to wake you up. That feels extreme in January, but it’ll be my best joke by November.
The opening effort to define Evil’s admirable, especially if this is the longest book you’ve read. I wish sophomoric were less loaded, it ruins a helpful word. I finally get why middle school felt like filler: there’s a space that’s too obvious for adults and too grim for children. We’ll settle for “hilarious.” There’s nothing like lecturing to someone that gets relativism but can’t spell it yet.
If that’s all, I’ll call myself an Evil PhD. We’ll move on to the world’s strongest non–
No thanks.
I’m allergic.
Just a little.
When you’re done laughing at the name, laugh at devilweed making you stronger. Hell Pot’s better for you than normal weed. Elven gyms smell like human dorms.
Quality gateway. Is there magic meth?
Of course, these are professionals. It’s magic meth and heroin. That efficiency distracted countless nerds from drugs.
We’re clocking in at 0.3 McGruffs. Low for a chapter between torture devices and the alphabetical list of demons, but real D.A.R.E. flavor needs that Nancy R disdain. Book of Vile Darkness assumes less cosmic Evil at work.
The encyclopedia half of Book of Vile Darkness delivers. It gets drier than C-Span, so we’re skimming it, but I can’t bury this book. Call it proportionate response, two words missing in the textbook of Evil.
I’m glad we never achieved maturity. Maturity is all taxes, traffic, and trauma. Pray for traffic.
We’re nice and warmed up. What’s the most Evil thing here?
Odd. I thought Dice Satan would dig this. Still, following instructions isn’t very Evil, and he lies by default. On to the ultimate Evil.
Here’s Dice Satan’s main rival: Shittier Satan. No need for Fire Sale Lucifer to stop the party, he’s second most Evil at best. If dad taught me anything, Evil kneels to no man or court order. Forward.
Â
Pfft. Memory is for losers and human rights nerds.
It’s probably a Skeletor. The tone so far’s oscillated between 1983 Skeletor, Extreme 2003 Skeletor, and Mock-profound 2022 Skeletor. What’s the Book of Vile Darkness version? Bowler Hat Skeletor?
That doesn’t seem right.
I mean, it’s clearly a Skeletor. But this drawing’s very FBI-friendly. He is, at best, Evangelical Puppeteer Skeletor.
Ah, shit. I remember this.
Book of Vile Darkness comes with a handful of sample villains. Including the primordial scoutmaster. The SVU World Champion. Meet the world’s strongest child predator.
“Nice try, fucko,” says Ulysses Strawmann. “This is a publicly traded company, purchased by a larger, shittier publicly traded company. They wouldn’t add Catholic Sauron halfway through Evil Con Carne. Take your stupid pranks back to jail.”
“Oh god, it’s the family curse,” cries Ulysses Strawmann. “Is this why newspapers quote me? I thought people respected my voice. That I mattered, and lived in a world without unkillable amber alerts.”
The rest of the book dances on a balance beam. Here, we fall off the edge. Slipping right past Behemoth, into Burzum. Past Goldust, into Seven. Past good Garth Ennis, into bad Garth Ennis.
Obviously, there’s more Dread Emperor content. Once you’ve buried this memory, he pops up in the Cool Talking Swords chapter. His wardrobe hides bonus DreadFacts for attentive readers:
In case your brain’s protecting you: trying to save the kids explodes them. Also: he’s a max-level wizard. Also: his belt turns kids into explosions. Also: he has a space fortress full of reloads/more kids. Also: find a new DM.
Doing the obvious doesn’t go well:
Presumably, your group either dies, ignores this like a Pope, or embarks on a long, awkward quest to find the fabled Wand of Child Services.
In the face of such power, there’s only one option.
Well, a few. You can switch games, switch friends, or try devilweed. If all else fails, see what’s up outside.
I’d cut the Dread Emperor. But I also expect a book this amusing to fall off the balance beam at least once. Book of Vile Darkness is a fond memory, and has the Dread Emperor. Luke Skywalker’s my childhood hero, and courted his sister. It’s a weird planet.
What else would I change? Nothing. At all. Goofball shit like Book of Vile Darkness keeps me from having a heart attack. It’d be a shame to fire almost everyone involved to puff up quarterly reports. Evil, even.
