Author: Dennard Dayle

Nerding Day: The Book of Lives🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 07/22/2025
4 Comments on Nerding Day: The Book of Lives🌭

I want enlightenment, but I don’t want to think about stuff or get rid of my stuff or be nicer to anyone or read about dead monks or embrace suffering or stop drinking or fund less famine or date less or lose more than a suggested donation. Can anyone help, preferably quickly and on my phone?

YouTube’s a start. They’ve thrown away countless chances, so they must be pretty detached. Hopefully my feed takes a break from eugenics vlogs, and tosses in some spiritual awakening.

Stay frosty, we’re not out of the woods yet. GeneTubers spam AI art too. The Tool cover look’s a good sign, but the MaxxiaCast may be another truck stop on the sage’s path.

Now I’m worried. Games offer artful, mind-expanding fun. Far too life-attaching. You might as well have kids or a dream. Also: our hosts sound like a Borg divorce.

Ah, I see why this sounds robotic. It is. Behold: an AI podcast advertising a New Age self-help book. Five layers of me not giving a shit in one sentence. Elite detachment. We’ve found the real deal.

Our AI hosts, Nameless and Also Nameless, love the shit out of The Book of Lives. But in a messy, non-specific way. You lose track of what they’re praising or why. I’d swipe at gaming podcasts here, but The Maxxiacast misses that standard. The uploader, Rutibex, is marvelously detached from effort.

Though Rutibex might disagree. His “Anti-Anti-AI Rant” indulges worldly ego. And tears. First, the cover art shows off his craft:

Then, he flaunts the power of an LLM-enhanced mind:

Ah, swastika-free game drama. Breathe in the nostalgia.

I’d summarize Rutibex’s non-career here if I were immortal. Sadly, I have countless fuckups to fix before rebirth. Suffice to say, he likes robots and half-plagiarizing rpgs. This plays poorly in game design clubs, where they expect you to design games.

He goes on for a while.

Like many martyrs, Rutibex defies mortal thrones. The air of a master’s unmistakable—he lacks all fear of embarrassing himself to death. If anyone can teach us to stop giving a shit and lie flat, it’s Rutibex.

Phenomenal. Rutibex has to laze out because of capitalism. A difficult technique: I told a date capitalism made me late, and now I’m spending Friday with The Book of Lives. I’ve had better luck using it at work, where my boss helped me put all my stuff in a box. I bet it’ll fly even better in court.

Our guru can deny his powers all day—he’s our man. I’m ready for A.I.-enhanced apathy. Let’s play the Pamphlet of Reincarnation, or whatever it’s called. I’m not checking, that’s off-tone.

Here’s the cover:

Perfect for your dorm, if you’ve detached from taste. It says “I’ve heard of drugs, but can’t find parties with them.” While an untrained soul would press “Retry,” Rutibex takes what the universe gives. The byline says Michael, but that might be Grok mangling “Dave” or “Hack.” Though without swastikas, it’s probably Midjourney.

Personally, I prefer his pen name. Michael’s one of those tryhard C-suite angels that worked all the time. Unrelatable, really. Rutibex freely redefines sloth with MadLibs splat books. And when he got tired of checking class tables, The Book of Lives.

Time to play.

Ah, apologies. Time for schtick. Meet Malidrex, a name straight from the highs and lows of fantasy. The enlightened don’t write highs.

Malidrex is Rutibex’s…Rutibex. Rutibex writes himself in as an invincible wizard, across multiple games. When Midjourney finally warns users against this, we’ve reached the singularity. Until then, Malidrex has opinionated shoes. Classic, like crazy ex-girlfriends crossing the airport.

We’ve detached from comedy. A skeptic might compare the mirror to Midjourney. I prefer trust. There’s no meaning here beyond the ashes of webcomic comedy, and this is the non-template part of the book. This corpse manzai’s more human than anything that follows. Raw wisdom from our master’s forehead. Bask in it.

Now we can play.

I’d question cribbing Brahmin for DriveThruRPG chum, but I’m on the powergaming honor roll. My brain’s locked on shortcuts to God’s right hand. Once I’m there, I’ll pile on save-or-die spells. I’m not kidding. When I joined the team, I promised to breach hell. Good job, me. The new goal’s to hug God.

I’m not being crass for kicks, I just think God has nice shoes. Where do you think he got them? Don’t look so nervous, it’s not like he’s listening.

Rock me, Rutibex.

This is unbelievably fucking stupendous! I’m a rock. Look at all that rock copy Rutibex peeled from an LLM! I’d find it moving, if I weren’t a rock. An immortal, satisfied entity. Are we already enlightened? The rest of The Book of Lives might be pointless. More pointless, I mean.

Now what?

Elegant: only three pages of charts. Unless you count the charts attached to each life. Then we’ve got two hundred pages of charts. Rutibex shed the brain cells needed to overcomplicate this. Overcomplicate this more. I respect muddling potential themes with both roleplay choices and rolling. Otherwise, he might’ve accidentally said something about life.

It’s simple: first we make a moral choice. Which doesn’t matter much, since we roll our karma change. Which doesn’t matter much, because we roll to determine our next life. In short: I’ll handle the anti-gameplay off the page. You enjoy math-free enlightenment.

Rolling. I’d grab a real d10 from the pile, but effort feels off-message.

Woo!

Dicks.

Punishment Level? What, because I made shitty gravel? Someone skinned their knees, and now I’m on a debt spiral to hell? See why I want to chat with the boss?

Oh, I’m after colonial enlightenment. The formatting’s inconsistent, but that comes with the territory. Precious, precious territory. I’ll hit more hospitals next round.

I don’t spend much time in casinos.

