Author: Dennard Dayle

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: The Book of Erotic Fantasy 🌭

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.

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: PETA’s Cage Fight

To view this content, you must be a member of 1900HOTDOG's Patreon
Unlock with Patreon
Already a qualifying Patreon member? Refresh to access this content.
Categories
NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: A Big Bad BeetleBorgs Christmas 🌭

Do you reuse bags? Separate your plastics? Slay dinner with your naked hands? Saban Entertainment did better. They reused superhero footage to make carbon neutral television. You can start recycling like Big Bad Beetleborgs, or learn to breathe methane.

Comedy Rangers are the future.

Well, probably not. Subtitles make some money now, and full remakes prevent investor panic attacks. VR TRoopers ran longer, making this the Jannetty of Saban cash-ins. But the Beetleborgs were outside the box. Of sanity.

Why’s Big Bad Beetleborgs my go-to fake topic? It’s one of the first shows I knew was weird, and only half by design. Saban warped their own wonky production model, during an odd decade, in the Saturday morning weirdness-generator. Understanding an episode should grant you US citizenship.

It moved enough toys for 88 episodes, until they ran out of remix footage. Sixteen more than Breaking Bad. At one monster per week, three kids tied Beatrix Kiddo’s kill count. Only she let that one teen go, and the Beetleborgs always got their scalps.

Playgrounds and sports bars love a good fandom scuffle. In this, the Dayles are losers. We chose the Mets, Digimon, Democrats, and Beetleborgs. I don’t know why. We moved into a pale suburb and said “this needs conflict.” The creators played both sides: Big Bad Beetleborgs looks like a Power Rangers bite because it’s another Saban/Toei crossover.

With a little extra.

Competing with yourself is the American dream, so this is the most patriotic media I’ve covered. Like many immigrants, founder/producer Haim Saban understood America’s soul. Specifically, that we need action figures to live, rarely retain details, and should do something about that Zerg Rush on Congress. That’s not a gag, he made headlines suggesting Trump-brand prison cigarettes.

That’s a little off from the other snapshots, isn’t it? Get used to that. It’s even weirder when Saban splurges on a suit:

As always, wikis cover this in more detail than the Cold War. Saban Entertainment went wide, not deep. They’re behind a few famous quarter-assed anime dubs, preempting the 4kids! model of leaving money on the table. Along with films like American Expose: Who Murdered JFK?, which I’ll bookmark for later. They also distributed Marvel shows before that money acorn grew into a proud redwood.

Surprisingly, the company started out in music. While remixing tokusatsu footage for a living is my dream, Haim had bills to pay. Naturally, Disney bought them out too, along with dreams and vowels. It sounds grim, but News Corp owned Saban while Big Bad Beetleborgs ran. The mouse was progress. Progress-ish.

But I’ve skipped something important. A basic, elemental question.

Okay, straight talk: Big Bad Beetleborgs was a kids’ action-comedy, mixing new footage with fight scenes from the tokusatsu show Metal Heroes. Metal Heroes prints money in Japan, and didn’t need another trait to inspire Saban.

Emphasis on comedy. Big Bad Beetleborgs flips the Power Rangers kick-to-schtick ratio. Our leads can’t multiply without a chart, and the nanny state won’t let them do stunts. The results almost make sense. And devote hours to a martial-arts grandma.

Actually, before I spam screenshots, let’s hit the opening theme. It’s among the most efficient summaries in a very competitive field. Not quite “robots in disguise,” but in the winner’s circle. Just a step ahead of “Holy shit, our turtle Daredevil parody prints money. We’ll never know hunger again.”

That’s the laconic cut, for executive children. Kids that knew Dad’s pin number backwards. Here’s the full version, for slow consumers:

Melody? Disastrous. Rhythm? A non-effort. Exposition? Slam dunk. You know the Beetleborgs now. Every word from here exists for punchlines. I skipped the chorus, which is just the show’s name on loop, and stuck in my head like a fucking tumor. Half my thoughts since Halloween have been “Big Bad Beetleborgs” crooned through a Fear Factory vocal filter. I’ve lost my fucking mind.