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Compromise can backfire. Sometimes, half your friends want to search tiki bars for chlamydia, and the rest want to explore the original world of Upper Earth. Pick one. Half-measures lead to Book of Erotic Fantasy, which ends your game. For reasons I didn’t expect.
The expected reasons pop up too. We’ve seen sexual boredom warp duller niches than D&D. Idle hands have nothing on industrious ones. Show ten people Sauron, and two say “would.” Book of Erotic Fantasy covers logistics for fighting, fucking, or dick-fighting the Dark Lord, while Gandalf babbles about some ring.
And then it gets going.
“Valar Project” made this, and then evaporated. They are very not Wizards of the Coast, and extremely not Hasbro. Wizards built trust by letting third parties publish whatever the fuck they wanted. It worked, because people really do pay for the Nike Swish.
Later, corporate vampires napalmed Eden. A bit like Cracked and Overwatch and news and parody news and crowdfunding and swiping and food and water and shelter and medicine and the Amazon and winter. But let’s remember Wizards as it lived.
Book of Erotic Fantasy is the tenth strangest unofficial tie-in, and third funniest.
Third edition D&D is the perfect mix of intuitive and very not to amplify fixations. And requires tight-knit social groups, giving Book of Erotic Fantasy a non-zero chance of leaving you single, friendless, or unemployed. Or even the triple crown, the Linehan.
The Book of Erotic Fantasy dodges a few obvious disasters, and walks headfirst into many more. But the surprise is more mundane. Better for human life, and much worse for sales. That spread offers a structure I’m way too tangent-prone to pass on. Much like the teens too lonely to pass on that cover. Or the adults. The authors scried the future, and saw VTuber shrines.
Let’s split this into avoided doom, obvious doom, and surprise doom.
The opening has a whiff of fear, which threw me off. For once, the authors suspect they’re tap-dancing in a minefield. They sprint to get ahead of trouble, which rarely works out in a minefield. Starting with a simple, sane rule:
That’s gamer patois. In English, it means “This shit’s on you. Good luck, and keep this from Tim. You know how he gets. And Dave, he’s a latent incel. And Joan, she’ll never talk to you again. And Ryan–”
It trickles into the legalese. The disclaimer says:
Now that’s a proper life-annihilation warning. With just the right amount of “abandon all wallet condoms, all ye who enter here.” And legal cover for any Linehanning.
Blaming my immaturity? Sharp. I only own this because I’m less mature than Drake’s DMs. Valar Project had their shields up before I wrote a word. However:
I only take half-responsibility.
Quarter-responsibility.
Zero re–nah, half. I’ve got a high school brain. Skip academia if you ever want to grow past class clown. Or stay, and learn to shoot less embarrassing photos.
The art would, with zero text, fuel 2000 words of punchlines. This is the Photoshop-demo gold technocrats want to steal from us. But in the tug-of-war between porn and encyclopedia, encyclopedia won. Hard. The struggle still makes both weirder. Take this fuck-snake species description, which starts out horny:
And spins out into Imperial Geographic:
Important data. In practice, playing a fucksnake mostly meanssss sssspeaking like thissss. But now you can add flavor with Nick Cannon parenting.
The biggest bullet Valar tries to Matrix-dodge: not everyone thinks consent is sexy/real. Here’s where the tone and content divorce. For a minute, they take a “there are no frats in Ba Sing Se” approach.
Fair enough. There’s also a god of noncon, that grants mind control spells. Or, for secular sex pests, a “Dominator” class with minimal interest in play-party rules. Among other bits of premium weirdness, like the ability to cast “Spermjack.”
A classic “have your cake and fuck it too” problem. Though I can relate to tunnel vision. I thought “the spermjack spell is too wordy” before “cut the spermjack spell.”
It’s a civil war. The erotica wants everyone’s kink covered, and the encyclopedia wants footnotes. That’s why the authors come off best when they say “it’s on you.”
I think there’s one more disclaimer:
Now I get it.
