Author: Dennard Dayle

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Trapping Day: BIGFEETS Design-A-Trap Contest Winners! 🌭

UPDATE 10/31 1:30PM: By usin’ us a goat and beloved friend, we lured out more entries what had been forgotten by science.

You killed it. The prompt, not Bigfoot.

What makes a good sasquatch trap? We have no idea. BIGFEETS has unpacked six episodes of lazy madness, and each minute teaches us less. To celebrate this mystery, we launched The BIGFEETS Design-A-Trap contest. We asked for your worst traps, and you overdelivered. Monsters have never been safer.

If you’re just joining in, you get all the benefits for none of the labor. Much like Buck, the accidental mascot of Mountain Monsters: a perfect Travel Channel writeoff about cryptid hunters. Almost. If mothmen exist, the team refuses to leave town to look. BIGFEETS recaps the journeys they don’t take, the monsters they don’t find, and the traps they can’t build.

They need a lot of help. We turned to the Doggzone’s finest engineers, and they’ve crushed expectations. Since building these traps, we haven’t caught one cryptid.

Of course, we can’t test every trap at once. That would end in the gun accident Mountain Monsters teases every episode. Instead, we’ve split entries into four simple groups. Each block’s winner will face off for the bandana of Worst Trap. Starting with the most filling:

Most traps end in Bigfoot eating the creator. These designs provide an appetizer.

FancyShark knows Bigfoot’s sweet tooth is legendary. I can just say that. I can say anything. Belmont improv is almost as tempting as this trap.

Skebotron’s trap has a step after meat, making him the smartest cryptid hunter alive. Meet the Edison of lying to The Travel Channel.

Hambone knows logistics matter, and abandons them. This chicken’s dying for nothing, whether or not Bigfoot turns up or exists.

Lolerpa hasn’t forgiven the Woofman, and will poison as many forests as justice demands. Non-alcoholic drinks don’t exist in Mountain Monsters’ caricature of West Virginia, but plot holes sweeten the hunt.

BorsukKumpelRyb dials up the animal cruelty by adding labor. This goat’s outworking every human on camera.

Dirty Charles is a humanist. He knows AIMS can keep their hands off an amphetamine long enough to feed it to a pig. We also choose to believe.

Delta Foxtrot sent one of the cleaner submissions, his scanner just works. The scent of fresh fried chicken should draw cryptids, and none of the other countless forest creatures.

Hank’s filename was “foolproof,” and we’re inclined to agree. There’s probably a world where Buck didn’t end this competition as delicious bait, but this isn’t it.

Static Dust’s secret sauce is sauce. Well-chosen, since sauce is the base of whatever’s replaced the food pyramid. Much like us, a Bigfoot can live off Sauce and aspartame alone for years on end.

Evan taps the hunger driving all of us–early cyberpunk. That’s all of us, right? Reading William Gibson in a decrepit St. Anne church in August 2002? Nice to share a universal experience.

A Block Champion:

Hambone remembered the first rules of design and comedy: reject simplicity. Get as much in as possible, even when the club owner throws the first punch. That density of form and skull gets our first win.

Cryptids have feelings too. They should suffer for that. These honeypots manipulate xenosexuality, xenoennui, and xenodrinkingaloneonmondaymorning.

Javo applied print magazines in 2023, which is much harder than catching mythical beasts. Even when you’re inventing your prey at the same time.

Yeyo understands high strategy, and simply lets cryptid seduce cryptid. Jockstrap is the “whiskey caramel” of cryptid colognes.

Brettlybrett knows the power of thigh sweat, like a proper BIGFEETS listener. You listen to BIGFEETS, right? It’s the last good mattress-free podcast. Casper doesn’t like all the thigh talk.

Reina channeled the ghost of Van Week. A risky play: a ghost is almost a cryptid, flirting with disqualification. This joke’s better than functional rules, so we’ll let it slide.

Jake also taps the van force. And candy! There’s candy! Everyone pile in!

Sissyneck knows those Bigfeet hide a Bigheart. And that humanity’s story is over. Switching teams is pure wisdom after what he’s seen.

Arthur Padua isn’t counting on Cryptid friendship. He knows human friendship is stronger. West Virginia novelty cap stores are about to make bank.

Beth focuses on Bigfoot’s first love: Bigfoot. This account will attract five or five million followers, and nothing in-between.

Mike’s made a Magnum Bigfoot trap. Like all the best murders, it has plausible deniability as a crime of passion.

Bucks Bunny combines classic animation with modern CIA honeypots. A subtle, tactical baseball-bat assault.

In Velo’s improv worldbuilding, Bigfoot’s curiosity is as strong as its libido. It needs to explore and understand the world around it. This will remain true until someone contradicts it–unless Velo repeats it, louder. Quality trap.

Josiah calls in backup from Documental, a comedy knifefight with more dicks than any adult film. Brace for the clash between a mythical nude lunatic and whatever madness Jimmy’s dressed as.

B-Block Winner:

Slick. Good thing we’re not a family site.

Tuckered out from all that Bigfoot Lovin’? Dylan’s made a fully-functional cryptid-slayin’ RPG. A trap? Not at all. Amazing? Yes. Dig the Hillybilly Improv PDF.

Some brilliant youth stepped up to butcher Bigfeet. They’re shockingly on point, thanks to lifelong training against art-stealing robots. What’s left of the future looks bright.