Seriously, this vocoder nightmare’s owned my brain for a month. I might drill it out.

Per the lyrics, our heroes are three comic shop slaves. Laws frown on kids in mines and payment in Spawn reissues. Then again, given what indoor children spend at comic shops, they might outearn hedge fund analysts.

The Beetleborgs are an in-universe cape comic, until the kids blow a free wish on cosplay. I’m not here to judge your dreams, but skipping immortality, world peace, or the stock genie loophole is a historic failure.

Though that’s a personal bugbear. I think every genie plot should turn into one of the weirder Dune books. This frame’s a fine junior power fantasy. Odd that it crashes into two other shows.

Our Waste-A-Wish winners? There’s Roland Williams, in charge of the best helmet and the color green. His Dad owns the comic shop, making him the rare Anime Club nepo-baby. Roland’s Metal Heroes double has a slightly different tone.

I know people like a good tokenism riff, but there are only three slots here. “Sibling” would drop backstory weight onto a premise with a bird’s spine. Let the kid’s show live.

Then there’s Jo, guardian of attitude and the color red. She alternates between throwing things and heaping abuse on her brother, so she’s got the younger sibling role down.

And Andrew. He’s…blue. The others listen to him.

In fact, it’s Andrew’s idea to explore the haunted house, where they find what the fuck is that?

Why the fuck is that?!

I get it. This is my fault. I insulted God twelve too many times. Now we have this…organism? Demon? Sin? The show calls it a “phasm,” and that doesn’t help or come back.

According to the Malleus Maleficarum, this is Flabber. It’s the Beetleborg’s all-in-one mentor, Greek chorus, personal genie, and abomination. Think Zordon on dust at a Volbeat concert. Actually, don’t. That’s an insane fucking thing to think. Why would you do that? There’s a whole world out there.

Flabber rules Hillhurst Mansion, the costume shop staff within, the Kings gang of Elvis impersonators, and reality. It also freed the main villain, making Flabber responsible for every casualty and improv sketch. There are a lot of them.

A lot.

It’s all the show’s really interested in.

The creature’s right. Enough table-setting. Let’s get back to December’s heart: maximizing Q4 sales. I wish the punchline was “or layoffs.” But it’s “And layoffs.”

You don’t need both halves of your brain to write “Christmas Bells and Phasm’s Spells.” Or recap it. Luckily, I’ve found something special. Or lost my fucking mind.

Behind the action show, hiding a comedy show, hiding an ad, hides a fourth show. A game show. You could even call it a sport. Each Big Bad Beetleborgs episode is a struggle between four Improv groups.

Team one: our heroes. They have the home field advantage, and waste it every time.

In improv tradition, each group’s name is a war crime.

Team two: our villains, the “Magnavores.” The defending champions. On a streak somewhere between Junkyard Dog and Ken Jennings.

Team three: the monsters, and whatever Flabber is. Saban went on a November Party City shopping spree, and asked five struggling actors to do their best.

Team four: mortals and civilians. The unfortunate residents of Charterville. You’d think there’d be rivers of dead, but they mostly get pantsed. Still, they have numbers, and play a crafty game.

The scoring’s simple. When I feel dopamine, one point. When I don’t care, no points. When I get angry, one-point penalty. If I laugh, ten points. That game balance looks transphobic, but it’s probably just asking questions.

I won’t lie: this is the toughest game of the season. I’m an elite Grinch. It’s arbitrary, but I’ll sound smarter if I blame materialism. Boo materialism. If I hate one thing after a lifetime of gaming, rap, and US citizenship, it’s materialism.

We start with a scrimmage between Meta-Heroes and Disney’s Haunted Man-Chin. The rivalry that defines the division. Time for one of the three children’s Christmas plots.

I feel nothing.

Penalty.

Meanwhile, in Charterville, the villains scream nonsense. The woman in the beret does Molotov Cocktease’s voice a decade early. The cyborg doesn’t know what show this is. I can’t even tell what the green one is meant to be. A muscular shark?

