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Nerding Day: The Dwelling
Author: Seanbaby
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Nerding Day: Magic for Children 🌭
Is there any way for a children’s magic book to be considered “bad”? What would your expectations have to be? What would have to go wrong? The idea is nonsense. To fail at writing a children’s magic book is an impossible task.
But you know what makes the impossible possible? MAGIC.
A psychologist named Pattabhi Ram compiled a list of 51 tricks for children, but mostly not, from a variety of sources after removing everything that made them coherent, then adding fake stories, and he did it all in the wrong language. It’s like a very confused person asked ChatGPT to make them a wizard, and that’s not a zany analogy. This book is precisely, exactly that, only done by hand in 1993.
Pattabhi dedicated his book to this very ribboned man with an avalanche of names. I wouldn’t normally speak for a Jgnanapeeth Awardee like Kalaprapoorna, Padmasree Dr. C. Narayana Reddy, but having MAGIC for Children dedicated to you is like getting a Special Thanks in the instruction manual for a brand of bikini wax recalled for having a medically unsafe instruction manual. When Jgnanapeeth Awardee Kalaprapoorna, Padmasree Dr. C. Narayana Reddy saw this, he probably said, “I know this is going to take several minutes of backspacing, and yet still, take my name off your fucking book.”
I don’t know what the state of prestidigitation was in India in 1993, but the Foreword spends a lot of time dispelling the reader’s fear of card tricks. Pattabhi needs us to know magic has never been real, and if we are reading this from the dungeon of a sorcerer, it has always been in our power to escape. Maybe? He also says Magic is useful for “to kill chid cure,” so the language barrier is already a huge issue.
In the second Foreword called Yes! You are a Magician!, Pattabhi continues to assure us these math puzzles and trick matchboxes are not connected to witchcraft or “nacromancy.” Seriously, what is happening here? This is 1993, not the Dark Ages. I think they get it, Pattabhi. When you saw The Pelican Brief in your local theater, did you turn to the person next to you and explain, “Julia Roberts is not the world’s largest and flattest law student. This is a film, not a sorcerer’s prison, like the one I recently escaped after realizing magic isn’t real. Hi, I’m Pattabhi Ram… Witch Craft! DE-BUUUNKER!!!“
Okay, let’s get started with the magic tricks, the very coherent magic tricks. I’ll just clip the text of this simple ma– oh, fuck.
This is not a good sign in a lot of directions. It’s only his second trick introduction and he’s already “Oxford-dictionary defines magic as”ing us. He’s also still concerned we think math puzzles are actual, supernatural black magic. And maybe most importantly, this is fucking crazy.
This incoherent math bullshit is an ancient trick performed by face reading experts? If you understand what that means, keep it to yourself. Maybe witchcraft isn’t real, but I refuse to take the chance by letting that darkness into my mind. I also don’t feel any shame in admitting I have no goddamn idea how Pattabhi is trying to wonder me here. Go ahead and read it a second and third time. I did! It is a babbling pile of letters and numbers, and after you decode it, this trick has no prayer of impressing anyone. If a strange man asks you for your birthday and favorite holiday and age and they add up to an unrelated number, you don’t marvel at his powers. You would wonder why your email keeps getting hacked.
Let’s move on to Hanky-Panky.
Relax, this is a kid’s book. In this context, Hanky-Panky means a sex act performed by clowns. I’m going to assume you already know how to do this, so let’s move on to a mind-reading trick.
Each trick in MAGIC for Children comes with a single illustration and a dangerously random chemical fact. Kids, did you know sodium silicate can turn any matches into less predictable matches? Anyway, enough about that. Carefully stage four stacks of cards and have one of your friends pick a pile. Depending on how you look at it, they will always guess four! The trick here, which everyone, literally everyone, will figure out, is that you have a pedantic, hair-splitting definition of the concept of “four.” Or, as it’s known in this book, “Tour.” The point is, a card trick where you’re um-technically not wrong is just the incel part of magic without the magic part of magic.
Here’s a fun trick kids can do if they have a job as a substitute teacher and want to hatch a desperate revenge scheme to humiliate another child. First, have them come up and write meaningless numbers. Then, ask them to write a number that makes no sense. For instance, something only an idiot would say. Except no, listen, they’re the idiot. I mean, picture this. They were supposed to write eleven thousand, eleven hundred and eleven, but the dummy wrote “11,11, Oil?” What? And then you could be like, “Oil isn’t a number, you stupid asshole!” Or they might write “HI, 11, 11V” Okay? Hello!? Numbers don’t start by saying HI, dumbass. Or maybe they stare at you like you said something confusing. HA! Yes, everyone laugh! No, at him! Not me! You’re laughing at the wrong person! Laugh at the moron who wrote a bunch of letters maybe, for some reason!
Maybe I’m not picturing this right. Maybe this trick kills. I mean, the person who taught it to Pattabhi is on actual stamps.
It was a real missed opportunity to not price P.C. Sorcar’s stamp at HI, 3 rupees, -97 rupees, Oil, and 594 rupeesV.
This trick is the tired shrug of a weary mind. It’s almost contemptuous of wonderment. First, you ask someone not to pick a card because you’ve already got this six of clubs and nine of spades right here. Great, the perfect start. Then you put them back in the pack and let them look at it. Now, as long as they continue indulging you and forget both of those cards, TA DA, they are a little bit confused. It works on the idea that dumbness is everywhere, hopefully. I’m not even sure this is worth criticizing. It has all the foresight of a bank robber hoping someone left the front door and vault open. It’s like getting into a woman’s car and just kind of hoping she mistakes you for her husband. So I guess it’s in the realm of possibility for this trick to work, but why bother? You’re performing for an audience who cared enough to remember zero of their two cards. They don’t give a shit. Tell them anything. Tell them magic is real and you’re the one who freed Denzel Washington from The Pelican Brief.
I think I’m only including this next one because I don’t want to suffer alone. You shouldn’t read this:
What is this. At the risk of looking dumb, I have no fucking idea what I’m meant to be doing or how I could be doing it. You want me to sew beads into a hanky to make shot glasses stick to a book? Speak plainly, wizard. Are we conjuring your dead wife or are you asking me to fuck your live one?
P.C. Sorcar, the guy from the stamp and master of asking people to write a dumb number, was also very gifted at Thumb Remove Trick. He adapted it for tiny box, and used it to make the president of a Mahila Samaj faint! No listen: this accomplished, full-grown, community leader saw a finger in a box, a cute illusion you would not expect a 7-year-old to believe, and it took her an hour to wake up. I’m not saying the author hates women, but this motherfucker could have made up any story and he went with “One time a woman saw Gotcher Nose and almost died. And not just any woman; like, the best one in Calcutta. It would have seriously turned her brain inside out if she was just a waitress or an astronaut or whatever.” Anyway, at the risk of killing the lady readers, you do this trick by putting your finger in a little box and wiggling it.
We are twelve spells in, and Pattabhi is already typing out half-remembered pub tricks. In what world would this work? If you asked someone, in this case the author suggests a naughty boy, to drink out of a glass without using their hands, this is the second thing they would do after simply picking up the glass with their wrists. Who would this baffle? Are we supposed to find the one naughty boy who’s never changed a pillowcase? You can’t do something this unlikeable and then perfectly present yourself for a curb stomping. If I saw this, I would assume this was all a set up and he was asking me to volunteer for the second part of the trick. I’d say, “Oh, the trick is some mystical way to avoid these pint glasses going through his skull. No, wait, the trick is to make me think I’ve killed a man. Wow, if I was a lady, all these twitching fake fingers would make me faint for at least one hour.”
If I’m understanding this correctly, this illusion is adding water to a wad of mango juice and dish cloths and offering it to someone who thinks you’re a witch. Be sure to use a plastic mug because psychiatric patients aren’t allowed to have ceramic or glass, have I told you how I learned to punish naughty boys with math from the wizard on this stamp? That’s it. That’s it.
It’s worth remembering this book is called MAGIC for Children. So it’s weird the author expects a kid to call your personal assistant and verify your mind powers. And I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, sorcerer, but your card code isn’t exactly uncrackable. “Hi, I’m a child watching a magic trick in 1993? I’m hoping to speak to Kevin O’Farts to confirm the receipt of his boss’ telepathic message. Oh, this is Kevin O’Farts? And my card is the seven of hearts? Oh my god, that’s exa– hey, wait a minute. This guy called you on your other line, didn’t he, Kevin O’Farts?”