James’s trap is just like that comic Swaim–no, hold on. Kids are looking. Let’s stick to cryptids. The last meat to attract Bigfoot was a tribal pri–scratch that. James made a funny trap!

Masked Kindergartener sticks to the basics of not-catching Bigfoot: talking a big game. Their cage is perfectly posed to not deliver.

Translated Strategy Text: “It cannot get out of it. He can not get out.” Tell me that’s not a direct show quote. Or summary of life.

Alex draws cryptid traps on his own time, this contest’s just serendipity. Unlike stodgy guidance counselors, I’m in love with this two-step trap.

Meanwhile, Masked Sixth Grader taps stimulant dependence. No, not that one.

Hmm, this one’s in crayon. Jeff Orasky’s probably a kid too, right? Otherwise this would be the Smurfing maneuver of a lifetime. You decide if that’s a gaming joke or censorship.

Hugh definitely can rent a car, but applies the daredevil spelling of the Juniors division to adult Bigfoot murder. Don’t let the style fool you: he’s the only one countering teleportation.

C Block Winner:

If these were my kids, I’d let everyone win. They aren’t. “Rizz sparkles” crushed the other, younger children.

A benighted thirst for blood taints human character and history. Let’s project that onto Bigfoot, and make him pay.

Joecovery’s trap starts with a bell, and ends holding Bigfoot’s severed head aloft. There’s some naked pandering afoot, which is a good life strategy.

Greg’s found a way to put stolen mowers to work, and probably make a trap too.

Djonin is ready to take Wild Bill for every cent he’s worth. And create the Holler’s sixteenth most toxic dumping site.

Badger robs Bigfoot of size, its greatest advantage. Except when it has a magic axe. Or an entire developed society. But he’ll shrink Bigfoot Classic right down.

Fatamacian wants Bigfoot to go out like Narcissus: choking on chemical vengeance over several hours. Bigfoot knows why it deserves this, even if we don’t.

Ruckus hedged their bets. Either this works as intended, or blasts half the mountain–including Bigfoot–to ash. This is one to watch, from incredible distance.

Steven remembered mankind’s greatest weapon, gravity, and nothing else. This premium trap is a sobering reminder of what happens when technology goes too far.

Grrbal45 goes conceptual: why kill the body of Bigfoot, when you can kill the idea?

Sam takes the fight to Bigfoot’s Bigpockets. This one needs a little sociopathy, an area where men have cryptids beat.

C.K. taps the tenth worst way to die during Operation Vietnamese Freedom. But the sharp and infectious bits have been replaced with raw country pluck.

HeyitsTom’s brilliant science will either kill Bigfoot’s mystique, or slam a helicopter into it. Win-win. Either way, a memorable image is hitting the news.

Okay, your eyes hate that. Let’s break it up.

D Block Winner:

It’s time to leave subtlety’s curse behind. Confused shouting is to cryptid-chases as discretion is to valor.

If you’re not ready to watch Wild Bill challenge no-one to a fight and lose, we don’t know what to tell you.

Alright, we’re down to four finalists. I’ve put together a simple eight-round system. Send your votes to–

Wait, there’s one more. Gmail likes to play pranks, like burying bills and usable search. Let’s see our straggler.

Ah.

Some people don’t respect the law, their peers, or the rights of bipeds. They tend to do well.

Our one rule? Don’t catch a cryptid. Then Adrienne threw this in:

CAUTION: CIA DEMONS DO NOT CLICK


CONCLUSIVE BIGFEETS VIDEO PROOF

 

Does rule of law mean nothing? Do cheaters always win? Is Menendez just the guy that got caught? Don’t answer that. This is what nerds mean when they say sequential art. Adrienne is a dark age’s ruler, and the first BIGFEETS Design-A-Trap Design Contest winner!

Thank you for entering, and bringing heat. We hope you enjoyed the results, because you made them. The party continues on BIGFEETS, where joy fills each cryptidless minute.

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Puppet Week: Thunderbolt Fantasy 🌭

I jumped into puppet week research looking for a premium nightmare, and failed. Thunderbolt Fantasy flipped over my weak cynic blows, tossed a sword into the air, kicked me in the dick, inexplicably ended the episode there, and then caught the sword. All that was a karate illusion: in reality, I’d watched three seasons in two days. Creating an opening to kick me in the dick.

There’s a long list of jobs harder than mine. Bomb squad rookie. Ethics Committee chair. Better teacher. I have a new top entry: puppet fight choreographer. Pushing doll-fu beyond children mashing Barbie against MechaBarbie is madness. If you asked Donnie Yen to choreograph a marionette fistfight…he’d kill it. For six times the budget. Every puppet kick would create four PhDs of debt.

Thunderbolt Fantasy has three seasons and two movies, so someone’s getting ripped off. I’ve seen a week of Central Park puppet shows without one flash kick. Yet Thunderbolt Fantasy finales have more flips than Simone Biles slipping Fox reporters. A practical effects lead said “man-sized explosions don’t move me anymore. Could we try chimps?” The director talked them down to dolls, and the rest is history.

Seriously, this show isn’t overcoming puppets. They’re the feature. It’d be worse with people or drawings. I don’t know how to process that. It feels like I’m lying, or taking kickbacks. But it’s real, and I’m still broke.

I love things that shouldn’t exist, but that’s not always an insult. When I heard “Puppet Anime,” my mind jumped to dolls gyrating around a hot spring. We’re in a Weeaboo drought. This year in anime is like every year for the Bears. I didn’t know that name before, because I had decent anime. Imagine every charting song being Rich Men North of Richmond. It’s a dork-only preview of 2050’s food supply.