And they all hate Christmas. The Magnavores pelt civilians with Salvation Army bins.

Good times. One point. Victims get credit for the assist.

The servants of darkness check in with their manager. It’s time for their signature game: Evil Manzai. Running up the score early is a solid strategy; my brain generally dies ten minutes in.

The stupidity I live for, acted as poorly and energetically as possible. These four are having the time of their lives. The dopamine flows, against my hipster will. One point.

How’s Hill House Jr. doing?

Penalty.

The Beetleborgs head to Zoom Comics: Christmas Mode to get back in the game. There’s Christmas party plans, elf costumes, and a toy drive for local double-orphans. If you feel moved, you’re better than me.

The civvies bring out their hitters: the bullies.

Think a wealthy Bulk and Skull. The square root of Richie Rich and Dennis the Menace. Both teams give it their best:

It sucks. These kids learn about failure in real time. The ceiling of child stardom’s caving in, and the exit’s blocked by presents.

The Beetleborgs make a desperation move: a Flabber alliance. Three superheroes, a “phasm,” and the full Ghoul School use their godlike, reality warping powers to…set up a Christmas tree. Flabber even brainwashes Transylvanian darkspawn into loving the demiurge.

And you know what? That’s fine. It’s an old X-men bit, plus Young Dracula.

That’ll cost ya.

Meanwhile, the Magnavores give Christmas shoppers the Red Cross treatment.

I’m back in. Another goon squad point, with civilians drafting behind them.

Our heroes cut their Christmas album (“Oh Christmas Tree” and “Deck the Halls”) short when they notice the crater. I can’t dock them for singing. Punishing children for Christmas carols leads to green fur with Jim Carey’s worst voice. Lucrative, but jarring. And your dating pool gets narrow.

They find the alien empire robbing a fucking house.

Not even a Dr. Seuss fake-Santa bit. A home invasion. This is a runaway game. The Beetleborgs are lucky this month is laced with tragedy, or I’d have laughed. That said, the family shot sneaks the civilians a point.

Drafting works. Never stop cribbing from the literate kid in class.

The civilians make their big play. It’s more off-key caroling, and I can get that outside. That’s a zero.

Back at the plot, our heroes play their one card. Their rock. The specialty that carries their few wins: shattering the Magnavore’s kneecaps and taking them out of the game. They punch cheer into Team Rocket’s livers.

Compelling? Not really. But brilliant strategy. Draymond Green has a job for a reason. With a screentime monopoly, all the main cast has to do is make one joke work. With eight minutes on the clock.

Flabber’s back. Quality interference.

It’s become…whatever that is. Check the maleficarum. Flabber casts a spell in verse:

Erasing the stakes, with six minutes left. My old editor called this move a “get out of my fucking building.” Smart lady.

Maybe the civilians won’t blow a three-game lead. The bullies could spam one-liners until one joke lands. Or learn the meaning of Christmas offscreen.

Cool.

Back at Hillhurst, they have three minutes to deliver one punchline.

That’s also an option. After the elf-skin suit, I’m numb to frostbite Elvis. I’ll let this Santa bit roll, and move on to covering Virgin Extinction Island. Congrats to the Magnavores for keeping the dynasty strong.

Oh, I forgot these three. It’s dumb. They’re singing ghosts that live in a pipe organ, and dress like Dreamgirls extras.

It’s dumb. They’re called the Pipettes. The kind of 1-D joke that absolutely cannot survive 88 episodes.

It’s dumb. They shout “Oooh, presents.” In unison.

I laughed my ass off.

Hillhurst Mansion fucking steals one. Despite/because of fucking Flabber. Never doubt yourself again. This Christmas miracle punched a merry hole in reality.

Happy holidays. After all this, I’ll defend two BeetleConcepts: being less of a dick for half a month, and making madness from other madness. Those are solid ideas.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Flabber. I mean Flabber. Flabber. I’m trying to type FLABBER. No, F -L-A- what the fuck is happening. Patrick Herbst will you come over and type Flabber for me. F L A B B E R see it’s fuckin’ happening to you, too!