Life’s looking up. Most Tuesdays are willful attacks on humanity. The Book of Erotic Fantasy is closer to face-planting a ski jump. I get the goal, it’d be neat if they landed, and it’d be worse if I tried. The results are still hilarious. This isn’t the worst version of this idea, just the dumbest. Case in point:
How do spreadsheets change sex? There’s a Fuckability stat.
Yes, D&D already had stats for charm, triceps, experience, flexibility, endurance, and avoiding dating coaches. But Valar Project added a separate Fuckability stat. I see the logic: D&D’s always been too simple. A seventh stat throws number theory PhDs a bone.
Have some homework:
Sorry, I own a misprint. It says “Appearance.” That’s wrong. It’s Fuckability. In lore, tone, and gameplay, only Fuckability fits. Old editions had “Comeliness,” and suits got rid of it. Because it means Fuckability.
There are Fuckability items.
Fuckability gods.
Fuckability abilities.
They ramble a bit.
Chapter Three’s dedicated to Fuckability classes. It shoots early by putting the funniest first. The Imagist is a hotness-powered wizard, and bends reality to reshape nearby deltoids. I can’t decide if I’ll never touch it, or never play anything else again.
Yeah, this is my limit. It’s too stupid to torment my brother with.
Maybe later.
Vogue magic includes buffs, general brain-warping, and crazy shit like (but not including, don’t DM me) fiendish seed. I thought they’d have illusions, because I’m dense. Imagists demand authentic Fuckability. A master of the Hot Arts does not deal in filters.
Do databases get you going? Here’s 1/12th of the monster Fuckability appendix.
Nerd fact: a ten in any stat is an “average adult.” Making air elementals (10), frost giants (10), and dogs (10) as fuckable as your neighbor. Earth elementals (8) are two points less hot than air elementals (10), because Hollywood devalues clay bodies. Similarly, a copper dragon (18) is exactly one point more fuckable than a brass dragon (17), while black dragons (8) are the incels of wyrmkind.
And that’s just mortals. Eye contact with elite angels (27) gives you a new fetish, while Lemures, Hell’s interns (1), slack on lust. Succubi (21) keep the brand strong, while Satyrs (12) embarrass an entire mythos. Mummies (3) aren’t doing any better, so I’ve ditched my romance pitch. The world isn’t ready for Embalmed Hearts.
High fuckability has consequences: magic crabs. Chapter 2 stars my favorite spreadsheet anywhere: sixteen magical STIs. The third worst part of Sex & Stuttering is lack of latex. The second is listening to your DM describe the size, color, and severity of your dick beetles.
Christ. Well, healing magic’s easy to find, so these aren’t too–
Magic-resistant gonorrhea. Clearly absent in Baldur’s Gate 3, or piles of dead would reach the sky.
In fantasy, you can do anything. Ride unicorns. Raise the dead. Watch your genitals rot after courting the wrong dragon. Or trap unwary sex tourists with your stun-dick:
After promoting sex at the table, this book makes it riskier than provoking giants or playing a Bard. Forget shaftrot; players cling to fake money like they shred real money. It’s easier to be dead than broke, much like real life.
Metaphors terrify me, so vampirism as an STI sounds great. Less thinking, more breathing manually. Let’s keep going. How about dragons running hedge funds? Or the X-Men taking on the Klan? The next time Rodan acts up, Godzilla should punt a nuke.
Edge is fun, but I suspect Mummy Rot’s photo wouldn’t improve your morning. It’s a topless Roger Ailes blonde, rotting down the left side. Think Playzombie cover model. It would kill your breakfast, or send you to Google Images.
That said, magic STIs have nothing on STI magic. Jilted wizards can cast this anytime:
A spell that makes you buy Twitter. Inventive.
I believe in people. But dead dick doesn’t speed up murder, so it’ll never see combat or sane roleplay. Impotency exists to fuck with other players. This gun only fires backwards, and keeping it in the house makes you a statistic.
You might get more out of infestation, which summons combat dick beetles. And has art straight from Pandora’s Box. Slam ads for Victoria’s Secret and a bug zapper together, and you’ve got the idea. I’ll forgive living with that image, because you can turn anyone into damn it I blew the Twitter joke already.