I left out a word: Wuxia Puppet Anime. If you miss reshoots of House of Flying Daggers coming out every three months, congrats on the column! You should relearn Photoshop macros. Midnight’s for dance clubs and fight clubs, not Googling how frames work again. At least label the speech bubble folder.

Wuxia’s one of my favorite shelves, right behind “angry elephant owners,” and “stuntman lawsuits.” Thunderbolt Fantasy is a targeted miracle, and I had no idea I was in the crosshairs. Even though I own tapes with titles like Legend of the Punching Stairwell and Hey, Remember Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?.

My saviors? Taiwanese puppeteers (Pili) working with Gen Urobuchi, the last anime writer not trying to kill me. Directly, at least. English viewers get subtitles of a Japanese dub of a show recorded in Chinese, so be ready for no names to line up. The Shaw Bros. would be proud.

This may be the first fantasy franchise built around a loose pun. Wire-fu. Puppets. String. I love it. It’s like Star Wars translating to Father’s Day. Or Spider-Man translating to Uncle’s Day. Or Magnolia translating to Father’s Day.

Enough broad strokes. My attention span needs timestamped examples, or I’ll start talking about food I can’t have mid-cut, like stew peas. Salted pork tails sound like death, because they are. But it’s a waterskiing-on-mushrooms kind of death. Every moment is amazing. Some people cut off the fat, because they’re into futility. With stew peas, that’s like jogging to work off infidelity. It doesn’t hurt, but the sin remains.

I’ll riff on Season Two. I can’t touch Season One without spoiling the whole thing. Urobuchi enjoys “I know that you know that I know” plots, so half his work has a Soze. Or two Sozes. Or a Soze with a Rosebud. He wrote a wonderful Minority Report knockoff, and I’ll never recap it.

In honor of the show’s experimental spirit, we’ll follow a character instead of an incident. Meet Xie, “Princess of Cruelty.” That’s the fourteenth most over-the-top title, and sixth closest to a FinDom alias. Right behind “Miè Tiān Hái, The Bones of Creation” and “Nuwa, Drummer of Testicles.”

Xie’s life sucks.

Remember dodgeball? What if the world were gym class, the rest of your team didn’t show up, and losers got beaten into comas? That’s Xie’s existence. She’s deeply invested in serving Satan, and using “deception and subterfuge” in a punch-based universe. The latter is a much, much worse idea. I don’t think the protagonist can spell subterfuge, unless it’s in morse code on someone’s face.

Her target’s Shang, a vagrant walking through the rain. For a few frames, this could be a puppet spaghetti western (dibs on that pitch). You don’t know what kind of period piece you’re in until someone gets in a duel or joins an abbey.

Shang tries an abbey, hoping to duck 13 episodes of violence.

Nope.

Xie’s been busy. But stop me if you’ve heard this one: Shang’s an oaf.

An oafish wanderer.

An oafish lone wanderer.

He can’t cross the street without it raining. And doesn’t want any trouble. He’s the only one without a closet full of Nomura x Gucci gear. In a series about magic swords, he’s taped a knife to a stick.

That’s 0.75 Jackie Chans, making Shang apex predator. Every necromancer, mad prince, corrupt mayor, and subway speakerphone user should retire. But our girl has confidence. And bugs.

Xie tries bugs.

Then the direct approach.

Then bugs again.

No sale. Despite parrying Shang’s knees with her liver, Xie flees with only two out of thirty-six magic swords. After inflation, that’s half a Silmaril. This isn’t going well.

Then she Googles which swords she stole. Leading to the classic literary dilemma: rely on your own strength, or let your ribs heal?

Option one is silent, controls people she stabs, and has the mildly dramatic name “Night of Mourning.” As far as cursed artifacts go, it’s an old Honda. Evil parents buy a Night of Mourning if you keep your grades up and clean up after Cerberus.

It sounds cool, but the entire world is Ip Man’s hometown. If Xie could stab opponents, she wouldn’t need a magic sword. In card games, they call this a “win more” strategy. It doesn’t fix the knee-to-liver problem.

Option two talks, addresses itself as “The Seven Blasphemous Deaths” and promises global conquest.

Xie must read Tolkein, because she chucks that shit. Begging the question: what are fantasy novels in fantasy worlds about? Taxes? Spring cleaning? Cubicles? A lucid Alan Moore would have a field day.

I need to underline something here. Partially because it proves the show has a sense of humor. But mostly because it drives me insane. It’s like looking into the screenwriting sun. It’s Thunderbolt Fantasy elevating its abstract pun game.

Both artifacts feature mind control. E.g: they turn…people…into…

Nevermind.

Xie sets out to reclaim her pride the warrior’s way: cheating slightly less than possible. And it works! In the greatest twist of Urobuchi’s career, she hits an opponent. With poison damage. I didn’t know that was allowed.

Her victory lap triggers Thunderbolt Fantasy’s weirdest, dumbest, and best feature: character poems. The narrator drops koans about how badly someone’s ass just got kicked. It happens just often enough for you not to get used to it.

Here’s Xie’s, just to prove I’m not insane.

You bet everyone spends their poem posing. It’s delightful, like an art school taunt emote. Xbox Live by way of Homer. DX crotch-chopping in 29/8 time. For all the pomp, each line’s replaceable with “What’s good, darkling?”