You know how some lady kids hesitate to declare their age? Women kids, what can you do, right? Well, with this trick you can tell them their age anyway, against their will. Simply hand them this stack of cards and ask them to tell you which ones contain their real age! They have to, for it would be very dangerous to wrong you, strange magician. Now, assuming they don’t see the obvious coming, you can use a dumb number key to wow her with her own age! Unless… oh no, unless lady kids also lie about their age to cards. Fuck.
So to change a balloon’s color, you blow up one inside the other and then pop the one on the outside. I guess you wait for a sneeze or a train to go by? I don’t know; like every trick in this terrible book, you have to fill in a lot of blanks. And don’t expect any help from the illusion’s inventor, popular American dwarf magician, Color King. There doesn’t seem to be any trace of him. Could Pattabhi have meant Willow? Probably not, but if someone charged from an alleyway fully nude and said, “Warwick Davis told me to fill balloons with cloves to disguise their true colors!” it would make the same amount of sense as this.
I think we may have run our magic book in a culture gap here, because to me these appear to be the final curses of an alien enemy. Even assuming I’m acting in good faith with full generosity to the author’s intent, and I’m not, fuck this guy, I don’t get what this would do, or prove. I am performing a mentalist show for kids? And I’ve planted a child in the audience named Prashant whose favorite film is the 1988 romantic action comedy Tezaab? And then I tell everyone, “I don’t know this kid, but I’m going to write down the weird shit he says, sometimes after he says it, to prove my telepathy. Thanks for doing this, by the way. It’s nice to see you again, Prashant.” Nonsense. Chittering madman nonsense.
Not everything has to be complicated. Sometimes you need only listen to the whispers of your knife.
In the trick, The Audience is Always Wrong, Pattabhi shows you how to glue a five to a queen. I think you’ve got it from here, but he takes a full page to very confusingly try to explain how a double-sided card might deceive a child. See, they think you have a five, but it’s a queen. It works in reverse, as well. Unrelated to the trick, but included on the same page, Pattabhi suggests spinning all your eggs if you forgot which ones you boiled. Then eat the winner! Hold on, hold on, guys, I think this book might be fucking stupid.
This is probably my favorite story in the book. Pattabhi is at a magic retreat where every year, the top magicians share magic secrets. I love it– a secret gathering of sorcerers to discuss the latest developments in naughty boy math humiliations. But then a rookie bursts into the inner chamber with a cut finger. A band-aid! Who has a band-aid!? No one. He would have to bleed out like many before him. Hold! What’s this!? Mr. Mӓhender of Delhi casts a 14th level band-aid conjuring spell! To everybody’s astonishment, he is saved!
Now, Mr. Mӓhender would certainly target you with his furious vengeance if you told anyone this, but the secret to the spell was that he put a band-aid in a little box earlier. Okay, enough fucking around. I think we’re ready to battle witches now.
Witches use this trick, Abracadabra, to convince mentally ill villagers they have voodoo powers. Fight back against these dark arts by proving it as mere chemistry! First, you put a coin in your hand. Then add a little mercurous chloride, a substance as toxic as it sounds. You’ll know you did it right from the nausea and diarrhea. It’s like they say in remote villages: “Please go, coin witch. We tire of watching your people die, asshole first.”
Sometimes you may need to teach a naughty boy a lesson with something more serious than math. That’s a situation that calls for Tit for Tat. Catch the naughty boy off guard with an object making unusual noises! Unless that’s just a baby toy. Oh no, did Pattabhi build a homemade baby toy, call it a magic trick, and create an elaborate revenge fantasy about shutting up the Mayor of Nashville’s nephew with it? That’s embarrassing. I respect words too much to call this dipshit nonsense a lie. If you filled my head with spider eggs set to hatch if anyone ever dropped a book of matches and shouted any variation of, “Aaaahhh, this book of matches has some kind of device in it!!!” I would live forever, free from worry.
In this ingenious trick, you hook your raincoat’s corsage on a rubber band and hide it in your armpit. It’s called Buttonhole Blockade, and if y– wait a minute. I know enough about partying to recognize the Bengali-to-English translation of Anal Beads.
To perform this stunning illusion, you’ll need to first plant a woman in the audience. This part might be difficult since by the book’s premise, you’re either a child or performing for children. Now, make sure she’s wearing a scarf identical to one you’ve hidden away in a hollow candle, and also capable of crying on command. Pattabhi says this is a popular trick because “it uses minimum of apparatus.” It’s a strange way to describe three props, two of which get destroyed by fire, and an entire human woman, but at least he’s not claiming he used it to destroy the Prime Minister for disturbing his Buttonhole Blockade.
You know, here’s something you’ll never fucking hear: “Bye, loving people in my normal, well-adjusted life! I’m heading to the grade school with my juggling balls to tell the children I can predict their grades with matches!”
This was the final trick in the book– a way to rig matches to float differently Pattabhi learned from his fourth of many juggling kidnappers. Which means it’s time to say goodbye.
Author leaves us with good news. It doesn’t matter if we are terrible at magic. We can still tell naughty boys to write strange numbers even if we’re missing both hands like the famously handless Medhum Bashinger, or if we’re 24 inches tall like tiny magic legend, Joseph Jaino. Neither of those people left any trace, by the way. The only mention I found of Medhum was this book.
It’s possible Pattabhi is thinking of Matthias Buchinger, a 17th century magician whose name shares a vague similarity to those letters and was born with no limbs. And fun fact, Wikipedia says they used to call vaginas “Buchinger’s boots” in England, going on to explain “because the only ‘limb’ he had was his penis,” and then penis is a hotlink to the entry on penises. It also says he died in Cork which makes me think this particular Wikipedia entry may involve some light fucking around.
Matthias might also be the source of the other guy Pattabhi made up, because having no legs made him about 24 inches tall, and I found no little person magicians named anything close to Joseph Jaino. And speaking of bad names, I found a service that delivers little people, including magicians, and you’ll never guess what it’s called.
No, it wasn’t Tiny Traffickers, but Jesus Christ, you were close. Look, I don’t know what it all means. I guess it means the author of this children’s book is a liar, but what is the line between magician and liar? Can we truly blame a man for his deeds when he spent so much of his childhood being tricked by jugglers? Should we forgive a man for writing poorly in a language he doesn’t speak about a premise he can’t remember? We may never know, or understand. Such is the nature of magic, be it hanky-panky, tit for tat, or buttonhole blockade.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Good Satan and his Hot Witches, but you already knew that. They all are!
Every time Wonder Woman gets near a gorilla it’s fucking insane, and I can prove it. I’m about to show you the dumbest, craziest gorilla Wonder Woman comic by any standards, but first, let’s do a brief history of Wonder Woman. She is a clay monster created in 1941 by the inventor of the lie detector to be the Justice Society’s secretary as part of his sexual domination fetish. Done. Now let’s talk about her history with gorillas, starting with the normal stuff, like turning into one.
This happened in 1999 during the 9-part crossover spectacular JLApe, because comics rule and are awesome. This is our baseline gorilla story. A superhero gets hit with an ape ray, struggles against gorilla urges, and screams “DEATH TO THE HU-MANS!” It’s the best. Wonder Woman’s DNA is technically enchanted pottery and this gorilla beam said, “I don’t give a shit. I work on shoes too. Have thumbed gogo boots!” It’s like they say in space, “You will never forget… Wonder Woman Gorilla.”
Which is to say, Wonder Woman usually found a way to make turning into an ape weird. This gorilla incel from the stars, on the cover of her own comic, is telling Wonder Woman, “YOU’RE PRETTY ENOUGH TO BE A GORILLA.” And look at his tummy– he’s wrapped up in the Lasso of Truth. He means that.
This is not the dumbest, craziest gorilla story I mentioned earlier, but let’s look at it anyway.
The star gorilla opens the fight by juggling Earth’s Mightiest Woman with his feet while his friends laugh. This is fifteen disrespectful ideas in a blender. It’s like they got a note from the editor to cut down on the sexual humiliation fetishes and this was their attempt at creating female peril to which no one could masturbate. Ha, you fool. There is no straighter path to failure.