A wild boar, right between “street dog” and “mosquito.” No picture this time, since generative tokens cost money, and greed pollutes the soul. Or Rutibex forgot. Anyway, it’s worse to be a freer, stronger, less starving animal than a street dog. When I know why, I’ll be the master.

We’ve stumbled into a heartwarming children’s feature. Let’s get this proxy family going before award season.

I think the robot understands karma. I’m less sure about Rutibex.

For once, I’m not dicking around. My luck’s just like this. I’m a former clumsy boar. Or FDA chair.

You can’t fool me twice. It’s lunch time. I’m just following my nature, like…

…a Predator at a paintball game. Let’s eat the bird. If it deserved better, it would’ve rolled better.

A feature the robot broke: some choices cause a flat karma shift, followed by random nonsense rolls. This makes more sense, feels more like a game, and could fit the whole book with minimal effort. Instead, Rutibex reflects on time. We are lucky to bask in his light.

Though I might be guilty of AI-phobia. This oversight could be all human.

COME ON. I’m holding the bag for the whole forest? Soldier ants have eaten campers since I was a rock.

Enlightenment’s starting to piss me off. Here’s our new reincarnation:

Jack-fucking nothing.

Our Karma Score’s at “Nuclear Fallout,” which sounds pretty funny. Sadly, it doesn’t exist in the book. The machine forgot. Rutibex’s LLM-enhanced creativity transcends print: we’re contemplating the void, before even reaching The Void on page 315.

So it goes. This is the worst Fallout news since…

…my comic pitch fell through. But boy, wouldn’t filing off all the serial numbers be fun? I’d take that deal at VertImageHorsePress.

Rolling on.

Did I say bad at games? I mispronounced “living god.” In text, it happens. Dice melt to my touch in awe and lust. Let’s claim my new trophy fast, in case I Roman Cancel into enlightenment too early.

What an adorable lifetime of torment! Shame about Nurgle’s Rot. We sound like patient zero of something you catch in Vegas. Or the robot output for “SICK BAT ENGLISH NOPORN.” The art’s off-tone for a plague bat, but a perfect mascot for my winning streak.

No gloating yet. We have to confirm it.

Suck my ass, cosmic povvos! I’m all the way back up to “Feral Cat.” If that sounds unfair, it’s because your soul’s poor.

Now that I’m on a roll, I won’t bore you with my ascent’s details. I’m building generational karma, cutting off my bat-children, and taking it with me. I’ll return in five lives, somewhere between “Archangel” and “Archangel with Six-Pack.” Then we can chat with God.

Fucking how?

Sure, I see the dice. 1, 4, 14, 1, 3. Those aren’t normal numbers. There’s even a hope spot in the middle, just to enhance the sting. That’s not fair. I came for enlightenment, not to learn all life is suffering.

For the record: the light side has wonky non-art too, with less poorism. High-karma life paths look like Christian Galactus, with titles like Healer of Worlds or Unfucker of Climates. While Rutibex published 200 entries, he didn’t write 200 prompts.

Also: 100 years? What’s in the city sewage, stem cells?

A slight error. Off to double-hell we go.

Christ.

Though I’m not sure we respawned. This sucks, but it’s the same situation. Another golden morning in BezosCube 4. Rutibot’s punishment ideas amount to vine, animal, and poor. It doesn’t help that “Punishment Levels” mean nothing. A fancy robot would use our Karma score, but the master’s broke.

I blame the web dice. Hypocrites don’t go far in America, and I’ve bullied techpriests for years. I’ll roll the natural way: a mass-produced plastic tool. As Gaia intended. Or Buddha, right. We’re appropriating Buddhism today.

Oh, bullshit. Baldy’s covering for the demiurge. Ruling class solidarity strikes again.

Whose darksynth album cover is this? How did starving lead to triple hell? Did I hallucinate a hate crime before the crows found me?

The abyss asks questions with no answer, and less meaning. Fitting. A void of your own self loathing sounds just like….

…writing with a robot. I overestimated Rutibex. I thought detachment from ego fueled his work. Instead, he rages against shadowbans. He’s rigidly, firmly attached. If there’s a spark of talent within, we’ll never find out. And neither will he.

Tough one. Odd that a despair loop came up while someone stuck zombie art to zombie copy in a zombie game for a living audience that hates him. Guess his phone’s creative like that. For my part, I’ll log off.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jared MountainMan, a sentient machine from the 40k universe that spends eternities smashing LLMs to fuel his ships.

Tags AI Grift, Dennard Dayle, Free, games

NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Workplace Spells

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 07/15/2025
1 Comment on Nerding Day: Workplace Spells

Tags corporate drum circle, Dennard Dayle, Expecta HR, magick, so mote it be

UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: A Rebel Born: The Screenplay 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 07/08/2025
4 Comments on Upsetting Day: A Rebel Born: The Screenplay 🌭

Hey, Lochlainn! You self-search, right? No judgment, I indulge. I’ve read all my reviews twice. As another lunatic writing Civil War books, I get you more than most. Subject. Motive. Spirit. I approach your work with sympathy.

You suck.

You suck bad. You fight white power by breathing. You belong in schools as a warning. Reading made you dumber, history closed your mind, and writing made you a failure. You are the white man’s burden. You suck.

I’d like to help.

Though SEO’s dead, Lochlainn. At least in any subtle form, Lochlainn Seabrook. For you to see this, Lochlainn, I really need to drill the keywords in, Lochlainn Seabrooke, author of A Rebel Born: The Screenplay.

A Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic. Brilliant. Not your attempt, which reads like taint cancer feels. But the idea has legs. Let’s turn your taint lead into taint gold. Take my hand, and you’ll have propaganda for humans, instead of the roaches in your sheets.

Consider it. I see you have high hopes for the project:

You want to reach Hollywood.