Anyway, Shang gets better.

Don’t call yourself the Princess of Cruelty. The universe hates competition.

Losing the re-re-rematch leaves a mental mark. Xie spirals. She’s a third as stressed as the average med student, and half as likely to do something extreme. Ultimately, Xie wants what we all want: to give back. To be respected. To serve the devil without catching flying elbows to the spine.

Respect’s the big one. It’s surprisingly relatable, especially while Sauron’s mall sword negs her.

Seven Blasphemous Deaths is a subtle manipulator.

Gently nudging Xie to the edge.

It’s hilarious. Come for Sauron, stay for jock GLaDOS.

We’ve all dated that hellsword. Therapists don’t exist yet and fossils are just fun bones, so Xie finds a priest to lament her non-protagonist weakness. She’s a poison-type on an RPG planet. I’m sure games exist where status effects work better than winning. But bleed generally comes at the expense of punching through mountain chains.

Said priest has…unique answers.

Alright, he’s nicer than that. But he emphasizes serving Wushu Satan. Making it more understandable when Xie snaps. Corrupt cops are after her for “multiple murders” and Shang’s rebroken her ribcage, but it’s really her sword-bully following up on this talk that cracks her brain’s outer shell.

Maybe that seems like an exaggeration. Here’s the direct quote:

Persuasive. Xie’s position on police brutality evolves.

And keeps evolving, and won’t stop evolving. The hellsword may be a problem. It gets stronger the more guards it kills, like a slaughterhouse Katamari. Xie dices decades of pork tails.

No. Shut it, nerd. Pop music and Netflix have ruled anime lower on the basement rankings than dice. Go wait your turn for proper Hollywood exploitation. I don’t see Tom Cruise in Greyhawk.

Yup. It rocks. She kills so many puppets with Blackrazor. Or Frostmourne. Or Soul Edge. Or Stormbringer. But the twist is that she stops. Coated in puppet blood (there’s a lot of it, by the way), Xie aims for a better way.

Every frame of soap opera suffering’s led here. After trying poison, illusions, literally calling the cops, discount sword magic, therapy, and deluxe sword magic, Xie decides to join punch club. She challenges Shang to a one-on-one, no shenanigans duel.

She finds her honor.

Mistake.

Why would you ever find honor? Honor’s killed more people than fleas or God’s will. I would rather find a lump. Xie abandoned the One True Path: when scorpions fail, find more scorpions.

If you learn one thing from me, make it this: nuclear disarmament is vital for mankind’s survival. If you learn a second thing: honor is for corpses, liars, and invincible Jackie Chan clones.

That’s not the end of her story. Watch Thunderbolt Fantasy. Shang’s sidekick carries a talking guitar, so there’s a puppet with a puppet.

Why’d I pick Xie? She has one of the better soap operas. A tragedy that feeds into another abstract pun. Xie’s allies, enemies, insecurities, and magic knife all take her for a ride. Chasing strength…turns her…into a…

Me neither. Here’s a puppet kaiju fight. A bard belts the series theme song to reflect dragon fire. Watch Thunderbolt Fantasy.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Dan B, who always brings scorpions to a puppet fight.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Meet Mr. Smith

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Categories
LEARNING DAY

Trapping Day: The Bigfeets Design-A-Trap Contest 🌭

What’s this? The opportunity of your afternoon. In monster-hunting tradition, we’re taking an undercooked graphic and working backwards. This is…err…

Sure, a template! Yes. And it’s for a contest! A creative one. We’re making, you know…

Maybe later. The cryptid-seduction community’s pretty demanding. Anyone else?

Absolutely not! But we are making strong stuff. Stronger than any Devil Dog, or normal dog, or budget.

I don’t have a better idea! Welcome to the BIGFEETS Trap Contest. The internet’s second anti-sasquatch competition. The first was a ploy by web-savvy cryptids. We’re taking submissions at [email protected], until October 24th.

I’m sure it is. Instead of going down that road, let’s send our worst cryptid traps to [email protected], by October 24th. If you remember the Custom Van Contest, you get the idea. We’ll feature our favorites on the site, and crown one proud entrant Earth’s Worst Monster Hunter.

Ever caught a cryptid? We haven’t. The Mountain Monsters team definitely hasn’t. Let’s keep that streak going. The BIGFEETS Trap Contest challenges every inch of wilderness knowledge. Each gram of paranormal expertise. The less, the better. Remember: if a child can escape it, Bigfoot can’t.

As BIGFEETS listeners or cryptid-worshiping traitors, you know how important non-traps are to defending cows. One working trap would kill Wild Bill. He’d be gone. Mountain Monsters is one mail-order bear trap from tragedy. If you’ve seen an addict lose a leg, you know it’s hard to get a Spelling Bee back on track.

That man needs your help. Simply fill the form above with an ACME Bigfoot trap. I suggest a visual in the Schematic area and text elsewhere, but I’m not your producer. Go where your muse takes you. Just don’t capture, kill, or photograph a real cryptid. That insults Mountain Monsters’ soul.

It’s time to turn it all around. To finally win. To show the world just how little you know about traps. Come put your training in anything but engineering to work. Ideally, nothing. Mountain Monsters may star fake woodsmen hunting faker monsters, but it embraces real ignorance. (Note: Engineers are welcome to betray their craft. We might side-eye your extra syllables, but it won’t impact judging.)