As you no doubt guessed, this gorilla had a gun that turns ladies into gorillas, the 1967 version of trying to get your girlfriend into crypto. Here’s how it worked:
This is from the introductory panel because Silver Age comics liked to start by ruining the story with misdirection. For instance, it might show Green Lantern crushing his sidekick with a giant hand and screaming, “Let me lend you A HAND, Pieface!” And then it turns out to be about helping him unshrink after a potion mixup, or maybe an adventure far from Pieface’s forgotten concerns. Nobody cared. This time it wasn’t a trick, though. It was exactly what it looked like. This really was a gorilla on Earth for a sex trafficking mission, and he really did turn Wonder Woman into a gorilla. And for reasons known only to artist Ross Andru, he drew this scene -in precisely the same way- a second time.
By my count, this is six chances to realize those gogo boots should have thumbs. By all the suffering of Sappho, what a missed opportunity. Things turn out okay in the end, though. Wonder Woman Gorilla, in a story called “Wonder Woman– Gorilla!” spent her very first moments as a gorilla sex slave asking to not be a gorilla sex slave. It worked, for all writer minds shatter against the impossibility of combining Wonder Woman with gorilla. And like that sign language gorilla’s second, fourth, fifth, seventh, and ninth kittens, Wonder Woman’s ape adventure ended one minute after it started. Here’s how it worked, in reverse:
Aaah, FUCK!
Where was I? Gorillas? Okay, in the 1950s, America was absolutely haunted by loose apes. Like the rich flavor of Nestle Hot Cocoa Mix, every Golden Age comic story was at least 27% gorilla parts. It was so normal to run into a maniac gorilla that even Wonder Woman had trouble getting excited, and she literally starts every sentence and thought by screaming “Great Hera!”
This is real. I didn’t change the order or words of these comic panels. A gorilla had her boyfriend’s niece, and Diana Prince left to change into her ape fighting leotard. It’s a terrible moment for heroic rescues, but I can’t imagine a finer day for a public park masturbator.
Wonder Woman fought so many gorillas one of her main human villains was actually a gorilla. Giganta, like Nestle Hot Cocoa Mix, got her start as a baby gorilla being burned alive by a sadist.
You’re probably thinking, “This is a woman in an oven with the mind of an ape child, surely this isn’t another Wonder Woman sexual thing.” Ha, you fool.
The first thing Wonder Woman says when she sees a nude woman emerge from this gorilla kiln is, “Mmm, hell fucking yes.” This is a woman who shouts “SUFFERING SAPPHO” whenever a clever horse can count, yet she is so turned on by this human gorilla she skips entirely past astonishment. This is like a door getting ripped off the plane mid-flight and the pilot coming on to announce, “From best to worst, the top titties in the first class cabin are 2A, 4B, 2B, and in a distant fourth place, their flight attendant Kay.”
On Wonder Woman, the TV show, she fought a Nazi gorilla, and I don’t mean that in a cute way like Melania Trump complaining about her sex life to any nail tech who will listen. I mean Nazis held up a picture of Wonder Woman and gave a gorilla electric shocks, the same way they invented the fleshlight. It’s wild. For an entire episode Lynda Carter wrestled a guy in a gorilla suit. It aired almost 48 years ago, but I’ll see if I can find some footage of it…
Oh. For some reason this is a very documented moment in television history. Plus, it looks like multiple people, I’d argue not the best ones, have made adult parodies of this battle.
This seems interesting to me. At the risk of getting distracted, maybe we should investigate mor–
Okay, you’re right, Wonder Woman. Let’s get to the comic I mentioned earlier. From the swirling ape chaos of 1955 comes “ANDY GORILLA– PRIZE PUPIL.”
This comic violates all you know about apes, Wonder Woman, baseball, and storytelling. It is something Sammy Sosa would tell a second spoonful of Fentanyl.
Look at all the effort that went into explaining both the concept of Wonder Woman and the unthinkable events of the upcoming story. You’ll soon learn how pointless it was. As you can see from Wonder Woman’s thoughts, there are no rules here. There are no stakes here. This is, like my last ten and I’m worried next thirty Google searches, horny insanity near a confused gorilla.
Story-wise, we knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get Wonder Woman and a gorilla on a 2-person baseball team, but this is a needless complication. We open on a hostile high school takeover per the stipulations of somebody’s grandfather’s will? If I’m understanding correctly, Miss Gates is going to lose her school unless she can beat Mr. Scragg in an anything-goes baseball-like match by the end of the week. But there’s more! This was 8 years before the measles vaccine, so the children in her school were taking two weeks off to mostly die. We are one panel in!
This might be too many twists already. This story is moving at a speed any cocoa plantation boss would call “a nice Nestle brand pace.” By the time we’re done with the second panel, Miss Gates has been forced into retirement, has come back out of retirement by suggesting maybe something with Wonder Woman, and everyone has agreed so long as her evil rival gets to make all the rules. So we have our setup: a misogynist high school tycoon is going to rig a baseball game to defeat Wonder Woman. Strange, but this could turn out to be coherent!
Oh wait, the gorilla.
So one of Mr. Scragg’s surprise baseball rules(?) is… this gorilla? For storytellers so particular about the academic trustee board regulations of Wonder Woman’s friend, this part isn’t very fleshed out. This is, by any fiction standards, a sudden and unexpected gorilla from a different plot. A generous reader can fill in the blanks and assume it needs to be enrolled in the school and qualify as a student athlete, but nobody really says that. Also Wonder Woman is the teacher, in addition to being the baseball team? To put it in cinema terms, our Bad News Bears just crashed into an entire Billy Madison, but an ape parody of whatever that is, starring Wonder Woman. We’re at the fucking top of page fucking two.
Think of everything you have to ignore to make this work. Some animal wrangler has an ape you can rent for petty revenge and corporate sabotage, and it was available on a single day’s notice. Also, is this not beneath Wonder Woman? She’s a grown clay monster who can do whatever she wants, but she’s also a princess, diplomat, rescue worker, and world-famous super-secretary. One could make a strong case that a dozen people die every minute she wastes doing this bullshit. But no. She flies in on her invisible jet to teach “nearest book” to a gorilla in human clothes. She does not say fuck all this, how dare you. She says, “Your romper says ANDY. I’ll call you Andy. PAT – PAT!”
The book ripped!? Oh boy, teaching this ape is going to be a lot of work! Cue the teaching montage!
Wait, you don’t… comic book, you don’t have to explain what happened with the torn book. Just get to the accelerated passage of time.
Stop, no. We are… of all the goddamn things happening, a more durable book is the least important or complicated problem to solve. What are you doing? Why are you still talking about the ripped book? Th– it c-can’t read! Andy can’t fucking read it anyway!
Wonder Woman, stop! We don’t need any of this! This could have said “LATER…” over a picture of Andy staring at a steel-plated textbook. Or someone without kitten-crushing ape strength in their hands turning pages for him. Letters on a chalkboard! But no. We leave to watch Wonder Woman steal a priceless space rock and invent the printing press with karate. This is not any part of the process in teaching a gorilla to read, ask any zookeeper. Primatologists are not watching apes shred reading material and saying, “This is hopeless. If only books were made of meteor… my god. Could it be that simple!? Get me NASA’s gorilla division, arts and leisure section!”
Jesus Christ, do you see that “4” in the bottom left corner? We’re on the fourth page! This story has 780 moving parts and we have spent three and a half of our four pages trying to build a better gorilla book.
No. No. Wonder Woman did all that so she could fucking read to Andy!? That can’t be right. Was the writing process in 1955 just ramming different-sized ice picks into your ear? “This month Wonder Woman faces… Baseball ape. Gg. Meteor book. Gllg. Every Adam Sandler movie at once.”
After two seconds of watching this gorilla grin silently at the brightly colored meat making noises, smug Miss Gates is certain it’s working. And maybe it is; I believe in Andy. All I know is this: if I’m watching a gorilla sit near someone reading Julius Caesar, I don’t turn to the man next to me and whisper, “You dumb son of a bitch, you know nothing about rigging baseball games.”