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Mac & Devin Go To High School

To view this content, you must be a member of 1900HOTDOG's Patreon
Unlock with Patreon
Already a qualifying Patreon member? Refresh to access this content.
Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers 🌭

No one. I’m not sure this book exists.

I feel weight, and see text. The pages smell like unwashed fur and embalming fluid. The Little Free Library outside my lair has a paperback-sized gap. Yet 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is not there.

The lack of names on the front, side, or back stands out. A little pride’s natural, even if you list it next to murder as a sin. People autograph madness, hate speech, criminal confessions, and guides to mixing all three. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers, at a glance, comes from the aether.

But the authors exist: 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers emerged in 2019, before automated plagiarism bloomed. This is handcrafted air. The legalese page credits Michelle Cox, Sylvia Schroeder, Lori Brown, Linda Gilden, and Edie Melson as “composers.” Solid word choice. “Writers” feels strong.

As for the cover? Pay artists. Just do it. They train to spare your dignity. No design student would let that clip art touch a printer.

If you were raised to honor pets, or even God, you’ve got the concept. But the intro’s worthwhile for parasite-free readers. Parasites from cats, I’m not Bill Maher. Unless you’re with HBO.

About ten minutes ago, we retired “Please drown my wife” jokes. I think cats absorbed that wink-nudge anger. It had to be someone; Honeymooners punchlines are a constant. Next time you see an overfed Birman, thank them for preserving the balance.

Back to our premise. For a full book. 160 pages of text, spread across a human year.

You might not be panicking yet. Welcome to the site! We celebrate offbeat media, personal favorites, and the guttural screams of the unsane. This is a personal favorite.

52 Devotions for Cat Lovers has a simple task: improvise cat stories, and staple-gun Bible quotes to them. You could do it. I’ve taught students at every level of drive, ability, and fluency. You could, barring allergies, write this in a week. This effort has five composers, determined to change hearts.

It doesn’t go well.

Here’s our opener. The starting gun for January 1, 2020. God’s balm for nightmare hangovers and the normal year that followed.

Note: I’m skipping all the Bible quotes. They’re fine. The book’s eaten enough empires for a clean edit. Try the second half for drama, and the first half for frog rain. If there isn’t a Wicked-style POV flip about Delilah, someone at Penguin is slacking.

I’ve never heard a softer customer rageout, so these must be clean stories. On that curve, this is devastating. This brute’s clearly unsaved by Bast Jesus. But why target Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie? After all, they take equal pride in their customer service and dialogue.

It’s cats. The answer’s always cats. Even when it should be Christ or Satan, it’s cats. Before we’re done, you’ll wish this book featured twice the brainwashing and half the fur. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie don’t have Eric Ludy’s open hatred of people that fuck. They have cats.

A clever reverse-strawman might say “that happened.” Don’t bother. It’s a waste of neurons. You won’t make it to February questioning the composers’ honesty. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie are all about emotional truth, which the flamewar scorecard says is good now.

How do we powerslam that into faith? Poorly, like a county fair deathmatch.

I didn’t cut a word between quotes. The best tracts skip transitions to leave room for His Light. I call it “thinking in tongues.” It’s how “love thy neighbor” cuts to “let’s jumpstart the apocalypse.”

Thinking in tongues works in other genres: if you watched closely, the Holy Spirit turned Daenerys into Albino Atilla, and wove years of conflict between Arya and the Night King. For we are sinful, and have left the bowls of our betters empty.

They’re into lions, I’m on-topic.

Then there’s the stinger. Two sections that redefine effort:

Dog portraits would make better padding. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is four lazy cash-ins duct-taped together, and two are stolen. It is, by default, duller than letting a cat sleep on the keyboard. That’s where most horror sequels come from.

If you’re into God, stories, or customer service, you’ve been insulted. None of those matter in publishing, so I’m laughing like the middle hyena. I may be the composers’ first fan.

“Paws to think” isn’t a one-off pun. Those words hit me 52 times. This is my first column with hazard pay. I almost called it “Pet Seminary” to continue the cycle.