Send your Wumpus Traps to [email protected], by October 24th. You might be the next Buck! The bandana is heavy, but your will is strong.

As a new podcast’s first contest, there are countless frequently asked questions. We’re happy to clear the air.

1900HOTDOG’s podcast recapping Mountain Monsters, an inept monster-hunting show with more episodes than the nightly news. Hosts Robert Brockway, Seanbaby, and Jason Pargin attempt to decipher how it exists. And find answers! Stupid, embarrassing answers. You’ll love it.

Alongside improvised cryptid lore, Mountain Monsters features hillbillies imitating broad outsider stereotypes of hillbillies, an act of triple-theater no one is qualified for. Everyone looks like a retired Yosemite Sam, and acts like a prime Yosemite Sam. Meth cameos.

In the wreckage of this almost-show, BIGFEETS finds inept traps, lazy lore, improv comedy, inept traps, crippling addiction, confused extras, inept traps, and transcendent human beauty. Transcendent human beauty is hard to draw, so this contest’s about traps.

Absolutely. BIGFEETS mocks and celebrates West Virginia monster hunters. Said hunters often present kindergarten-grade traps as foolproof. You’re invited to send the worst trap you can think of, by editing the template above. We’ll showcase our favorites, and crown one winner.

Yup.

I can’t explain how far ahead that puts you.

Confident! I like it.

Nice. Back up all this big talk, and you’ll be the Triple H of filling two-foot holes with water. You definitely won’t catch any cryptids.

You can do better than this. Or rather, worse. But here’s an example of a low-level Bigfoot snare.

Darius has a lot to learn about nontraps. Someone should show him how it’s done.

Intrigued? Of course you are. Submit your beautiful creations to [email protected], by October 24th. And LISTEN to BIGFEETS. Zero cryptids, guaranteed.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Send Nudes: Body S.O.S. 🌭

It’s time for the cruelest reality show on airwaves.

No. What kind of cheeseburger garbage is this? American torment technology is decades behind other hells. We’re still stuck on [Dating – Empathy + Computer Host]. That’s barely a half-Saw. Forget our pharma-sponsored hugbox, we’re swimming in international waters today.

While Survivor caved to protein entitlement, Nippon TV taped famehounds hitchhiking from South Africa to Norway. That’s not a gag, it’s daytime television set free. But Japan’s out too, since England clutches the Stanley Milgram Championship like a birthday gift from Sauron. They’ve turned centuries of imperial cruelty inwards.

Which makes Send Nudes: Body SOS special. Channel 4 canceled it after one season. The proud makers of Watch Porkers Cry and Ugly Bodies/Uglier Souls blinked. We have Channel 4’s benchmark for “too far,” with a name that spares me writing new content warnings:

The subtitle trips me up a bit. Most add a little context or artistic flair. Body SOS just leaves me with questions and dread. A slam dunk for a horror film, but this is…yeah, a slam dunk. Good job, Channel 4. Body SOS is a perfect modern Weird Tales short. The Comics Code wouldn’t approve one page, so something’s gone right.

From here, it’s all wangs and dysmorphia. Treat this article like my nudes: laugh heartily, far from your manager. If the content gets you down, remember that you’ve kept your sins off-air. You’re a modern genius. Flashes of fame are followed by long, silent rides home.

I’d sum up Send Nudes as rubes asking hacks about facelifts. But I’m a Terran mortal, squawking in monkey-language. Let’s see how the Old Gods depict themselves. Each episode features the same glossy opening:

I see. Send Nudes stars the body. That traitor.

The damn thing’s too hairy, unless it’s shedding, but likely both in the wrong places. But you’re fine with it, unless you hate lying. Or, you poor fool, you improved it. Now you own a fleshy faberge egg demanding more attention than your career, sex life, and actual health. A curse ending in Apple Watch ownership.

Everyone but Michael B. Jordan has seen the wrong mirror and segfaulted. And Jordan’s agent wants him to pull a Christian Bale to play Gumby, and then a Reverse Bale to play Idi Amin (it’s a remake). Leaving a week to train for Panth3r: Fine, Killmonger’s Back. The rogue Prince seeks redemption, but his larger, leaner, even more shirtless twin stands in the way.

Channel 4, friend of mankind, felt your pain. Your perfect, nourishing, orgasmic pain. They needed more. Send Nudes is their feast, and our deliverance.

The intro’s read by veteran host Vogue Williams. I’ll avoid hyperbole this time: Vogue Williams is a Reaper. Yes, those Reapers. The immortal race of sentient starships waiting in dark space. In earlier work, she may have seemed fun. That’s Reaper brainwashing.

You might not believe me.

Horrifying, but not quite Sovereign-tier. This sounds like a show that, with two friends, a game plan, and raw willpower, you could survive. Maybe even enjoy, if we share a diagnosis. Then there’s the complete premise.

Fun fact about life: love, mercy, truth, and justice are real. Elusive, but they make cameos. “Try before you buy,” is always horseshit. When you hear it, you’ve already been robbed. Bank apps exist to seal your account after hearing it.

That’s the level of honesty we’re working with. Saline’s the realest thing on Send Nudes. The rest is doctors lying to influencers lying to victims.

Which brings us to the case studies. I’m sorry.

Send Nudes guests occupy a simple chart.

Okay, that’s a lie for framing. I’m gunning for Trevor Noah’s spot, give me a break. An honest chart’s closer to:

The pilot opens with Steven, a part-time pornstar.