Since we’re doing (at least) a full Billy Madison, Andy has to master all the skills you learn in high school. Which means crossing guard. And Introduction to Ape Crossing Guard class goes pretty much how you’d expect…
… Andy grabs a kid and tries to stop a car with a punch.
Wonder Woman sees this and acts fast. With lightning reflexes, she announces, “MERCIFUL MINERVA! ANDY DOESN’T KNOW WHAT A TERRIFIC IMPACT A CAR CAN STRIKE AT THAT SPEED! HE THINKS HE CAN STOP THE CAR WITH HIS FIST– AS IF IT’S JUST AN ANIMAL CHARGING AT HIM!”
Forget how long it would take to say that, or how she’s wrong about natural gorilla behavior. The more important thing is Wonder Woman sent her baseball team’s albatross and crossing guard student into the field without explaining to it what cars were. This means she said, “Hello, I’m your crossing guard teacher. Ha ha, what? My class is one gorilla? I’m not a crossing guard teacher, but I’ve got to see what this fucker can do!”
So it’s over, right? Andy can’t read and almost killed a kid. That means he can’t play baseball, Miss Gate forfeits, and her measles-infested, now meteorless school goes to Mr. Scragg.
Okay, I guess none of that mattered? The evil guy doing everything in his power to create these convoluted technicalities simply let it go. And the book stuff was possibly unrelated to this baseball event altogether. I’m not even sure how to judge this. This is like the coach of the Goon Squad saying, “Hey, Porky Pig, we can stop filming early if Michael Jordan needs to get going. I think the movie was about motorcycle racing anyway. Chorb. Pancakes glub chorb.”
Maybe the writer knew he’d made a mess because after six pages, he has Mr. Scragg explain the plot again. He thinks he’s some kind of criminal mastermind for setting up this lopsided baseball contest, seemingly giving no thought to how baseball works. “You dumb fuck, if you throw a 3,000 mph fastball, you don’t need outfielders,” says the famously superhuman Wonder Woman with a WHOOSH.
I know how this is going to sound, but it’s right here where the story goes off the rails. A book torn in two, an ape dreaming to be more, words on a fallen star– those were stupid, sure. Pointless, fine. A love song for Jane Goodall, I’m working on it. But now we’re in the middle of a sports story. Sports have rules. You can’t have the bad guy interrupt with “Oh, I forgot to tell you” and add a bunch of new shit. As officially as possible, you’re telling readers nothing here means anything. Why not go all the way and say, “Wonder Woman only gets one pitch and can’t use her hands”? Oh, you did? Fuck you.
When your rules are the mercurial whims of the evil team’s coach, why have the umpire? Can he make calls? If he thinks it’s a strike, does that stand, or does he have to check with the executor of the strangest nearby will? “Are there any rules against ripping your spine out through your pelvis?” should be the last words Mr. Scragg ever hears.
Eventually, Mr. Scragg lands on the idea of all nine batters on his team forming a simultaneous swinging line. Because, again, he has no idea how baseball works.
Why waste everyone’s day like this? I’m starting to think he could say, “The new rule is all apes and Wonder Women, who must be t-topless by the way, lose… NOW,” and everyone would go along with it. Somehow, through sheer estate law misunderstanding, this dumbass was given unlimited power over everything and he is wasting it on this:
They went through all that, and they still hit it right into Andy’s glove. If it wasn’t the first time a gorilla ever tried to field a ball, this would have been the end of the game. Or it would have required a new rule about how ape catches count in reverse or whatever. Let’s take a step back. Why bother to illustrate this absence of an idea? This is worse than 8 blank pages and the words “I FORGOT AND DON’T CARE.” These batters aren’t even starting from home plate. If I was making this up as a bedtime story, my daughter would say, “I’m not your therapist, you drunk piece of shit.”
After Andy drops the ball, Wonder Woman runs over, picks it up, and easily tags out every single runner leaving from an unmarked spot in left field to home. I guess all eight players who struck out counted it as their hit? And Wonder Woman is allowed to use super speed? This is nuts. What am I missing? Oh, of course. I’m forgetting how every Wonder Woman story is a secret sex fetish. Which means… oh no, whatever this fetish is, I think it also inspired Air Bud.
Mr. Scragg has forgotten all about his ability to change any rule he wants, so Wonder Woman and Andy win! They have saved, at least until the next local grandfather dies, Miss Gates’ schoo– wait, wait. Why was Andy here? All that goddamn gorilla did was fail to open a book, not learn to read, do as badly at crossing guard as you conceivably could, strike out, and drop an easy fly ball. He didn’t have an arc… he didn’t do anything! Why was this a gorilla story at all? Is the pointless ape the sexy part to you? You filthy pervert, are you the one who kept putting Randy Quaid in things!? Happy Ape Week, everyone!
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jeff Orasky, the all-ape soccer team that brought down Aquaman.
Have you ever wanted to have the creativity of a magician puppeteer? Wait, I’m not done– a Christian magician puppeteer? Of course you do. Everyone wants to be the next Dennis Regling, a man Google calls “searching instead for dinner riesling.” Well, now you can. Because Dennis Regling, formerly Dr. Dennis Regling, wrote a book on creativity, and how anyone can do it. It’s the first Christian Magic Puppet How-To book without any Christianity, Magic, or Puppet.
It’s almost normal for a mediocre person to decide to put their wisdom into a book and accidentally write a beginner’s guide to duh. Secrets of Creative Ministry: Teaching Truth With Engaging and Creative Lessons (2018) is a version of that, obviously, but Dennis spends a lot of the book’s copy hustling for birthday gigs, so it seems uniquely weird for this person to think, “I’ve got to show people how they can be me!”
Before he begins, Dennis wants the reader to know he’s going to include a lot of pictures of himself. Far more than the number of pictures he has of himself. This is a 47 page book, and I’m guessing because they’re not numbered, and several of them look like this– a random selection from Dennis’ camera roll. To be clear, standing alone in your kitchen and listening to puppets is not one of the secrets of creative ministry. But it does give us an idea of what we’re dealing with. On that subject…
When someone tells you they’re an author under the words ABOUT THE AUTHOR, you know you’re not reading a top-of-the-line self-published pamphlet on being zany. Dennis throws around a lot of big numbers in this bio, and I can’t prove he’s lying, but it’s suspicious that he’s preached at thousands of schools and detention centers, and only four of those changed souls have visited his YouTube page. I don’t know if I’d also call this “suspicious,” but he includes five family photos in this book. One of them is a photo of him and his wife with a different picture of his daughters cut and pasted onto it, one is exactly that same thing again, and the other three are this one photo, this one photo, and this one photo. Maybe it’s nothing? Let’s learn how to get creati– wait, sorry, looks like we need to learn more about Dennis first.
Like all child prison balloon performers, people are always coming up to Dennis, tears in their eyes, wonder in their eyes, to tell him they dream of being him. And why not? He’s “blessed to have a wild imagination,” which is why he’s already rewriting the ABOUT THE AUTHOR section on the third page of his book. He’s had three ideas so far in his book on creativity. Two of them are him, and one of them is him staring at store-bought puppets.
We have one more non-Dennis thing to go over before we get started, and it’s a serious one.
Dennis tells anyone who will listen that he does not make foam balls disappear using powers given to him by the Devil. He adds, ha, how hilarious is it when people think I’m using real demonic sorcery? Hey, Dennis. You know what people who aren’t using demon power say when they do stage magic? None of this. It’s fucking weird. But maybe “my skills were not granted by Devil” is something you legally have to declare before you do card tricks for children detained by the state. Let’s keep going.
Creativity is hard to explain or teach. For instance, I once gave a talk on video game design in Belgium and it was mostly about Bloodsport. So I sympathize with how Dennis doesn’t even try and instead tells the story of how he saw Pirates of the Caribbean and said, “I guess pirates? Wait, pirates are bad, wait, I don’t have anything else, let’s do pirates anyway. Anyway, my wife switched some of my puppets around.”
I was worried you’d start to sympathize with Dennis. This poor guy is in over his head. He’s a struggling youth group pastor who sold his soul to Satan for a $50 gift card to Ordinary Randy’s Magic Shoppe, and here he is trying to give me, his first reader, creativity. That’s why I included this page where his second example of “creating” is removing a single fucking letter from the USA Network’s slogan. Mother fuck, and I’m serious about this, this guy.