In fact, your lives are still too easy. Here are some other Devotion titles:

Fantastic move. Hell is mostly puns.

The book’s voices are distinct: two members of Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie love puns. The other three love money. Church gets a few nods too, but there’s tangible passion for wordplay and retirement.

All five like fun facts. Leading to Sources for Fun Facts, the first bibliography I’ve read of my own free will. It’s a classy turn: a good Works Cited page separates plagiarism and still plagiarism. Here’s the truncated list of scholars:

In the composers’ defense, 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers overlapped with Buzzfeed’s longform journalism phase. That, like groundwater, died in a shareholder meeting. I hope you’ve prepped for Mad Max instead of Waterworld.

Note Quora. Where any of us can contest the moon landing and beat Buzz Aldrin in views, replies, and lives changed. Points to Shittier Askreddit for outliving arena rap and home ownership.

Now that we’re 950 words in, a second example might help. Most devotions cover unremarkable cats, but some remarkable owners sneak in.

Pierre. Cute. I finally understand Civ V’s culture victory: it’s conquering Earth and getting “fussy” as your stereotype. Let’s see how this child handles a Ming vase with feelings.

Now that’s adorable neglect. I came in expecting Chastity Garfield, not LMG: Into the MatchstickVerse.

“Disappeared” means expired. Bit it. Died freezing. Fox put starlets on farms for ratings, not mountain trails in the dead of winter. That ends in a high-fashion Lord of the Flies, and dibs. My idea. Mine. Yellowjackets meets Zoolander is money. Enough for me to forget this expensive cat starving to death.

A fine ad for apostasy, or at least PETA. How’s this lead to mass?

Great message, on its own. Today’s underdog is an emaciated popsicle. And Pierre’s traits were on the outside. His label said “I am a Warrior Cats jobber. Leave me in the cold, and I will die.” He still got a permafrost taxidermy. Pierre’s story is like Goliath stomping David into a closed casket funeral.

Maybe Buzzfeed can bring this home.

You know what? Points for relevance. Half the trivia says “try not to feed cats chocolate,” as if Easter snacks aren’t for the whole family. Or complete inania:

While 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers centers cat worship, the resentment subplot persists. Some sinners don’t deserve statues. There’s Shadow, who simply watches mice instead of culling them. He represents ignoring donation buckets, evening mass, and lonely pastors. Or Callie, who…kills too many mice. How much murder does God want? Why can’t I kill in peace?

Alright, fair enough. To impress God, don’t try to impress God. Take the Bruce Lee route and pray without praying. You might think Callie deserves a break, but St. Peter has other opinions.

Finally, consider Mr. Fritzy.

Is there another kind of cat? You don’t really have to like something much to be obsessed with it, do you? That explains dating coaches.

Aloofness and fur sound like every cat alive. But, based on my sales, I can be wrong.

Ah. Mr. Fritzy is the first cat in hell. I enjoy cats a sane amount, so I’m glad we’ll have one downstairs. We can hang when demons aren’t feeding me my eyes.

What’s wilder: guilt-tripping a cat, guilt-tripping a fourth cat, or guilt-tripping readers by association? I get the intent, and this book needs variety. But hellbound pets are the dumbest way to get there. You’re just adding reactionary voices to your singular fixation. This is a chapel bathroom reader, not a newspaper.

Cat epics only end a few ways: jokes about Mondays, endangered tiger lists, swordfighting Death, and mind-erasing isolation. Three of those take work, so 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers sprints into solitude.

At first, the cat story offers more nothing:

You might forget that as you read it, so the repetition has purpose. Then tension creeps in:

The narrator’s gritted teeth are much more compelling than her non-story. I kept a cat alive long enough to admire this passion. If you don’t feel rejection on your pet’s behalf, do you really love it?

Finally, the despair hits:

Someone check on Michelle. Not the other four, I know it’s Michelle. Pure loneliness demands a stock name. Sylvias and Edies use cats as living props for rich, full lives, annoying a varied social calendar. Virtuoso stereotype fulfillment takes a Michelle. Loving the Unlovable is at least 0.8 Madeas of friendly fire.