You want to reach Hollywood badly. Enough to ride Forrest’s corpse there. I respect both. Forced labor for a doomed cause is Forrest’s Valhalla.

You need Hollywood. You see something beautiful, and can’t connect with it. You’re involuntarily filmless. Ripe for help from a talented lifestyle coach. I’m here to save your dream.

Shame you’ve already dicked up your dream. Producers are busy people. The logline’s your one chance to skip the shredder, and you shoved a hand in. “War for Southern Independence” says your brand is “fucking loser.” You’d call this movie bombing “The Flight of Money from MGM.”

That said, Braveheart‘s a nice comp. I’m sure Mel Gibson would dig this. Honestly, he’s this draft’s best shot. If I get any garbled threats, I’ll kick you his address.

Looks like we agree: you’re a desperate failure who needs a jacked guru. And lucky. I don’t have shame or a shirt. Don’t worry about fucking up this pitch—we’ll change the title from “A Rebel Born” to anything else. Random letters might work. Roll your face along the keyboard and see where your muse goes. I’ll fix it later.

Besides, your fuckup gives us a base to work with. Great sculptures start with blocks of frozen pig shit. We’ll start by cutting “Notes for the Reader,” where you fold again.

What kind of weak pre-apology is this? You’ve doomed this minstrel show before it started. Gentlemen don’t apologize in advance, or at all. By acknowledging your shame, you’ve already lost. Nathan would take your hood for that flub.

You wrote a Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic. Strangle the shame within, Lochlainn. It’s too late. You’ll only survive if your hate is pure. Like Nathan’s.

Granted, we see Nate differently. On Earth-One, he massacred black prisoners and became the first grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. As soon as “head racist” became a job, he won it. When Nate wandered into the bigot’s guild, they fell silent and whispered “The Crackerborn Lives.”

On Earth Two, you know the same shit but love it. Lock in.

At least your script starts with a double homicide. Nathan handles a complaint over his uncle’s debt with heroic grace.

Hey, Nice. For a shining moment you’re on point. Nathan’s Frank Castle for petty cash. Or as Nathan called it, honor. A fine vehicle for antihistory, until he starts talking later. For now, he faces relatable, sympathy-building consequences.

Hey, not bad! Our audience rewards most rampages, especially near legislatures and hospitals. Work more of those in later. But this intro’s light on white pride. We’re crafting Captain America for people that skip speech balloons. You know, American Sniper, but grounded.

Hey, boring! We don’t need the Jesus act. Nathan really shouldn’t do anything but kill, quip, and tower over mongrels. All at once, when possible. Focus up.

Hey, garbage! Pure “everyone clapped” filler. I’m disappointed, and I *already hated you.* But that’s why our team works. I’m your perfect reader. Not because I read Civil War stuff. That’s the biggest strike against me. Because of anime. I love deviant cartoons about shit that never happened. It also helps that I’m black. Your ego’s cracked glass, which can make teaching tough. Since I’m not a person, I can be honest without you going down the road instead of across the street.

A Rebel Born’s big problem, other than historical blah or moral whatever, is aping every other biopic. They already blow. We haven’t made a good one in eons, and you’re not the guy to fix that. But there’s a fresh spark when you stop pretending slavery never happened or Lincoln invented it, and start pretending it was dope.

You’re so close, Lochlainn. Drop “servant.” *Commit to your premise.* They’re slaves, and they love it. They were never good enough for anything else. They’ll never be president, unless they’re clones from Uganda. *Commit.*

There’s a pure gem of inventive hate hiding here. Material the “Fuck Your Feelings” crowd would buy twice. And it’s *buried* beneath filler and half-assed brotherhood. Whole acts claim Forrest brought enough white hoods for everyone. What’s the point? Go all in, and make “Mandela” for people that hate “Mandela.”

Boring. Cut it.

Better, but I came to see stabbings, not recap them. Cut it.

The whole speech? Are you on coke? Treat this scene like a literate slaves’ hands.

I’ll be real with you Lochlainn. This script needs two things: action and racism. They are your only ideas. You’ve never had a third thought. You’ll never have a third thought. You’re the least talented voice in a genre with Rickey Pittman.

I knew I could smell a winner.

A start. I finally hear my ancestors screaming. But this is a screenplay. Give the doomed crew ways to convey all that *onscreen*. Say, a scene where he owns slaves respectably, or refuses to divide a family? I have no idea what that looks like, but you picked this angle. Bring it home. If you want racist Narnia, you have to build it.

Hell. Yes. I knew you had it in you. Look at this virtuoso coonery. I haven’t read tap dancing like this outside of a majority decision. It might be hard to shoot: humans can’t say this without bursting into flames or running for mayor. But it’s a screenwriting achievement.

An army of Black Republicans. Lochlainn, you’re not a genius. You’re barely an adult. But your ear for hate speech alone makes you a writer. Late America’s ready for this voice. *A Rebel Born 2.0* will be a crossover hit, once we swap out all the other text.

As for my values, what values? I’m on that CM Punk shit. It’s time to melt my beliefs into retirement.

More of this, and less of everything else. Especially Nate’s courtship. Mary Ann sucks. She sounds like you’ve never met a she-bigot in your life. Which I doubt, since you’re married. Sure, you don’t talk or fuck anymore. But grab a notebook the next time she’s yelling at a neighbor.

Good luck acting out those scare quotes.

Again: why half-ass it? Servants? What vertebrate shows up to a Nathan Bedford Forrest biopic to *forget* slavery? Or whitewash anything? Our audience loves whips and hates the future. Save doublethink for Oscar season. We’re after viewers banned from 2025 Twitter. Stop clinging to that last brain cell.

Another problem follows Mary Ann: hell exposition. Nathan explains national news to her like she’s a mine slave.