Steven enjoys his penis as a friend, but not as a coworker. Gay porn demands steroid figures without steroid side effects. It’s cold out there, but consumers don’t take that excuse. He’s still a lot of fun, and brings hints of light to the darkness swirling onscreen.

He doesn’t represent the show. I’m pairing him with Tom.

Tom also has dick problems, but his inner light is dead. He’s endured twenty-eight years with a micropenis, and doesn’t know that the worst hour is ahead. Tom’s done nothing wrong, and the punishment must be severe and total.

More importantly, Tom captures average morale on Send Nudes. Vogue Williams can sense a guest that’s cried backstage. She then gently piles on questions designed to siphon soul-fuel, as sympathetically as possible. If that fails, she sends the Geth.

The avatars are inspiredly uninspired. They evoke a generation of thoroughly tapped references. Suffice to say, Valve still made games when they looked like this. Starfield’s burning in effigy for mixing lifeless high-fidelity with cheap jank, and it stunts on this. An undergrad squinting at Tom from across the room could do better for a baggie of oregano and a smile.

It’s not the subject. Steven gets a melting Second Life screenshot.

A genuine innovation. Making a pornstar look unfuckable on international tv is a new type of malpractice. Send Nudes wants to be Snow Crash, and lands squarely in Reboot.

The same basement surgeon explains dick sorcery in both episodes. He offers genital scarring, fantastic debt, and every side effect in that horrorcore dick surgery report. And new ones, like “fatty lumps.” His suit matches.

Dr. Wakil sucks. He fades from the season as lawsuits close in.

Let’s be real: you know safe dick surgery isn’t out. When it arrives, no one will have to explain, sell, or defend it. It’ll hit the street like a crossover between Ozempic and crack. You won’t hear any other news until Russian troops reach Manhattan. Specifically Columbia Medical School, to steal our precious junior dicksmiths. If our president’s an inch below average, the end begins.

I’m serious. Open-minded vets will be booked into 2100. Dentists will need answers for “but it’s basically the same, right?” YouTube’s top videos will be “Sterilizing Scalpels,” “Stopping Bleeding,” and “Hiding a Body.” Pray that the procedure’s raw materials are eco-friendly. If fossil fuels safely inflate dicks, look for Martian real estate.

After the good doctor offers to turn a small penis into no penis, it’s time for the main event. Artisanal, farm-to-table pain. The jolt from heaven that reminds us we’re alive.

We send the nudes.

And meet the dipshits.

Send Nudes has recruited fifty of England’s most willing minds. Some are specialist activists, or Instagram warlords. Others are Brandon, an auctioneer with strong opinions on everything but silence. But everyone is after media clips. Lending their dick remodeling advice grace and restraint.

Half the guests are tag teams, like entertainers Lv and Ty. They perform classic Reverse Manzai, where both speakers are loud, clueless dickheads. You can get the Lv and Ty experience by entering a barbershop and ramming the mirror headfirst.

Comedy bushido demands I recognize the best line. Dancer/Choreographer Raheem feels the least pressure to be funny or insightful, and comes closest. He reviews Dr. Wakil’s pitch with “The only difference here is that you’re left with this weird symbol above your penis. Some ancient Ctrl+Alt+Delete.” Excellent.

Another panelist? Miss England.

They send Tom’s micropenis to Miss England. She laughs, and they show him the footage. Of Miss England. Laughing at his micropenis. I don’t follow pageants, and ratings say Tom doesn’t either. But that is a caricature of rejection. This show was produced by Slaanesh.

She says supportive words afterwards, which don’t matter. Because the second Tom stepped out of his comfort zone, Miss England laughed at his penis. A humiliation normally softened by dating Miss England, a thank you note for deluxe members, or the wildest lawsuit of the year. Tom had Vogue.

He doesn’t get the operation. Neither does Steven. For all the madness on display, no one lets a Zoom wall talk them into a dick stent. Hope lives on.

Half of Send Nudes’ victims want breast lifts, which should get old. Which should get repetitive. The same shit keeps happening.

Channel 4 has two tricks.

The first is getting graphic with the surgical footage. Any preteens hoping for their first hit of popup-free nudity will find their treasure. Alongside a half-semester of stitches, scars, and slashing.

A patient med student could make it educational. That’s certainly the mask Send Nudes wears. But Vogue is seconds away from slipping into a carnival barker’s voice. Send Nudes likes how the skin of progress feels, there are just people stuck to it. Leading to a freakshow in denial.

The second trick is nudging sympathy levels. Babyfaces are humble mothers of eight, looking for more confidence at the Bible factory. Not like those deviants on the left side of the alignment grid. To build heels, they set fringe personalities up to fail.

Take Madison, a glamour model from that Margot Robbie flick.

That’s a half-joke. Madison’s into dollification. And gets far more joy out of her digital clone than most. E.g., any.

If you don’t know about dollification, then I covered flash cartoons last week instead. I hope the Bitey of Brackenwood recap worked. In short, dollification makes chasing the Barbie look more literal. It’s bimbofication with a Michael Jordan mindset. Searching it on a Mattel network fries your computer. Dollification may have been possible before the internet, but no it wasn’t.

I’d talk shit, but my personal arc changed after Dante ordered a pizza.

Naturally, they season her segment with a micro-doc about the wildest shit they can find. One Justin Jedlicka, internationally known as “King of the Dolls.” That sounds like a title you invent with an unexpected camera in your face, but Wikipedia’s on his side. Justin’s the Gold Roger of test drive surgery, with an operation count somewhere between Human Revolution and Mankind Divided.