Pitch black, misspelled, and perfect. It honestly counts as a poem. For some reason, our narrator keeps running into unlovable people. Almost as if–look! Kittens!

This was never about Christ, cats, or cash. Pet prayers are just the lyrics to dying alone. Loving the Unlovable has a main-event slot, making this psychic scream the book’s point. Five composers wrung heartache from work, friendship, confidence, and pet ownership.

I came looking for a Copeland-adjacent speedbag, and found tears. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers catfished me, and I deserve it. Consider Eric Ludy avenged.

Still, I’m glad something’s here. Most storytellers ask “what makes the audience give a shit?” Budget prophets stop at “God says they have to.” That’s dragging the cart uphill and shooting the horse. Try harder. Changing someone’s spiritual life might take a draft or two.

Don’t let McDonald’s GospelFest fool you: fundies aren’t a captive audience. Bored Christians can read the Book of Judges, featuring one-man graveyards centuries before Lu Bu. Why the fuck should they read about your cat? If they want to taste hell, they can just go to GospelFest.

Though there’s some competition.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Badger who, like the Scottish Fold, knows that humility is currency in the shadow of God.

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: G Gundam 🌭

One question haunts a comedy/satire/penis simile career: What’s your solution?

“Where’s your PMC? Constellis does the best they can. They changed the name and everything. Should they leave bullets lying there, to rot? That’s waste on a dying planet. Bullying Erik Prince won’t make you feel better about yourself. If mass murder’s so wrong, let’s see your plan. Most nuclear states skipped the UN this year.”

Easy. Replace orphan-seeking missiles with robot Bloodsport. Why do I even have to type it? Isn’t Mecha Kombat what we’ve struggled for since the tar pits? Don’t you want to armbar your way to sane climate policy? Haven’t you seen Mobile Fighter G Gundam?

I shouldn’t assume. Few of us are born saved. We stumble into Police Story reruns when our souls are ready.

G Gundam is a Gundam spinoff, the way pelicans are spinoffs of velociraptors. A few things changed, and mentioning the connection makes your worst neighbors livid. Imagine The Guns of August spinning off into GI Joe, and you’re halfway there. But the Joes keep WW1 aesthetics, scope, and trauma. And everyone’s Snake Eyes. Life’s weird.

I should define terms, since many prefer live knee strikes. Which I respect: stuntmen need food, and streaming’s only upside is underwriting one perfect The Raid knockoff per year.

Gundam isn’t a typo: it’s one of the longest and most merchandised sci-fi franchises anywhere. The secret sauce? The edge that outlived Monster Rancher and two economic boom-bust cycles?

War crimes.

Game of Thrones made its money acknowledging sex, and Gundam struck gold acknowledging what happens after CNN cuts to ads. Here’s how the comic remake sets the tone. Chapter 1, Volume 1.

The classic colony drop. Shooting cities into cities, making trading lives literal. Perhaps the last sci-fi nightmare that hasn’t become real why did I type that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know which emirate we’ve spiked Queens into, but I hope the survivors forgive me.

Oh, and lots of robots. People dig the robots. If a robot has fins and a five-digit kill count, it’s a Gundam.

Some would call Gundam self-serious. They’re right, but I’ll argue in bad faith for hours before admitting it. I openly love rants on human cruelty between action figure swordfights. Combining sour cream and synthetic onion probably sounded odd the first time, and now that’s half my body weight.

This makes G Gundam’s existence weird, dumb, and wonderful. Like learning the mold in your trash cures everything.

The premise: after bombing Earth to death, humanity rebuilds in space. Much more importantly, every nation builds a Jiujitsu-powered robot. Earth’s carcass becomes the octagon for culturally insensitive Jaegers, and the winner runs space for four years. They’ve run this tournament 12 times, without one security council veto.

Paradise.

I’m not fucking with you. San Marino is ten good fights away from galactic domination. If you think the Olympics have a steroid problem, imagine what DARPA would inject into Jon Jones. Or what Jon Jones would inject into Jon Jones.