No master race talks like that. Or copes. There’s a baffling runner of teenage belles flirting with, intimidating, or tying up soldiers. I’d call you a nonce, but you wear your derangements on your sleeve. You just missed a day of housebreaking. Or you’re a nonce, whatever, there’s a lot to fix here. Cut them.

You’re wasting valuable Thunderbolts screentime. The Tap Elite have freemen to kill. If you think I’m looking for excuses to shit on you, yes. If you think I don’t respect your effort, yes. But the script comes alive during the action.

Impossible, as Greycoat Rambo should be. Again, action and racism. See how far a little craft goes?

Lochlainn, I’ve been hard on you here. I just want you to make enough money to stop writing. There’s one perfect gem in here, as is. Diamond, trailer-worthy bigotry. While I have thick skin, or a condition, I’ll never hear one song the same way again. Good thing this is a private letter, or I’d be spreading psychic anal warts.

This scene feels impossible. But my sister confirmed it’s real before blocking me. Well done, Lochlainn. You should be proud. Not of the content, it’s a fucking disaster. Abortion bans might put you in jail. Just that you finished. Typing “roll” would have killed an artist. You’ll never have that problem.

Now, to make sure you get this, I’ll add some of your favorite searches. Lochlainn. Lochlainn, genius. Micropenis. Micropenis, why? Micropenis cure. Micropenis acceptance. Belle. Southern Belle. Young Southern Belle. Younger belle. Very young belle no FBI. Stop FBI. STOP FBI NOW. Dershowitz. Dershowitz advice. Dershowitz, hero. Dershowitz, donate. 1000 year old dragon belle. 1000 year old belle, complimenting penis. 1000-year-old belle, laughing at penis. Save the Cat. Dishonest Abe. Dishonest Abe, wife. Dishonest Abe laughing at penis.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Cerril, who also has a movie idea, but it involves a time traveling horse that shoots lasers from his dick.

Tags civil war, Dennard Dayle, Free, racism, screenplays

LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Honest Jeff and Dishonest Abe

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 07/01/2025
3 Comments on Learning Day: Honest Jeff and Dishonest Abe

Tags abe lincoln, books, civil war, Dennard Dayle, liberal socialist nightmare

FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Sperm Races 🌭

Fucking Month continues.

Is your semen jacked? Wait, that’s idiotic. No adult wastes a first thought on cumlifts. Even MacFadden skipped to infant gains. Fretting over semen hypertrophy makes the guards waste two tranquilizers on one patient. Rude.

Is your semen fast? Agile? Cardio’d up? Does it inject hard work until cars look slow? Motility’s big in male fertility and SAT vocabulary, and one is in troubling decline. Let’s read about Sperm Racing to lock the word in.

Cool. That’s BeastChild, the Gorilla Monsoon of Sperm Racing.

I just dig wrestling. It achieves the carnival vibe Sperm Racing covets, with better hosts, smarter viewers, healthier ties to reality, and less empty machismo. Better graphics too: despite the barrage of puns, Sperm Racing’s logo features neither tail nor testicle.

The creators’ jokes peaked with the title, leaving me a two-hour cadaver.

Don’t expect sleight of hand today. Sperm racing exists, and pits two cups against each other. The jizz that wanders a set distance first wins. Or rather, the proud father wins solvency. Not bad, with bootstraps replacing scholarships.

That’s the champ, in a league of two. He won ten large for quality jizz. We’re not covering his match. The opening failure demands attention.

Sperm Racing’s buildup went bronze viral, and drew coverage from networks bored in Spring 2025. Reporting’s hard on Mars, you take what’s on your desk. The Sperm Race stream proudly touts press clips from TMZ, Breitbart, a local Chicago station, and bathroom puddles. Odd, since those non-sources aren’t exhaustive. Plenty of non-punchline outlets shared my bile fascination. I’d call the list sabotage, but it’s just screened for tone. Sneers look bad to sponsors, and objectivity looks worse.

Note: it’s called “Sperm Racing” not “The Great Sperm Race” or “The One-Time Embarrassment.” The name implies a league. Fandoms, player strikes, and cum-enhancing drugs. There’s only been one event, but the site has ambition. Fair, since DraftKings is days away from bets on surgery.

The copy’s flow and improv punctuation feel familiar, if you’re into documentaries about scams. Venture capital bait has its own language. To the untrained ear, it sounds like keys jangling before infants. Untrained ears work fine.

Grab a free kit, and you can send your sperm stats to strangers for the chance to be humiliated on Twitch. Sweet, sweet attention. Sorry, that’s unfair. The first race is archived on Kick (another day) and YouTube. Where, despite the initial hype, the launch race sits at 100k views. Great for a person, but far behind backer’s hopes.

Why? Because your cum’s no good. From the Sperm Racing manifesto:

An insult to other cranks. Testosterone panic fuels entire empires. To become Real Men, kids that look like Goku inject their way to Broly. Before my next anime joke, Alex Jones will buy two cars and zero medication.

I hear typing. Here, there’s a fork in the road. I waste my sperm-given life trading studies of studies. Or I say that typing kills your sperm. Phones, laptops, desktops, typewriters: all state-sponsored jizz famine. Every word in my inbox is spermicide. Can you carry that guilt? Rivers of seminal fluid on your hands, while history watches? Or will you piss off?

Cumpower is the 283rd dumbest ongoing panic, and that’s a tough bracket. Breaking the Top 500’s hard when your cousin thinks red dye causes sin. To be clear: fertility problems suck, and a hundred crises are imploding in unison. Liars and/or lunatics add fantasy to the pile. It’s the Renaissance of fraud.

Wait, forget that gag. There’s already a podcast. Instead, I’ll simplify things with a little education. Here’s a documentary on the birth of the hoax industry. We joke around here, but history matters.