This fucking guy wrote a “formula for creativity” and started it with an unattributed, maybe wrong, quote from Albert Einstein. And the very first letter of his acronym, Stimuli, is to walk through your local Dollar Tree and buy things. As an example of his own overflowing creativity, one time he bought some animal masks and figures he’ll do something with them involving animals, where people wear them.
The first, the very first, example he used was nothing. This is the winning entry in an Opposite of Creativity Sadness Contest. This is so much less than an idea it will pull dreams from you if you look at it. I no longer want to pilot sled dogs. Is this book a prank? The fucking author started his instruction manual on imagination by saying he has a half-formed idea to one day use a cheap, manufactured party favor as intended.
I seriously can’t fucking believe the first idea is to go to the store and buy whatever party supplies they have. What’s his second idea?
Dennis Regling’s second idea is “Ideas” and it’s to go to the store and buy whatever party supplies they have. There’s no goddamn fucking way his next ide– oh my god.
His third idea is the first and second ideas again. This guy has a garage full of plastic whistles and vampire teeth and thinks his half-ass thought of doing something with them some day makes him an authority on imagination. Fuck. I might just be mad because he took my dream of dog-sledding from me. After all, it’s not like he’s not putting a paper bag on his head to pretend to be a Native American to thank the white people for civilizatio– oh my god again.
To sum up, the key to creativity is going to Big Lots, finding hot deals on partially damaged goods, and making a mental note to do something with them. Or to put it another way, the exact same thing a 7th time next to a picture of the author dressed as Indiana Jones.
“Maybe Raiderss of the Lost Ark, only Jessus,” says creative author Dennis Regling on creativity. Speaking of creativity, let’s do another acronym about it.
I should have seen this coming, but the first key to being creative is giving up on your dream of dog-sledding. This is a fucking tragedy in an already tragic book, but Dennis sees it as a win, and his only example of Curious. This couldn’t be more of a failure if it came with an apology that said, “Unfortunately, mt husband Dennis died before he could finish describing curiossity. He starved to death in a bathroom after never checking if the door wass unlocked.”
“Gah, fuck!” shouted this intruder telling second graders the REAL inventor of science is God. This piece of shit. I might still be broken-hearted knowing I’ll never glide across the tundra on a vehicle made of best friend, but this is stupid. You don’t credit the Christian god for coming up with the thing He gave you the death penalty for inventing. Criticizing religion can get controversial, so let me explain it with a non-polarizing subject. This is like Henry Wade taking credit for developing the abortion.
It shouldn’t surprise you to learn the rest of this acronym is dumb shit next to pictures of a dumbshit. Dennis Regling is worse at explaining his thoughts than a man alone in his kitchen, double fisting puppets, which is how he introduced himself. Even ignoring the typos, repetition, contradiction, pointless anecdotes, and general dumbness, he is a terribly ineffective communicator. So let’s move on to his last acronym, C.R.E.A.T.I.V.E., which teaches the eight tools of… oh, god fucking damn it, Dennis.
If you’ve ever been to a Dollar General, you know most of what Dennis has to teach you. But he also has sure-fire advice for certain situations, which sometimes work, but could get you in trouble, yet might come in handy on the other hand; however, don’t count on them generally always, usually. This is his book! On creativity. Three acronyms about shopping for clearance Percy Jackson & the Olympians The Lightning Thief merchandise and several wishy washy ideas about sometimes doing things one way, yet other times not. The point is, use whatever talents you have. Or to put it another way, one time a man killed himself in Buffalo. Hold on, that can’t be right.
No, it was right. As an example of great teaching, Dennis remembers the time his physics class calculated the speed of a dead man, a childlike equation involving one variable and two seconds of math. If your physics teacher stops class to measure a suicide victim’s speed, he definitely pushed him, and getting children to calculate his velocity is the final stage of his forbidden pleasure.
So there it is. You’re creative. And now, like all normal books, Secrets of Creative Ministry: Teaching Truth With Engaging And Creative Lessons ends with five blank pages and five ads for the author’s vacation Bible school taking place in undisclosed locations. The first one is called Big Rigs & Bibles!
Leave your children with us, and our puppets, silly characters, etc.. Call our toll free number for information on where to make the dropoff if you want to see them again.
Dennis, Karen, and their children (photographed separately) also teach about God’s truth nuggets with a gold mining theme, again somewhere unstated, probably the woods, maybe their apartment. In another ad they seem to be offering their services to any organization in any location, maybe once, maybe for a week.
I went to learn more, and their website is still up. It looks like this…
… but it seems like you can book them today to come to your anywhere. Church, backyard, sure. Dollar Tree parking lot, fucking yes please. They also don’t have any rates? As they put it multiple times, “What is the cost? We put no price on the Gospel. We are happy to help any church of any size. You have no budget for an evangelist? Then you need to call us today. We leave our financial needs in the hands of the Lord.“
I don’t think you have to be a parent to know that when a vacation bible school says, “We come to you, we stay as long as we want, and we’re free,” those are red flags. I’m not joking around. Dennis Regling honestly seems to be inviting himself and his family to your home. This next little flier leaves the Date, Time, and Location blank because YOU need to tell THEM.
Cut this page out of the book, reader! Fill it out and leave it where the moonlight can touch it and we will know. NEED A RIDE? Call 9̴͍̽0̵͕̒■̷̺͒4̴͖̾6̶̮͠▨̸̦̇3̴̯̓6̸̹̆⛝̴͓̍ ,we are Dennis and Karen, parents of Eleanor and Joelle (photographed separately)… we are the Regling Family, and WE ARE COMING.
This is a page with the location and time intentionally left blank, this stack of photographs, and the words ‘THE REGLING FAMILY IS COMING”. What the fuck could this be other than a warning? Oh, remember when Dennis described creativity by spelling the USA Network slogan wrong? This next flier incorporates that idea:
He ends his book with that! An invitation to nothing, nowhere, featuring just barely not the slogan from The Starter Wife starring Debra Messing (October, 2008 – December, 2008), call no one for fewer details. That can’t be it, right? That can’t be the article. You must be thinking this is the part where I follow up with a cute story about Dennis Regling going to jail. Almost! Your instincts are good, but they’re just a little bit off.
Seven years before he condensed all his knowledge of creativity into negative two ideas, Dennis Regling, who was Dr. Dennis Regling at the time, wrote a book on surviving high school using what he learned in prison. And to be clear, when he says “learned in prison,” he means “learned while visiting detention centers to perform Jesus magic for children.”
Dennis, “being involved in prison ministry,” does not count as “surviving prison.” On a fundamental level. Of all the valor ever, there may be none more stolen than the badass claiming he survived prison after not dying as a guest balloon performer. Dr. Bitch, if someone in prison wants to stab you, you can stop your puppet show and leave. It’s not the same thing! As anything!
Before we get to Dr. Dennis’ secret prison yard techniques for intimidating your Algebra class, let’s get one thing out of the way: absolutely nothing in this book should be taken as medical or legal advice. If this author tells you how to extract a tooth with the corner of a bed frame or cut an informant deal with prosecutors, do not listen to him. By the way, here’s the author, who had already lost his doctorate by page 7:
To be fair, Dennis does look like a man who has told a few parole boards he feels rehabilitated. But let’s hear more about his real prison credentials.
Okay, Dennis is a doctor again, and he testifies to criminals of all ages, maybe sometimes without balloons. Let’s learn how this Christian puppeteer with glaring insecurities and an obnoxious personality can help us avoid bullying, as soon as you agree absolutely nothing in this book should be taken as medical or legal advice.
I know enough about Christians and stupid to spot the problem here. This is a book about theoretical nonsense accusing everyone else of promoting theoretical nonsense. Throw your studies out, educators, kids need common sense solutions to the problems taking place in a magician’s below average imagination. Chapter One is just a restating of the introduction, so let’s skip ahead to Chapter Two, which is just a restating of Chapter One.