There are 49 episodes of Street Fighter worldbuilding, so we find out. Neo America sends a walking flag piloted by an asshole boxer.

I can’t lie: that screenshot fills my soul. The national virus is in me. His mechanic’s probably pre-Gawker Hulk Hogan. There’s even a full cheer squad.

As for our sparring partner, Neo Russia press-gangs a giant prisoner. This clown show predicted the Wagner Group. His robot swings a ball and chain, so even winning is a reminder of confinement.

He’s tailed by a mobile oppression squad, led by Subjugation Spice.

Likely insulting, so I’ll argue in bad faith that it recalls Crime and Punishment. Be warned: I don’t have to be right to win. Academia’s just describing what you want to be true.

I’ll save France and England for the episode recap. They’re special caricatures. Even moreso than China’s Dragon Gundam, piloted by a spunky Shaolin Monk.

After Shinji, putting a terrified child in your robot sounds like a bad idea. But it’s brilliant long-term thinking. When this kid hits twenty, he’ll be unbeatable. China might rule space longer than Earth.

You know, if he lives.

Meanwhile, Mexico has a gaffe.

The U.S. run calls that Spike Gundam. The original calls it Tequila Gundam. A fact I recall wherever I’ve had a rough day. Did Tequila Gundam defeat Jagermeister Gundam to qualify? No. Germany hired a fucking ninja.

With a ninjabot.

After all the broad strokes in G Gundam, it’s nice to see a tribute to Bavarian Ninjitsu. I assume it’s still mostly arson. German fans lucked out: the creators cared just enough to skip food and the 1940s, and played their ninja card instead. Full marks.

I’m not cherry-picking a one-off. This is a key character. There are spoilers about Berlin’s shadow warrior, because G Gundam’s kitsch isn’t light or shy. I went through this series hoping, praying for Ganja Gundam to turn up. Or, if the writers knew the island a little better, Workaholic Gundam, Crushing Poverty Gundam, or Christian Fundamentalism Gundam. No luck.

But I did learn that love, unhinged rage, and egotism all unlock limit breaks. Sometimes the same move! Don’t question it, just love it.

Sage wisdom.

G Gundam’s high concept taps a simple truth: it’d be nice for management to punch it out and leave the rest of us alone. When Putin sparring mediocre actors went viral, I thought “Challenge accepted, but in space.” When we sprinted to/from Afghanistan, I learned we could replace the entire D.O.D. with Impact! midcarders and lose nothing. When Bibi—

But—

Fair.

My broad strokes tend to be more confusing than knowing nothing. Let’s tour an episode.

Episode nine is Shakespearean: obvious mistakes followed by violence. It cold opens on Rose Gundam, a fan favorite, in battle.

A classier grade of killing machine, even with the Napoleon hat. Sure, other Gundams win fights, in a world where that decides whether you’re in a theocracy, dance-based caste system, or Caligula sequel. But you can greet dates in Rose Gundam. Neo France put aesthetics first, a plan just crazy enough to not work even a little.

It’s over in the first minute.

There’s no WW2 punchline coming. See: Kabul. Glass houses and all that.

The beating’s from Neo England, so this scene sparked at least one real-life fistfight. Sadly, that’s the spiciest historical rivalry G Gundam touches. We never get a match between Seoul LLC and The People’s Invincible True Korea. Since G Gundam’s insane, I’ll note that I made those two up.

Our winner looks like an RRR propaganda poster, by either side. I like hyperbole, but check out his portrait:

And matching robot:

That’s Gentle Chapman piloting John Bull Gundam. I thought I dreamed those names, but they’re unchanged 22 years later. Check your borders: reading this means they’ve been redrawn as a nice, clean square.

Gentle celebrates the traditional way: turning up. He gambles with the rest of the House of Lords, until he notices someone out of place.

This defrosted Neanderthal is Japan’s fighter, Domon Kasshu. The only role model I needed.