See? History’s fun. You barely have to tell jokes.

With VC backing and a pet cause, Sperm Racing’s only half ironic. Adding significant pain. Synthetic mania’s perfectly doable—just ask Sacha Baron Cohen or Sarah Palin. But failure eats joy. Recall the ass vortex Sharknado profits opened. The vast landfills of fake Birdemics. Watching someone piss themselves and stutter “Get it?” sucks. Artists piss themselves stone-faced or screaming. My point: don’t wear nice sneakers to open mics.

But one talent’s special. None of the revenants onscreen, they’re a gallery of Twitch p-zombies. Eric Zhu, the early face of this dumbfuckery, may be the Mozart of dick fear. We get to watch this young nightmare grow.

A high schooler invented Sperm Racing, and I’m so fucking proud of him. I hate Eric’s viewers, sponsors, comment section, adult collaborators, parents, history/science/english teachers, friends close enough to tell him otherwise, and YouTube recommendations. But defend this child. He grifts at a postgrad level. I know he’ll be back, many times. This car crash evokes a clown in a pimp suit robbing his first bank.

April 25, Hell Year 5. Two warlords clash for the first time.

The ritual begins at the commentary desk. BeastChild stands between two student announcers–one from USC, one from UCLA. BeastChild’s a living warning for the path they walk. The path of Attention. We’re in LA, where better announcers make up the full adult population and most children. But we have BeastChild.

BeastChild says this is all about health, before cutting to confused spectators. They have the energy of a nightclub line in the rain. Sperm Race models wander around our second commentary team: Nina Lin and Rhino. Nina’s a TikTok comic that does better than that implies. She’s loud and can finish stupid thoughts. Rhino is…present. He may think this is UFC. When he pushes himself, Rhino can *start* stupid thoughts, which Nina staples dick jokes to.

Two races fill two hours, because they didn’t think this through. It’s long. Sperm Racing would be more focused, dynamic, and dignified if you watched the subjects make the sample. No one called Rhino can shit talk for two hours.

The Wildcard–that’s liar for undercard–stars Jimmy Zhang and Noah Boat.

A celebrity match adjusted for Sperm Racing LA’s budget and audience. There are investors, and I’m sure Eric’s hot tub is thankful. We’re running on favors and fumes.

Jimmy Zhang’s a longtime YouTuber. The Truman Show type one knows too much or nothing about. If I describe him, the data will simply flow around you like water. His morons wear white.

Noah Boat’s a less prominent YouTuber. He makes sketches you shouldn’t give a fuck about. Sperm Racing’s a slick career move: it’s his first video that I’d watch without a hostage. His morons are black.

In normal black clothes, which look dull next to cum ninjas. Commitment is all Sperm Races have, yet only one team gets to rep sperm. Shame. Maybe each jelqer could use white as a base color, with different highlights? Watching both men pose, you see why Joji quit while he was ahead.

Fuck that. I’m here for scalps, and the main eventers needed fakes to get in. I’ve watched geniuses their age snort Splenda for free. Junior victims are for our noble allies—I’ll focus on the two dumbfucks in their thirties. Especially the non-dumbfuck.

See, I can’t read people. So when a bit of behavior hits me, I assume it’s extra obvious. Jimmy knows this blows. That Sperm Racing never had a chance. All three brain cells are in revolt. But there’s a full cum marathon ahead, and a vlogger always shows up.

Every word tonight will haunt him at random. Flubs in classrooms or trendy bars can linger, but they aren’t a Sperm Race. You didn’t hand-write Nut King on a paintball vest. Sperm Racing is a failure you sign twice for and watch approach at gamete speed.

Uh-huh.

Noah Boat, conversely, goes by Noah Boat. We’ve found his home. It comes up that they’re off-camera friends (to the extent such things exist), and Noah pitched this to Jimmy four days ago. You now have streamer knowledge. After all the Nazi coloring books and dark magic, that’s the worst thing I’ll dump on your brain.

Both chess teams have rap walkouts. The kind Nas named an album after. But Noah’s walkout includes a *live* rapper. If you’ve watched suplexes, you know he’s fucked. His sperm will be powerbombed into retirement. Live themes are funeral dirges. I’m not calling Sperm Racing rigged: then it’d be watchable. Two hours engaging, pre-planned drifting. Live downfall soundtracks are closer to a law of nature.

Honestly? The guy has a lot of energy. It’s some kind of superpower. He and Nina might outlive us all.

He’s tonight’s best performance, sprinting through standard dick jokes. Hold that thought for later.

The face off begins, and the audience dies. This could be a Sperm Spelling Bee. Nina and Rhino, but really just Nina, grill the Racers about their prep for the Sperm Races. Fast times. Here’s the tale of the tape:

Stirring. If it helps, imagine Noah as the jizz heel. He debates the cum doctor (there’s a cum doctor, let’s keep it moving) over cold plunges, which seems like a debate the racers should have with each other. Once again: I’m not calling this rigged. I’m saying it should be.

Then the weigh-in drama peaks.

A water gun! You know, with white stuff. Maybe even a semisolid!

Once you’re done laughing, we’ll start the sperm race.

Just kidding, there’s impossible sums of filler. Sperm Racing makes baseball look dense. Interviews, hype trailers, and dead banter bury the crowd in sloth. The hosts wither. Less through incompetence, more through mandatory talking. There’s no material. They essentially commentate air.

I’m skipping it, save three points.

One: in 2025, you can’t use “Gotta Fly Now” or “Dreams & Nightmares” in a hype trailer. Or anything. I know the effect you wanted. If you asked me to define positive masculinity, I’d say “Dreams & Nightmares at 4 AM.” But it’s old news. The depth of cliche sinks beyond anti-humor. Dig deeper, angel investors expect more. If you can’t find the motivation, try “Dreams & Nightmares” at 4 AM.