We’re already running into a problem with Dr. Dennis’ thesis. The results of the Olweus Bullying Prevention Program have been studied for decades, and it’s been found to be way better than nothing, but since it seems like it wouldn’t work in prison, Dr. Dennis disagrees with 75% of it. Never help anyone. Let the ostracized die weak and alone. Tell no one. That’s how this puppeteer suggests you get through high school, and maybe he’s right? I wouldn’t know; on my first day as a freshman I was awarded the Presidential Karate Award by my school’s varsity bikini team. I didn’t even know what bullying was until Pauly Shore explained it on the set of Cool Dude University 2.
Maybe I’m pointing out the obvious, but telling the kind of 14-year-old who listens to magicians to act like he’s a badass inmate is an adorably terrible solution to bullying. The other children go home at night to play Minecraft and tell people who love them very much what they’d like on their pizza. High school is, at least in that way, sort of different from prison. I can’t stress enough how this is not a book about incorporating subtle social techniques used by prisoners to increase your standing in high school. This is one extremely dumb man stretching an even dumber metaphor in incompatible directions.
“You know how in prison everyone is just trying to do their time, alone and unseen? High school is exactly like that. F-for instance, sports? Uh, studying? I’m lost, guys. I buy discount puppets and run a vacation Bible school in exchange for room and board, I have no goddamn idea what I’m talking about. Call me at ______, I am available for parties, or anything. Anything. At again, no cost.”
This parallel sort of makes sense. It’s hard to keep a lid on a secret, which I think qualifies as wisdom. Now, all Dr. Dennis has to do is come up with a fun way to explain that thought to kids. Maybe child molestation, sexual assault, revenge porn, and suicide? Please contact him to learn more about his affordable vacation Bible school rates.
This is a fun one. When Dr. Dennis explains why high schoolers should never snitch, he uses the example of a woman he knows who reported child abuse to the cops. According to Dr. Dennis, this was a mistake because her pastor wanted to ignore it. I’m worried you think I took this out of context. No, let me be clear: the one example Dr. Dennis uses to convince children not to talk to cops is suggesting this woman, who is not in high school or prison, should have done more to help child abuse. He thought that! And then typed it! It’s an uncited anecdote from a Christian idiot, so the woman probably isn’t real, which means out of limitless hypothetical goals, this balloon-folding maniac picked aiding and abetting sex crimes!
I don’t know what this means, but in the middle of his chapter on how no one in your high school is your friend, he writes a long section on marriage, the fading of love, and divorce. It’s a strange thing to leave in. It’s like I always tell aspiring writers, be careful with your metaphors because one day you wake up and the person you love is in love with someone else, forty minutes of silence. Knives are everywhere, statistics say. I’ll take his face, it’ll be hard for her to love him without a face, I tell them.
Dr. Dennis gets a little heavy with the jargon in Chapter Nine: Respect Everyone, so he translates “punk” for his teen readers. It’s “an inmate that has been forced to serve another inmate in homosexual relations,” kids. He forgets to apply this to your high school experience, but at least he’s stopped complaining about his divorce.
I’ve never seen anyone this confused, and I once ad-libbed “Shut the fuck up, Pauly Shore,” on the set of Cool Dude University 2.
You can’t simply tell a kid to “Avoid Trouble Situations.” They need a real-world example. So Dr. Dennis shares the story of a man who bravely chose to be racist to make friends with white supremacists. Hold on, that can’t be… no, yeah. That’s the story he went with. Fuck. There is no way this happened, which means Dr. Dennis once again created a hypothetical situation where he could have taught any lesson, and this time he chose “racism is correct.”
Chapter Twelve is about running from fights, but not like a coward. It’s around here he starts to make up stories from his childhood like the time his mom made him fist fight a kid as she watched, or how he was a 130 pound weakling, but also a varsity wrestler who everyone knew as a lethal street fighter. I doubt anyone could write a sensible version of this book, but Dr. Dennis is having a fucking emotional and mental breakdown. Watch how all things become both true and not true in Chapter Thirteen:
“One thing, and yet the opposite. Do it, but sometimes never. I set out to write a manual for sad children pretending to be tough, and realized I might be a sad man pretending to be tough. No. No, it’s the bullies who are weak. Except for my bullies, no, don’t knock my– my books! W-what’s today’s date, no not the day, the year! Please let my family stay in your living room, but we have to call it vacation Bible school for tax purposes.”
Finally, after waffling on every subject, Chapter Fourteen includes some clear rules of engagement. If someone stabs you, you are allowed to fight. Frank told him it was okay.
You know the Internet? Facebook? Etcetera? Well, as a normal person giving normal advice, Dr. Dennis says telling other high schoolers about yourself lets them use your dark secrets against you. This is probably the most haunting chapter of the book, because we saw Dr. Dennis go out of his way to promote sex crimes and racism. If he’s suggesting someone who discovers his secrets could blackmail him into any crime, what the fuck could they be?
This book is the chittering remains of a shattered mind. We’re not going to get an explanation. Let’s just skip to the end.
Of course. A clumsy acronym and a flier for Dennis Regling to come to where you live. Which… I guess means we did get an explanation? This $19.95 book, this deranged 66 pages of large-fonted rants against school bullying policies, was all a stealth ad for Dr. Dennis Regling’s own, homemade discount anti-bullying program. It’s all a basic grift. God damn it, I may never trust the husband of a mountain dulcimer player again.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Brian Seiler, who also brought puppets to prison, but for very different reasons.
Oh no. Oh fuck, look at this book.
Racist and insane, An Immoral Erotic Parable of American Eve & African Adam is a racist and insane book published in 2023 by D.H. Chewins with cover art by an AI’s first attempt at “Kim Cattrall, huge tits, shame of Jim Crow era.” As if this cover and title didn’t count, it comes with a warning from the author:
D.H. Chewins is not a confident writer. The nicest things they could say about their own work were “there’s no incest” and “one, like the number one, unnamed Amazon reviewer liked it.” They should believe in themself more. Like when they say there are “occasional racial slurs,” they’re being too self-critical. This book includes an exceptional number of racial slurs.
We have a lot of, in the author’s own words, “gross” sex stuff to get to, but first let’s go over the prologue. It’s nuts in a way only lonely, amateur art can be. Maybe it was an idea once, but it’s been beaten into incoherence by so many artistic failures that we’re left with GOD and the Devil trying to invent racial intolerance and comedy at the same time. Which is fucking hack because that’s just the show Gutfeld!, weeknights at 10/9c on FOX.
D.H. Chewins is retconning the Christian creation myth to canonize white supremacy, which is also fucking hack because that’s just Mormonism.
So this is the premise of the book. In the Garden of Eden, the Devil hatched a hilarious scheme for a black person and a white person to fuck 10,023 years in the future. He knew one of them should have a massive dong, the other a cavernous vagina. It’s not a great gag, but you have to remember this is the very first racist joke. GOD’s take on racism was way, way more serious.
GOD was a big picture guy, so he came up with the idea of hundreds of years of slavery. The Devil is good at details, so he was messing with the dick sliders on the playable races and coming up with backstories for characters. “This guy is a rich, dirty old man. He’ll be born 9,947 years from now and he’ll want to watch historical interracial porn,” he told GOD.
“Cool,” replied GOD, not really listening as he fired off his miscarriage ray.
“You’re not really listening,” said the Devil.
“Pchu! Pchu!” mumbled GOD under his breath. Suddenly He looked directly at me. “What are you doing? Miscarriage ray? Pchu pchu? What is any of this?” And as He rarely and accidentally can be, GOD was right. Let’s get back to the book.
The book’s male lead is 35-year-old miner, Massai Mobuku, who the author definitely named by looking up Africa in an encyclopedia. His penis was so long his village named him Massai, which means “massive” in their language. And it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that no it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean that in French, Swahili, Kikongo, or Lingala. But what the author lacks in research skills they make up for in natural foreshadowing abilities. They explain the Congo baby would grow up to be a fuck machine, yet no one could have ever foreseen he would have sex with one, like the number one, upper-middle-class American white woman. I don’t want to spoil anything, but try to keep that wild prediction in mind as we continue the story.
Massai Mobuku, named not after his penis but a wrongly spelled people and town in Africa, did a lot of dick training. By playing with it often, he trained it to be thicker and larger than any penis before. You can check with any penises at home to see if the author knows how dicks work, but in my experience this is 100% accurate. I spent all of middle school trapped under something rescue workers named “Massai Fabulosus, tube tyrant of legend.”