G Gundam doesn’t spare Japan a broad brush, which softens everything but Tequila Gundam. Domon is a screaming, sword-brandishing karate lunatic, and I love him the way most people love dogs. Only Domon’s never chased me across Brooklyn Bridge Park, or barked for six hours while I tried to mock puppets. Domon 2. Dogs: 0.

The Casino Royale schtick is cut short by Domon being a goddamn nutcase.

Domon likes fighting the way comedians like similes. He isn’t always fighting, in the way not all similes use like or as. But it’s always on his mind, akin to me and frosted food. The prompt said “three-dimensional protagonist,” and the studio wrote “fist” twice.

Surprisingly, he grows. Beyond “war sucks, kicks rule,” G Gundam’s secondary point is “calm the fuck down, Domon.” Uppercuts can only solve 98% of problems. For the remaining two, he panics. For martial arts anime, that’s a pacifist tract.

This is a “cool your shit” episode. Gentle Chapman isn’t so chap. Fuck. Isn’t so man. God damn it. Is a fellow nutcase. He’s doping to prolong his career. Imagine an elderly shit I already used Jon Jones. You can’t mock the same athlete twice. The world has too many elevators.

Imagine any cyclist. Gentle’s revived Tour de France level doping.

It’s not just padding asterisk records. Chapman’s a three-time champion, and remains determined to die like a proper gentleman: screaming in an exploding tin can plummeting towards civilization’s ruins. I’d admire him if he hadn’t brought the British Empire to the stars. That’s like bringing the measles to the information age. Or Tammany Hall to the information age. Or the Crusades–

Moving along: Rose Gundam’s pilot brings a warning. Domon ignores it. Chapman bitterly condemns time, hero worship, and a warrior’s inevitable grave. Domon ignores it. Domon’s read the beat board, and he’s hyped for some sanctioned elder abuse.

Later, Chapman’s loving wife Lasswoman defends the fallen hero’s suicide run.

Lasswoman secretly runs the non-drug half of England’s cheating, because she believes in Gentle. Or doesn’t want Neo Mauritania in charge. Or knows the rules are bullshit. Either way, Chapman thinks he’s only doping. A real ride or die helps you ride and die.

Despite our hero’s best efforts, the stakes are set: can Gentle Chapman be battered back onto the path of honor? Is chivalry stronger than anger over his stupid name? Can a 20-year old red belt beat a septuagenarian tweaker?

Actually, no.

Cheating rules. A fog machine and some crank turn Chapman into a god.

It’s the Perry Expedition all over again: swords and reason are out, guns and uppers are in. From now on, I’m cheating all the time. Are there drugs for dick jokes? Comedy Cialis? I’d say Jim Beam, but happy hour’s worse for my jokes than my u-turns.

For mechs, inhaling space Addies like Reese’s Cups totally works. Skittles are the stock reference, but I’ve never left peanut butter cups with my dignity. The champion emeritus would sell his life for victory, and that’s how I feel about sugar. Bury me with my chocolate.

Tripping balls on kids’ television, Chapman emits pure Metal Gear Rising nonsense. Some selections:

Right, that last one. He totally overdoses, and goads Domon into a Viking graduation.

Gentle lives, and accepts his descent from champion to Ric Flair non-retirement. PEDs are for livers in their prime, and there’s no other way out of this premise on afterschool television. It’s a nice moment, I just have Yahtzee’s tick where everything sounds like a diss, and greed pillages what I love.

The point isn’t pill addiction, but punch addiction. Ageless ambition cost Chapman his motor skills. Don’t chase the past, unless you want to conquer Earth three times, live in a mansion, travel the universe, and go out in a blaze of violent glory with your supervillain wife.

Hmm.

I’m with Lasswoman. And I’d take an angel dust suppository to keep most leaders off the Golden Throne, including mine. Nothing’s stopping MBS VIII from cloning Brock Lesnar. I wish I could describe the damage one narcissist can do in four years, but Jiminy’s on my fucking ass.

In any case, G Gundam distracted me from some other stuff in 2002. Not sure why I’m on it now. Has anyone seen my medicine?