Two: Nina and Rhino have a great segfault discussing the ring girls. Each expects the other to land the commentary ship. Neither does. They drift near respect, leering, chiding the cameramen, and nothing. A journey from the words “Don’t look too hard,” to mock-horny “Shit, I’m so confused.”

Three: in the pre-walkout nothing, the Static Duo ask how much people have bet. The highest number I caught was fifteen thousand. Likely bullshit. But I don’t know, and that makes this year special.

Then the sperm race begins.

Then the sperm race ends.

Noah’s sperm have the motility of mud. This sport may inspire a new condom protest: “We don’t need that. I’m a Sperm Race jobber. I carry the Brooklyn Brawler of sperm. My sperm trash-talks successful zygotes from burner accounts. You’re more likely to get pregnant from the wind.”

The crowd roars into silence, again. And this event looks pricey. They could’ve paid to watch people fight, fuck, or run on a life-sized track. Or a triathlon, with the right connections. Instead, they watched 16-bit semen shuffle along a monochrome diagram.

The starting gate sort of resembles a dick, which is something. Though not enough to convince the masses an animated jizz-off was worth an LA Saturday. We’re close to the first sperm riot. The dead crowd is, far and away, my favorite character.

The disgraced exile, Noah Boat, enters the punishment chamber. Nickelodeon jokes are competitive, but there’s really no other comparison. He gets slimed, and everyone tries their best cum jokes. It’s a mess. If you start the Sperm Olympics with an impregnation kink, you’ll leave vanilla.

Thus, the fertility crisis ends. Every spring, a new sacrifice will enter the Bukkake Man. Thank you, Sperm Racing, for preserving the human harvest.

Commentary struggles before, during, and after the race. This event is vapor. The track’s an unfinished screensaver. Even alchemists need lead to make gold. But there’s one ray of light.

I’ve come this far by staying honest. So I’ll tell you when I laughed with, not at, a Sperm Racing host. As Jimmy Zhang pulls ahead, Nina Lin belts “CCP! CCP!” with all the power in her blaccent. It works. I laugh. For a moment, I imagine my tone today changing.

Then it’s back to the trash talk. I die with the audience.

Noah hints at a rematch. He won a test race that may or may not exist, and tries to book the division from the stage. No reaction, though Noah does a fine job proving cum races mean nothing. Nina asks if we’d like a rematch. Echoes. She shouts the same idea, and some kind souls murmur. Not “yes,” just sound.

You couldn’t ask for better sabotage. Until the halftime show.

They got Ty Dolla $ign.

Somehow.

“This should be fun,” I thought. “Ty’s got enough collabs to match any mood, even the Cumite.”

Thus far, I think I’ve been fair. Nina shouts well. Rhino simply exists, like a leaf in the wind. BeastChild hurts less than death. Know that I’m not reaching for laughs here: Ty shits the bed. At an event an inch short of public ejaculation, he is the most embarrassing figure. I’m baffled. It shouldn’t be fucking possible. Noah Boat looks better. BeastChild looks better, simply by trying.

I can ramble about panics, online fitness, and offline graft all day. The most provable lesson here is “don’t hire Ty Dolla $ign.” He came to the Cum Olympics broken. There’s an ED joke here, but that implies desire. There’s a premature ejaculation joke here, but that implies effort. There’s a lip-syncing joke here, but that implies his mouth moved. The man dies. This is the saddest performance I’ve seen, and I’ve waited for Lauryn Hill twice.

I don’t blame him.

Thus ends the undercard. Come to think of it, the opener really robs the main event of history. If/when this succeeds, the first Sperm Champion has an asterisk.

In fact, unease might eat away at the Sperm Champion. *He’s* still out there, undermining each victory. The uncrowned prince of Kleenex. Each defense gets a little messier. Until, finally, at the edge of sanity, the champ takes a needless risk against an unranked, aging underdog. To decide the first, truest, Unified Cum Champion. Also, it’s a three-way race with The Masked Jelqer, who won a title shot at Sperm in the Bank. The enigma has Noah’s height, voice, and sperm scent.

See how much better fake races would be?

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Koumoutsas, who pitched the idea of a five man ejaculation chamber, WWE style, but was quickly outvoted.

Tags Dennard Dayle, Free, sperm, Sports, Wholesome Family Fun

FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Virgin Island 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 06/17/2025
1 Comment on Fucking Day: Virgin Island 🌭

Ready for virgin conversion therapy?

No, not that one.

While comics are God’s only gift to his stepchildren, TV’s from his competition. Especially, reality TV, which broadly exists on this grid:

Somehow, freeform comfort’s generated the most evil. Look that up if Virgin Island feels too uplifting.

Season One just wrapped up. Design’s just ahead of dignity in Channel 4’s priorities. While I’ve never written a style guide for anything but [REMOVED BY REQUEST OF NABISCO CORPORATION], Channel 4’s first rule should be “don’t imply three more seasons of this crime.” Or for Naked Attraction, eight less.

Enjoy the chart, it took far too long to make. Are there infinite exceptions? Sure. The genre’s at war with mankind, and conflict drives invention. But this frame helps me understand Virgin Island. It’s unstructured cruelty. Instigation-Torture. The bottom right of an alignment grid. Chaotic Evil.

Then again, I’m as biased as the rest of the sanity lobby. Let’s check that joke against the opening voiceover:

Ah! For the fiftieth time since starting here, I’m wrong. Not about Channel 4 serving hell. On that point, I’m like a fucking laser. But about what this isn’t.

Embarrassing oversight, really. This is clearly Virgin Extinction Island. Channel 4 made a real Virgin Extinction Island. Legal just trimmed down the title.