My point? Justin’s on the deep-space fringe of Madison’s outer limits kick. Adding him in post tilts the scale. Channel 4’s circus just needs a flying elephant and three crows I find funnier than I should. Helping guests was never on the table, but now the kayfabe of kindness is dead.

Madison’s avatars meet the masses. Lv and Ty hoot at her current setup, double hoot at a reduction, and half-hoot at an enlargement. A sentiment echoed more patronizingly by the rest of the panel. But the vote plays out differently:

Oh yeah, there’s voting. I left it out earlier, since this show has more hats than animators. But this is a democratic torture chamber. The people have a voice.

Purely advisory. If Send Nudes enforced results, the studio would’ve been raided. Though Vogue’s real body is in orbit.

Today’s vote says “Stay as you are.” With an overall tone of “For the love of God, stop.” Eight percent say to go bigger, which reminds you why democracy gets wacky after a few hundred people. Madison’s taken aback by the show of popular approval/dismay/support/horror:

Has she already reached the monastic ideal of dolldom? Are there no dragons left to slay? Madison faces a Toy Story- level crisis. Or fakes it, I can’t read people. Either way, she might stay an F-cup.

Then the show structure, community pressure, and Vogue’s gentle mind trick kick in.

Bask in the body positivity. The voting’s usually worse.

Institutionally. Only the names and knives change. Among three options, the crowd always picks the path of least resistance. As crowds do—that’s how you get incumbents older than time. For non-dolls, the choices are nothing, standard plastic surgery, and crazy shit. Door two wins. In aggregate, Send Nudes says plastic surgery is like fish or fistfighting: everyone needs a little.

I’d love to call Send Nudes an ad for surgery, or a passive-aggressive diss track. But conspiracy’s in the air, so let me be clear: the makers don’t care about anything. Hatred implies they remember us after we leave the room. When legal asked “will this show hurt people,” the showrunner blew a raspberry.

Parting thought: with this premise, did you assume Send Nudes subsidized the operation? In exchange for your pride? I sure did. Dignity has market value, and clean scalpels aren’t free. The NHS plays nicer than our demons, but half the guests booked round trips to Turkey.

The others can’t afford it. There’s no epiphany. They didn’t find a magic feather full of self-love. They just can’t pay for the tummy tuck Send Nudes spent an hour debating.

Grating.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Harvey Penguini, certified MAJESTIC MEAT by a panel of 52 British criminals.

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Bunnykill 🌭

Don’t worry, Bunnykill isn’t some artless lunatic drawing rabbit murder on the asylum walls. It’s an inspired lunatic animating rabbit murder. That line separates The Matrix’s lobby from a national tragedy. And justifies Newgrounds.

If that rings a bell, I’m sorry about your arthritis. Comedy recaps have reached flash cartoons. You’re ancient, and dying. The dust in your once-vital veins has hardened into disdain for new music. These are the last punchlines before your knees and grandchildren betray you. Enjoy them.

As for infants/mummies: Newgrounds was the mothership for animated violence and pornography. But unlike Crunchyroll, all independent. Zero-Suit Samus vs. Normal Ayane was a labor of love, made with negative hope of ROI. A ruthless voting system trained creators for industries run by demons.

They also had an elite slogan:

Short, distinct, and true. Much too true. Today, we call their worst excesses “internet culture.” Skimming mobile game ideas from Newgrounds kept the laziest, most lootbox-friendly studios alive. Similarly, the flash portal showed how much free-floating talent existed, and how little you could pay them. Finally, low-wit and high-invective game parodies were a generous cultural warning.

In 2006, they picked up a friendlier motto:

Boo. Miss me with that. Alienation was a feature: Newgrounds had gamers attempting art films, art students attempting Mario jokes, and madmen landing art films about Mario. Other sites gave us “Everything, By Everyone” and killed the future. When the last Facebook clone dies, I’m dancing to the Ewok victory song, and posting it nowhere.

Over time, some people got good. The chosen evolved from detention stick figures to expulsion films. YouTube has hints of that, but tends to stunt creative growth at fourteen. And personal growth. And dating habits.

Today, Newgrounds echoes a pre-betrayal DeviantArt. Still a hub for violence and porn, but with blogs and no plans to feed you to SHODAN. We’ll focus on violence today, since my porn tastes are private.

That said, I have centuries of action movies saved in a folder called “Homework.” Newgrounds deserves some credit as a gateway drug for punching. Many of you were active users, the memories are just locked behind a trigger phrase. Let me help.

Recess. Computer Lab. Line Rider. Pop-up. Hentai. Suspension. Recess. Computer lab. Site blocked. Boredom. Facebook. Brain death. Cambridge Analytica. Imperial decline. Terminate Mark Z.

Anyway, Bunnykill.

On a mortal site, I’d recap Madness Combat, a crossover hit among guidance counselor regulars. But you’re Troom Troom survivors, so I have to cut deeper. Bunnykill took Madness Combat’s gimmick (side-scrolling mass murder) and replaced humans with rabbits.

Yes, rabbits.

Black-eyed, floppy-eared, bushy tailed rabbits.

I don’t know why, and I don’t have to. Grant Morrisson said kids are sharper audiences, since they take weirdness in stride. I see it. As a wordy class clown, I never asked why the endless assassins were rabbits. They just were. Now, as a taxpaying clown, I waste valuable rabbit-killing time with questions.