Perfection itself. Use this with impotency for the dumbest combo in RPG history.
Now, let’s flip the question. How does sex change spreadsheets?
All that shit before? Fine.
The Book of Erotic Fantasy tries topics that misguided, lonely, or red-hot groups trip into anyway. The photography needs…reconsidering, but some people only enjoy porn produced at a loss.
The problem with this fuck-manual? It’s OP. Sexual tension immediately gives way to history’s horniest powergaming. The fetish in play isn’t submission, puffy tails, elf ears, or splitting rent. It’s victory. Imagine Conan the Barbarian, except just Conan. He got around.
Well, half of it’s broken. The other half’s useless. Still, before you zip up, you’ll find something game-breaking. Halfway through, if you’re a fast reader or death grip. Excalibur is made of silicone.
Remember Fuckability? God-stat. Forget dexterity, wealth, or being the DM’s little brother. Strap on the Codpiece of Comeliness, roll an Imagist, and shit on mages wasting their lives reading.
At low levels? Cast Disrobe for hi-larious hijinks. It just does what it says. Or, if there’s a hint, a whiff, an atom of tryhard in you, jizzes enemy armor off. By the time jizz-proof gear shows up, you’ll be warping reality with kegels.
Your campaign’s about fucking now. Because all the monsters are dead.
Low stats? Dislike playing the world’s strongest pervert? Fair, fuckability spreads points thin. Try Mormon steroids. Purity culture is The Book of Erotic Fantasy’s Cobra Kai.
Chaste Life is the first kata of Baptist Kenpo. Some tragic innocent thought throwing Satanic Panic types a bone would make life easier. From here, you can take classes and spells dedicated to telling Zeus “not tonight.”
Or play a Harem Protector, and turn sexual frustration into stabbing power and immunity to brain magic. Granted, there’s a catch:
Your warrior can’t fuck? Adapt. Carve a dragonbone prosthetic. Volcellus, the Ultimate Eunuch, can turn anything on four legs into ground beef on no legs. I could babble about real eunuchs fucking all the time, and taking over an empire or two on the way. But we can rewrite history from the throne.
Just kidding. Harem Protector’s for suckers. It’s virgin paladin or bust.
Note the magic horse. It teleports, takes less damage, and teleports. That horse, for lack of a better term, fucks.
Remember Rogue? She could fly and punch holes through countries, and all she lost was mediocre sex with a con artist? That’s the Divine Celibate. Give up stilted sexual roleplay with four other nerds, and you get a teleporting unicorn.
Plus immunity to bang magic, and other niche features that matter less than your teleporting unicorn. For all that sex offers physically, emotionally, and comedically…give me the unicorn. No act of love or lust is better than a teleporting unicorn. I’m sure never starting a family or courting a Rockette sucks, but I could cope with my teleporting unicorn. This book crushes Eric Ludy’s lifelong slut-shaming career with one horse.
Even moderate fuckers are playtest-free. Take this class:
The quote’s a head-fake. Spellshapers have nothing to do with obsessing over/despising sex, or even seducing a spellbook. They’re just normal wizards with twice the juice and no taste in metaphors. And wizards were already the best class, even after this added the Superfriends-with-benefits.
So there’s one consistent kink: dildo-slapping Odin. Stealing lube from the gods. Making Yahweh cut the square commandments. I misjudged this book’s authors and audience. Clearly, it’s for players whose fetish is winning. People that stiffen every time Shohei winds a pitch.
I could go on. Game mechanics tell their own story. The Book of Erotic Fantasy makes Mormon missionaries and ex-Mormon throuples apex predators. Only desert dicks and dessert-covered dicks survive. Plenty of players have fucked dragons. The Book of Erotic Fantasy asks if you’ve fucked one to death.
My diagnosis: this doesn’t need D&D. Crunch and sex go together like skydiving and sex. Valar’s survivors should forget the slings of clowns like myself, split Fuckability into four-ish balanced stats (abs/ego/money/dexterity/listening), and make a better, dumber, simpler wizard sex game.
It still has some lessons for us:
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Haught Phart, the himbo who put all his points into APP and used INT and WIS as dump stats.
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