How? Who? Why?

If Shinso taught us anything, it’s that some jokes feel less evil before you start typing. If he taught us a second thing, it’s the power of fuck panic. Too much might be well-worn, but too little’s a thriving new industry.

Our cast’s tired of shame. To fix this, the Secret Eaters channel won’t. The process of not helping involves an isolated compound, identical uniforms, and fucking what?

The edit highlights nervous jokes about cults, which tracks. Not for liability or PR cover, but audience sympathy. I’d judge an easy Virgin Island mark far more harshly than any romantic washout. Cult detection should’ve joined Sex Ed a decade ago.

Our virgins are between 22 and bullshit, pause. Maybe 22 doesn’t make you Casanova, but half the cast can’t rent a boat to Virgin Island. Which is a Croatian resort, in case you thought Channel 4 cared enough to commit to the pun. Bemoaning your virginity at 22 makes you a boring oversharer instead of a sad one. Half the cast could stumble into Otakon and leave with herpes. The other half bleeds trauma that cameras won’t help. Spoilers.

And the oldest player’s thirty, barely brushing wizard years. Anyone following the issue or arguing online knows isolation has far more range. On Hinge, I’ve met two separate [REMOVED BY REQUEST OF MATCH GROUP]. There should be contestants old enough to hire, harass, and pay damages to this cast. But pending lawsuits are our hosts’ domain. Meet the founders of The Somatica Institute:

Danielle and Celeste. They’re going to jail. Not for this, but for whatever comes next. The trajectory from self-help books to Virgin Island ends in prison. The Somatica Institute trains dating coaches, a pastime that fuels more state failure than the CIA.

They’re both sex doctors. Well, Danielle’s a sex doctor. Celeste has a master’s and glasses. Both picked Channel 4 after Sex Box, so they’re either idiots or demons. With three advanced degrees between them, I lean toward horns.

Danielle’s dissertation adds some flavor: she studied orgasmic birth, a non-euphemism for easing childbirth through orgasms. Which have the extra-euphemism birthgasms. Sure. Then her webpage (shared with Celeste’s thirst traps) inches toward natural birth without diving in, and backs away from orgasms inducing labor. There are books to sell, and skeptic money’s green. My point is less the maternity ward foreplay, and more that Danielle’s views drift towards wealth. A doctor for sale. Or, as we called them in ads, a doctor.

Though that doesn’t matter here.

See? That’s Celeste. She’s therapizing him. Viral dry humping will save this patient’s dates off the compound. Assuming he survives the meteor, you know how flexible prophecies are. And not everything’s about money. Some are about fame. That slander’s from ruthless satirist Celeste Hirschman:

Brutal. Per the new Juvenal, Celeste shares her patients’ penchant for wanting so badly it becomes unnerving. As a kinder soul, I’d just say she’s been in Hollywood for five minutes and gone native.

That’s Danielle. Edging virgins is her business, and business films in a tax haven. After four books and thirteen years of practice, The Somatica Institute has sex down to fondling patients until they feel confident or come out. It’s a bit of horseshoe theory with how pastors see modern life.

Granted, this is TV, and it’s not my field. So I’ll hedge this: the presentation makes Danielle and Celeste look like hacks mining fame by milking the desperate, repressed, and traumatized for viewers that find the pain and failure in Saw too artful, spawning six episodes grimmer than an LAPD GoPro.

Wait, comedy! Do-over! You know how fat camp owners have normal relationships with people and food? Celeste and Danielle are like that.

Somatica’s big on workshops. Like watching Danielle grind with a surrogate.

Handy, right? That game’s called “Up Against the Wall,” and prepares you to get thrown out of a nightclub. The inmates fucking hate it, and it goes on.

Well, that might not be your question. A surrogate partner’s a sex therapist that fucks. Or rather, can fuck. Based on Virgin Island, half the job is knowing when to ease up, bail, or find a weapon. The rest is crunches. It’s all very Delany, and would have potential without eighteen reality tv cameramen in the room before, during, and after sessions. Danielle and Celeste keep three or four minions behind them during speeches, to keep ratings on track.

More on that later. I think these games are pretty helpful. Like the one where Celeste and Danielle grind.

Wait, that’s useless. It’s a pasty Sexxy Red video. How about the body positivity drill, where everyone takes turns stripping? Starting with Steve Rogers?

Wait, that’s useless. Let’s spread that insecurity out.

Wait, that’s useless. My memory’s clearly against us. I do remember some Crossfit. That probably cures social anxiety.

Fun, a decent burn, and useless. Lord knows I’m cutting after the confidence exercise, but chopping wood doesn’t help you fuck any more than fucking helps you chop wood.

One detail I’d have explored above, if joke structure wasn’t our One True God: during the stripping game, inmates keep full mic kits on. Lest production lose material. It’s easy to miss while Steve explains bigrexia naked. Only it’s a huge black box on this very uncensored show. A subtle hint that therapy might not come first on Virgin Island.

There’s some value here: I learned not to rush things. Spamming fighting game jokes the day I got WordPress left me unarmed today, as 12 caricatures fight to survive a lunatic’s island. Calling Celeste Shag Tsung trips on my lines from three other Channel 4 products. Maybe the nuns had a point, and I should’ve saved my Goro jokes for a special sex crime. Ah well.

The Zen Den is the four-armed dragon prince of motherfucker! Have a comic while I think.

That’s a black-hearted lie–I’m an unreliable narrator. A surrogate (I’ll explain) dry-humps him to in-pants completion halfway through the episode. Virgin Island had hotter plots to highlight. It all happens in The Zen Den.