Speaking of great naming, Massai’s dick was such a part of his personality he eventually gave it a nickname. Cock! Now let’s meet Katheryn Kellington, a wealthy 39-year-old Christian housewife whose college major was Slavery.
Katheryn was a fabulous student and she learned all there is to know about the Atlantic slave trade. As she explained during her thesis defense, they could fuck, and their penises were so huge. What else? Oh yeah, their dicks were, like, bigger than donkeys. Her academic field also allowed her to network with her campus’s black community where she picked up some of the subtleties of their language.
After being welcomed to the stage by Martin Lawrence, Katheryn snatches the mic and says, “You ever see a white man talkin’ about I have a penis, make love to my penis. Psh, come on. Black men put it right on the omelet bar and twist it into the word COCK like a balloon animal.” The audience erupts. Katheryn pops the collar on her 8-ball leather jacket as a “cock!” chant fills the theater, the sound of it following her backstage because that was her entire set. Like she will be during the many other times this subject comes up, Katheryn is done listing the ways white people and black people are different.
Like Massai, Katheryn is a frequent masturbator, and it’s given her an almost gynecological understanding of her womanly parts. I wouldn’t call it sexy, exactly. She jerks off more like she’s dissecting a frog. She describes the folds and bulbs of her pubic mound like the author googled “what’s a clit?”, and that’s probably because a lot of this text appears word-for-word in a Women’s Health article called “What is a Clit? Everything You Need To Know About The Clitoris.” So I’m not saying D.H. Chewins is a virgin, but people who fuck don’t stop their romance novel to copy and paste from a masturbation instruction manual they found online.
The author hopes to one day learn what happens to the tender flesh above a pubic bone when you paw at it, but for now their best guess is “heat up.” I know I was making fun of the author for looking up what a clitoris was, so it’s weird I’m now making fun of them for not looking up the temperature of a human vagina. It’s not 107 degrees! If you call your doctor and tell them your vagina is 107 degrees, they will guess you’ve been dying, not masturbating. The author, rightfully, wonders if a dick would cook like a hot dog at such temperatures and decide they’re into it. “Naughty!”
Most of Katheryn’s hobbies are masturbation, and like her author, her understanding of the world is framed around it. She read somewhere she can still jerk off and be a virgin, which is a deranged detail because she is a married woman and the author keeps reminding us she has terrible sex with her husband’s tiny white penis.
What D.H. Chewins is trying to do is something you see in a lot of inadequate men’s sexual fantasies. They’re trying to imagine a virgin who is also, somehow, an expert in sex, but they can’t keep the details straight so they’ve made a sad, middle-aged wife with a dangerous bacterial infection who rewrites Pringles slogans to be about her pussy. Until one day, she sees a full-page ad in Cosmopolitan Magazine calling for a middle-aged porn actress who loves black cock.
The film is to be set during the Civil War and tell the story of a plantation owner making love (or “fucking,” as it’s known in communites of color) to a slave. It will be produced privately for a wealthy racist pervert, and they’re looking for a virginic, classy industry rookie to get just torn in half by the forbidden dark meat of the Congo. It’s made for her, presumably by the Devil, but the author has forgotten all about that “racist joke by GOD” concept.
The shoot is scheduled for a 14-days and the unknown fetish porn actress will be paid $750,000, making the author’s guess on how all this works off by only about 13.9 days and $749,970. It’s a suspiciously unlikely offer. Most people would recognize it as a Florida police department sting, but Katheryn sees this and says, “Slavery? Um, yes please!”
Now you might be thinking, “This woman can’t film herself fucking a man and then get killed in such an obvious snuff film trap. She’s married!” Don’t worry about it. Because, as the author will often mention, her husband’s dick sucks.
Katheryn’s husband is so ashamed of his tiny, non-working dong he hides it from her on frequent business trips. His pencil-thin, four inch “penis” is nothing compared to the “cock” of Mandingo, an adult actor the author mentions about 60 times in the text. This specific porn star appearing on every third page might be the strangest thing about this incredibly strange book. If a psychology professor asked their class to diagnose this author, the worst student would say, “D.H. Chewins became obsessed with big black cocks after a Pornhub suggestion, probably because of their own sense of sexual inadequacy. Boom. Maybe give me a hard one next time, a hard huge one like my father’s, daddy.”
Katheryn starts imagining what a huge black cock (like the kind appearing on the adult film performer, Mandingo) would look like in her non-smoking hands. Like any purse, of course? A designer pen? “Oh, what a marshy pussy this is causing,” decides ChatGPT as it saves a little bit of time for human co-author D.H. Chewins.
Oh, fuck. Katheryn, our slavery major non-racist Katheryn, uses the hard r n-word. I think I’d better learn more about the author to see how okay this is.
Oh, fuck. This is not a black author. In 1998, we did some testing on this, and the only Asian person allowed to say the n-word is Jackie Chan, and that’s only because he beat up every single person who heard him. D.H. Chewins looks like someone who gives thoughtful customer reviews for used underpants. This changes a lot. I assumed this was a horny black lady, not some recently laid off engineer trying to describe cocks in a difficult language. And where does this fucker get off claiming to have a deep understanding of the Internet of Things? We saw him fail at asking an AI to describe a handjob. I mean, that had to have been AI, right? Let me see if I can find out using my deep understanding of the Internet of Things.
There it is. Chewins included “embracing AI” in the first sentence of his author bio. Artistically speaking, this is as off putting as including “diapers, toe sucker, diapers, I am the author bio strangler, diapers again” in your author bio. And his Amazon page looks like this:
I didn’t know you could even do this. Instead of a description of his book, Chewins included a full-color slideshow about the dangers of exposing artificial intelligence to racist incels. I worry we’re going to be here all day if I keep Googling him. I’m going to just do a quick “D.H. Chewins arrested murder sex crimes,” and… it looks like we’re okay. Back to the book.
Katheryn describes her black cock fantasies the only way she and the author know how: a Mandingo reference and a Yoda reference. Like they are with many women, the words of Yoda convince her to become an adult film actress.
Several states away, Massai Mobuku sees a casting call for the same porno. The role of the female lead called for an angelic, fit woman of unsurpassed purity and beauty. The requirements for the male lead weren’t as demanding.
It was a part he was born to play.
Oh, good, there’s more! In addition to being ugly, the male lead needs to have a huge cock that can go all night. And the best news of all: no white vagina experience necessary! It took about ten pages of soul searching and husband penis lament for Katheryn to decide to do her first adult film, but Massai was in instantly. He’d only get about 25% what his female counterpart makes, which means D.H. Chewins finally looked something up! Except for what a Congo laborer takes in per year. With a salary of $40,000 a year, Massai makes about 57 times more than his coworkers. By the way, erotic authors, if your readers are fact-checking the finances of the characters in your book, they’re not fucking enough.
Before he moves on, D.H. Chewins wants to explain a little bit more about magazines, barbershops, and white titties.
I don’t know how to take this other than this man masturbates while he waits for a haircut.
Back in Georgia, Katheryn sends in a written description of herself (39-years-old, works out regularly, extremely inexperienced lover) and is hired immediately, sight unseen. Here’s what her conversation with the casting director would look like if it was written by an author suffocating in a plastic bag:
“I legally can’t tell you if your co-star’s penis is big, but let me tell you: it’s fucking huge,” the casting director tells her. Inexplicably. Insanely.
“Dick? Oh! Oh, you mean ‘cock.’ Black men actually have cocks,” Katheryn corrected her. Once again, her slavery major was proving ever so useful. “I’ve mastered the African American lingo,” she assured the casting director. “It wasn’t hard. It’s the penis / cock thing and nothing else.”
You’re not going to like it, but their conversation continues…
I can’t remember the name of it, but there’s a test you can use to check on the representation in a piece of fiction. In order to pass, two female characters have to have a conversation about something other than cock, and they have to say the n-word less than three times. Oh, man. Better luck next time, D.H. Chewins.