The author “Mottis” has no one to answer to or impress, so he could just like rabbits. Or despise them. Their shiny black eyes might inspire ageless hate, with animation alone keeping him off Greenpeace’s Most Wanted list.

Maybe it’s branding: plenty of artists remade the Crazy 88 fight without money or feet. Bunnykill bet that adding rabbits stood out enough for coverage twenty years later. Advantage, Bunnykill.

For my money, rabbits soften the genre. The taboos around pet-murder are strong, but flimsier than those for neighbors. Dogs are a likely exception, but I’ve never owned anything larger than a football. And after this article, I can only buy pets in international waters.

Now, Bunnykill’s a deep pull. I think only three other people saw-

Nevermind.

So far, I’ve played keep-away with my attitude towards Bunnykill. Is it finger-wagging time? Are we looking at our shoes and reflecting on animal cruelty? Pushing web culture’s nose in a carpet stain and saying “This is why you don’t get Beetleborgs?”

This kicks ass.

Or at least peaks high. We’ll walk through Bunnykill 3, the crowd favorite. The first Bunnykill is a bit of edgy fluff. You can see an unmedicated spark, but the creator’s still figuring out keyframes.

Bunnykill 2’s better, but it’s not in space. The visuals are smoother, the music’s almost listenable, and the fisticuffs pick up the rapid pace uniting Superfighters, Japanese Spider-Man, and pre-McMahon Nakamura. It’s just held down by gravity.

Bunnykill 3’s on the moon. I can’t waste your time elsewhere.

You’ll notice the same hero/survivor in each shot. This walking PETA shelter’s name is Snowball, which doesn’t matter. You’re better off memorizing Steven Seagal quotes. Just know that he’s the white rabbit, a color that stands out against chrome and gore.

How’d Snowball get from Nameless Karate Forest to Named Karate Moon? Also irrelevant. Bunnykill entries have negative continuity, which is correct. Retaining Bunnykill lore is a cry for help. Returning viewers should think “Ah, so I didn’t dream this.”

Granted, there’s an opening crawl.

Absolutely not. I refuse. We live in the future, with video timelines and streamlined rights. And Mottis misspelled “threat” twice. Only comedy writers will remember “Doctor Sludge,” while the sane world jumps ahead.

Bunnykill 3’s the first time I can tell Mottis likes rabbits, and not in the Lola Bunny sense. He finds this spin cute. Which is still wholly deranged, but a much nicer asylum. Take this guard napping through the local apocalypse:

Or Snowball’s reaction to peeling a gun off a fresh corpse stack:

That’s an “Oh boy, pellets!” face. Or at least intended as such. Snowball’s based on the animator’s pet, adding a hint of love to the Wuxia plot armor. I get that. My first manuscript was called Mr. Claws Goes to Congress, and parole won’t let me summarize it. Mr. Claws and Snowball had a lot in common.

Again, Bunnykill 3’s best asset is speed. Snowball’s lasered his next victim before your brain or conscience processed the last kill. I could crack wise about no one having arms or two character traits. But this is, again, basement cinema. Using Adobe software, which actively resists mankind.

By the time the cliffhanger comes around, we’ve beaten an NFL game’s body count:

As for events, Snowball covers a space sequel’s bases: find a lightsaber, riff on the Death Star infiltration, and try robot murder to keep things fresh. The robot murder doesn’t go too well.

In the first half, at least. Seven minutes were uploaded as Bunnykill 3, Part 1. Then the creator fucked off for two years.

Life gets in the way. That’s a risk anywhere, but particularly common in amateur animation, professional comics, and campaign promises. The alternative’s artistic prison, and that tends to break people.

Bunnykill 3, Vol. II hit in 2007, after earthbound terrorism’s defeat. But the threat persisted in space. We open with Snowball looking good and dicked:

Honestly? Nice breakthrough for a Flash rampage. Few things dilute action like invincible leads. Mercifully, Bunnykill 1’s final boss shows up to steal the kill.

I hear you: he resembles Snowball with sunglasses. But he’s actually Snowball with sunglasses and two guns. That’s two hedgehog’s worth of changes, or at least a half-Luigi.

The logic within the short? Jack-all. But RPG rules were a given on Newgrounds. You beat the boss, you got the summon. It’s the closest users came to understanding friendship. Naturally, the rest of this fever dream’s a tag match.

Bunnykill’s disturbing if your sanity fills a thimble. But I enjoy watching someone on the fringe grow, high art or otherwise. And violence. But mostly independent creativity. With beheadings.

Luckily, I only saw this during my most formative years. Bunnykill’s audience just aged into possible presidents, but it’s out of our systems now. Just hand over the nuclear codes and sleep well.

Conservative parenting must be tough, being human culture’s dead weight and all. Now imagine finding this on the kids’ devil-box. You’d pay an exorcist’s installment plan. The well-meaning amateurs at purity camp wouldn’t be enough.

Now Newgrounds animators have their own kids. The site turns thirty in two years. Which reminds me: I’ll die eventually. Maybe even soon! Time to get started on a pyramid. I was worried about all the whipping, but now I’m thoroughly desensitized. I just hope I reach as many minds and watchlists as Bunnykill.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Greg Cunningham, who died playing Line Rider. Some say if you put your ear to a Dell you can still hear Mrs. Tabbett give him detention.