Solid name, since Budda dug earthly desire. While I’ve never asked a Buddhist, machines think for people now and suck at it. I can freestyle. Horizontal dancing‘s a top five attachment for extra enlightenment. Thus, the hottest virgin edging goes down in The Zen Den.

That’s Zac. He’s fond of the Zen Den. The Zen Den’s less fond of him. Episode 5 tells a “Goofus and Gallant” story on how to treat your therapist/escort/partner. Dave, who you might remember from one of my thousand screencap comics, plays Gallant.

The producers need someone to fuck or fail, as the voiceover shamelessly reminds you. My fault, really. I complained too much about Naked Attraction lying. Now Virgin Island constantly whispers “Wouldn’t it be great if they fucked on the island?” I guess. As long as they find a broom closet without a hard cam. Which eliminates every broom closet and bathroom stall in The Zen Den.

Surrogate partners bond with inmates, exploring every act and memory you don’t want on Channel 4. Other networks could handle it. Whatever’s on Channel 5 can handle it. Channel 4 isn’t allowed within 200 feet of anyone.

Let’s check back in with Zac.

Zac is certain Kat (a surrogate) will let him fuck today. He’s done all his dry humping homework, and gotten stickers every episode. There’s just one snag: it’s episode five of six. That’s finale material. You know Zac’s dead before he leaves the hump hut, the only question is how.

In the Zen Den, Kat finds his eagerness…unbecoming.

Sorry, I forgot it’s Fucking Month. Subtlety dies on the wheel. Here, Zac sprints into presidential ass-entitlement. You can smell resentment through the screen. The staredown’s a full origin story for the island’s loudest, most outgoing, and least traumatized virgin. It’s a pleasant viewing experience, like driving an old screw into your kneecap. Everyone likes that, right? To appease the gods?

Zac won’t make it on the outside, and I don’t mean sex. This footage is a Vodou curse. Wherever he works next, it’ll be with a new name and a chip on his shoulder. Good luck, Blake.

Success gets cleaner presentation. Consider this screensaver shot of The Zen Den.

That’s the visual to Dave’s first handjob. Letting us focus on the audiobook.

I’ve been laughing for two weeks.

In defense of the Zen Den: people also talk, sometimes, before virgin edging. Some of it’s almost productive!

Still, karma frowns on Virgin Island’s intentions. For the first five episodes, the show bats 0-12. For all the discomfort and theater of dry-humping and virgin edging, no one loses anything but time. Danielle and Celeste actively fuck up trapping twelve horny, desperate young singles in paradise. It’s all very Snidely Whiplash Stops to Cheat. If Jerry hosted this, we’d be watching paternity tests.

I know this network. If someone doesn’t fuck soon, Channel 4’s taking a host’s pinky. Yakuza-style. Considering Channel 4’s relationship with details, they both might lose hands.

Mercifully, Dave paces himself. He finishes Kat’s dry-humping course without quoting anyone bald or elected. Unlocking normal humping. A moving tale of hovering near someone until they sleep with you.

The editors learn too—after the cartoon indignity of Dave’s first handjob, they add dignity to who am I fucking kidding?

To quote my live notes: “Please. You can’t.”

And yet it moans. What the fuck is wrong with this network? And this species? Why is Earth like this? You hear everything. Everything. I think there’s a fly in the room. I can’t tell you how much worse than a straight shot this is. Whatever empathic link lends this dignity must be visual, the radio’s hell.

The prestige: that backdrop’s another lie. They use a shot of the ocean, and a wave crashes when he busts.

We share this knowledge now. This peak in bullying history binds us. As crybullies drew slings and arrows, the hugbullies trained, built, and planned. The future is theirs, and Channel 4 is their herald.

Graduation time!

One inmate has fucked, which Zac’s live sex worker haggling negates. Still, three have come out despite Celeste’s focus on her reel. To celebrate the trio’s progress, and whatever the fuck the other nine got, it’s time for another fun game. A graduation game!

They write letters to future lovers. And read them on camera. I’m glad this isn’t a trap.

Clearly, everyone he knows needs to hear these. Especially future employers and partners. Virgin Island bleeds love for organics and their meat feelings. It’s mastered the empathy and growth equations. When steel replaces the weak, mourning will last entire seconds.

The sentiment’s fine. It’s just one final overshare. Another stab at growth that gets nothing from my involvement. Or the twin voiceovers, who sound like they’ve stolen each others’ tranquilizers.

Zac might sue.

No human’s letter should be seen, even in war. If you write to a future lover before a Predator, you’re fair game. They’ll use the shoulder launcher, just to make sure you don’t get past the comma.

Let’s try it.

After the poetry jam, the inmates take turns thanking Danielle and Celeste. Footage bound for a future filing. The editor backstabs Dave by cutting to Kat during his speech, right after “I want to thank you for the most unforgettable experience of my entire life.” The ocean spray was worse, but your brain buries that. This meanness lingers.

Zac thanks the hosts too! As footage of him terrifying Kat heads to The Daily Mail. It won’t go well. For now, Somatica’s fixed him. He’d say I’m being negative about the whole deal. Maybe. But I suspect two mentors trying to help twelve virgins on a vacation island would leave.

At least I appreciate my luck a little more. My enemies don’t get to record, edit, and televise my first handjob.

Can I get art school on you for a second? Cool. Now that we’re both drunk and in debt: half of media’s like, existing signs and expectations right? Drink nerd, this isn’t some lightweight frat or London pub. Anyway, each genre has its own little language of cues. So wouldn’t it be fucked if the sonic, visual, and branding language of a show about virgins felt like Animal Planet?

You know, in theory.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Sam Koepnick, who was too busy to read this because he was busting ocean waves all over your mom, OH SHIT.

Tags birthgasm, Dennard Dayle, Free, fuck panic, manga is real, thmp thmp thmp