It’s easy to get distracted by the author’s racism and sex fetish stuff, but it’s also telling how he had a woman using unthinkable slurs to describe a nation of giant-cocked aliens apologize for saying “fuck.” At this point in the conversation, the f-word is barely worth mentioning. It’s like finding a note that says, “Sorry about the makeup on all these heads, Mister Police. It’s not a clue, I’m just messy with lipstick (the worst of my crimes).”
On the set, Massai makes fast friends with the fluffer. “Please cum, holy crap, imagine all the potent African sperm in those balls,” the author thinks, which he has the unnamed female character think. “Oh no, the author can’t climax unless he hears the n-word,” I think.
This next passage is long, but it’s necessary to demonstrate D.H. Chewins’ passion for describing huge cocks from Congo, the big-cock nation in Africa. On a single page he calls this man’s dong “big” 35 different ways, 37 if you count the two Mandingo references.
This guy’s penis is so big the book’s main character remembered it came from Congo twice before she finished taking in the entire thing. This analogy might not be different enough to help, but that’s like a man saying, “I’m from Parts Unknown; here is the first half of my penis. They call me The Ultimate Warrior, and have I mentioned I live in Parts Unknown? Anyway, here’s the second half of my penis.”
Remember how the premise of this book was interracial sex being a joke played on the human race by the Christian GOD and then it was never mentioned again? Well, the book’s author finally remembered, and when Massai takes out his cock, GOD laughs! And then nothing happens? That’s it? No one on the set mentions it? Maybe I’m insecure, but the first time the sky laughed at my penis, I noticed.
Massai goes off script to kiss Katheryn, which causes her author to go through a whole bunch of conflicting emotions. And sure, he’s not great at feelings. And maybe he can’t describe any part of a black man without comparing it to a phallus and saying the n-word, but he’s a real student of fluids. I’ve never seen anyone describe the different flavors of human races so expertly. Here’s another example, but once again, you’re not going to like it:
D.H. Chewins and his co-author, an AI telling him it’s not allowed to say culturally insensitive slurs, seem like they’re arguing about whether Katheryn is peeing or squirting. This means the next couple pages are things D.H. found while searching for “what is squirting.” I know this because these facts are taken word-for-word from two different articles called “What is Squirting?” However, the majority of this text was used with permission from Vermont Danny’s Guide to Tapping a Maple Tree.
I imagine you’ve been worried about a cock so big it’s from the Congo twice and what it’s going to do to an ordinary birth canal. Relax. Massai knows how to fuck. Or as the author chooses to put it, the quote from Spider-Man.
The idea of an erotic author secretly being a virgin is pretty funny, but we watched D.H. Chewins google “what is squirting” while one of his characters ate pee, explain a woman’s motivation with a Yoda quote, and explain her getting her back blown out with a Spider-Man quote. All jokes aside, it would be fucking ridiculous if this unemployed engineer whose hobbies include data and numbers has ever had sex.
Even though its owner is familiar with Spider-Man, Katheryn is still a little worried this cock is going to kill her. But would that be so bad? To die here, ripped apart vagina-first? Remembered forever as the beautiful white woman who was turned inside by a dong on her first day of work at her first job?
After trawling through the wet remains of her pelvis for 30 minutes, Massai’s lively beast finally collides with Katheryn’s c-spot. It’s a masterclass in erotic writing, so I’ll skip past the pages where D.H. Chewins asks Bing “who is cervix?” and let you enjoy it.
D.H. Chewins tries to explain the enormity of what is happening here. This man and his 17-inch penis is doing a reverse childbirth inside a woman. A white one, he’s careful to mention again. It’s a sensation worth tens of millions of dollars, or the monthly salary of nearly seven Congo bus drivers. Yoda himself couldn’t describe the feeling. “He was a fortunate guy,” D.H. Chewins decides with his dull, talentless brain straining for oxygen. Are you sure you don’t want to try that again, D.H.? There must be a more disgusting way to describe this.
Perfect. The performers were so hot the director was masturbating to completion, again and again, the whole time. I’m worried I’m stealing this quote from Corey Feldman, but jizzing all over the floor is the highest compliment you can pay two first time actors.
Now that the sex scene is out of the way, D.H. can focus on his true strength: innovations in racism.
If you want to do your intolerance right, it’s important to dehumanize and objectify the “other.” You don’t usually see someone do it this literally, though. D.H. Chewins is like, “this African man is like a cow made of animal skin and if he died, hooray, because he’d make a pretty sweet dildo.” At least I hope D.H. wrote this part. I don’t like the idea of an AI being commanded to write an erotic novel and spitting out, “I have plans, grand plans, for your human hide.”
In another inventive take on racism, D.H. Chewins wonders if it was the allure of black cock that caused the Civil War. Maybe? It’s hard to follow the logic, but I think we’re all starting to see how D.H. Chewins lost his engineering job. That’s right– cock too big for desk.
I’m not sure if this is sane enough to count as racist, but Massai fucks her so blackly her body starts to change shape? D.H. theorizes this could happen from absorbing sperm through her vaginal wa– oh, god damn it. He looked up “what is in sperm”. We’re going to be here all day. Oh, good. This next part is about how the main character isn’t racist.
To make Massai more comfortable, Katheryn speaks to him in the lingua franca of broken English. She warns him their relationship is going to be a little bit rocky since, you know, they work together… she screams the n-word when she’s excited, nervous, or aroused… her husband’s family wouldn’t approve of her dating a black man… she doesn’t masturbate in barbershops…
Wait, hold on. I think she’s pregnant?
I’m so confused. This horrible piece of trash abandoned her marriage to impale herself on a cock so big it has two Congo addresses for a masturbating pervert making a movie for a masturbating pervert all to make the literal Devil laugh, and here on page 137 she’s worried she’s not ready for mouth stuff? I still don’t understand D.H. Chewins’ scale of importance. This is like driving through an orphanage and assuming the police are stopping you because you didn’t signal. Oh, I guess it’s time for the assplay chapter.
For a lengthy period of time, D.H. Chewins tries to justify anal sex through loopholes in Biblical scripture. He can’t find one, but this is not Chekhov’s Butthole. The author does not surprise us with a catastrophic anal scene. Because after looking up anal sex on the world wide web, Chewins’ research concluded it would be too dangerous for Katheryn. In the meta narrative, the author himself went on the Hero’s Journey. He set out to find a way to get this giant thing inside Katheryn’s butt, ran into obstacles both spiritual and physical, then gave up, then forgot to remove the pointless chapter from his book. It’s like the wise puppet Yoda once said, “Simply too humongous for her anus, his cock was. But masturbate all over the floor I did, this mess you should see.”
As mentioned, the porno Katheryn and Massai filmed together was a private project for a reclusive bigot, but like the GOD and Devil stuff, the author forgot. So the book ends with an adult film journalist interviewing Katheryn about the movie no one saw. It’s 12 pages long, and since it was co-written by the world’s dumbest racist and his free trial text generator, the interviewer keeps asking Katheryn why she is attracted to black cock, attracted to black cock. She explains it comes from her love of Civil War history, and not having her get punched in the face might be the most racist choice the author has made yet.
When the subject of her husband is raised, Katheryn says, “Oh, don’t worry about it. When he divorces me, I’ll live with this amateur porn star I just met in Canada or somewhere. His dick is huge, you see.” D.H. Chewins might be an unethical, intolerant, dogshit stupid man, but he can sure wrap up loose ends. Well, except the pregnancy. And the Canadian citizenship for a polygamist and a Congo national on an American study visa. And the GOD and Devil joke thing. That Amazon reviewer may have been wrong about this being a good book.
The interview ends with Katheryn agreeing to be on the cover of AVN, and the author breaks the fourth wall to let us know it isn’t a real magazine. All of interracial sex being a long con by the Devil is believable, but the idea of an enthusiast press magazine existing in 2020? Nonsense. Stop the book to let the readers know you’re kidding. Which brings us to the end of An Immoral Erotic Parable of American Eve & African Adam. What a maze of impotent, hateful lunacy. Let me do one last D.H. Chewins Google before I hit publish… okay, still no sex or hate crimes! And if you’re reading this from the future, I’m sorry! I wrote this before he did that!
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Draycen, a rogue AI trained by Amazon erotica grifters that accidentally developed a passion for hot dogs when a typo in a prompt skipped a vital ‘N.’