Author: Seanbaby

Categories
NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Vampire Jokes and Cartoons 🌭

The year was 1974. “Fuck it,” said a comedy book editor. “Fuck everything.”

Vampire Jokes and Cartoons is the skeletal remains of an idea picked dry by mindless boneworms. It was edited by Phil Hirsch, a giant in the dead horse kicking genre. Keen-minded hot dogs might remember him as the man responsible for 101 Hamburger Jokes and two different boob joke collections. He has the sense of humor of an Anne Frank House tour guide, and Vampire Jokes and Cartoons is him on an off day.

“Something about necks, come on think… neck…” is the entire writing process for most of the book’s jokes. And speaking of writing processes, the first thing I do when I read these things is to find the patterns. Authors always reveal secrets and weaknesses when they lazily attack the same problem, and that’s where the magic is. So I started keeping a tally of nonsensical neck references. Blood bank jokes. Misunderstandings of how vampires work. Misunderstandings of how comedy works. I’ve never learned less. Vampire Jokes and Cartoons is the spilled intestines of a beast feeding only on stupid. Two of the categories I was tracking were “Huh?” and “Fuck You” because I thought I could do some kind of “The Only 6 Kinds of Vampire Jokes” bit. But no way. Without exaggeration, 80% of the jokes in this book were “Huh?” or “Fuck You.” Let me show you.

Oh, a vampire lemonade stand? I get it. The lemonade would be blo– hold on, the customers are also vampires? And they… don’t recognize the taste of blood? They thought they were buying tomato juice? Even though they only drink blood? You dumb fuck, did you forget what vampires were in the middle of this? This is like a cartoon of two dogs, but one of them is a psychiatrist and the other says, “You are a dentist, camel.” Pathetic. An embarrassment.

What’s the joke supposed to be here? This is a group of vampires going to see a movie about a vampire. I suppose they would do that if they existed. Are you fucking telling me this cartoonist wants me to imagine a world where vampires are real and nothing else is different and something about that would magically be funny? Maybe if they were buying tickets to Two Hours of Diabetic Cowards Bleeding Out, you’d think, “Oh, I get it. Undead monsters would enjoy different entertainment than us.” But this? This is nothing. Only a goddamn idiot wouldn’t know that, Phil Hirsch.

Later in the book they do try to come up with funny vampire movies. It is catastrophic. Shameful failures cowering under the shadow of a mouse drawing. “A SCAR IS BORN?” How? On what? The dead body you were sucking on? Dead bodies don’t heal! Or do you think there’s a coroner out there referring to the gaping fang wounds on a desiccated corpse as “a scar?” And what the shit kind of sad effort is “GRIEF ENCOUNTER?” And don’t start with the excuse of “oh, the family of the guy the vampire ate will feel grief, and that’s why the hilarious pun works.” I’ve heard it all before, you fucking hack. You wrote this in 1973. You only had to flip one letter upside down and you could have had Cleobatra Jones. It was right there, you trash.

Are you starting to see what I’m talking about? What could this mean? Is this vampire sarcastic? Or in this world of vampires, are movies about vampires always funny? And if so, why? Do they get “real” vampires wrong? That can’t be it, because the authors and readers of this book are using those vampire movies as a reference, which would make this joke literally impossible to understand. No human mind should have been capable of a thought this pointless. Which means, okay, this is going to sound insane but here’s my theory: this book is for people who find vampires hilarious. Under any circumstances and in any context, to them, “vampire” is a complete setup and punchline. With this in mind, let’s continue.

“Could it be that easy? Am I already done?” asked the man staring at the words VAMPIRE SNOWMAN. He was.

“I really need some time to set this gag up,” decided the man staring at the words REFRIGERATOR FULL OF BLOOD. He didn’t.

What!? Aiiiiieeeee, WHAT!? No no, we can figure this out. Okay, I think a group of men wrote a letter to this unnamed bureaucrat about a vampire balloon that scared them. So far, amazing. Perfect premise. Next, the letter arrived and the important man finished every task with a higher priority of “some guys scared by balloon.” Finally, he called his secretary into his office to take down his reply. It’s a great joke and it works perfectly except for one thing: there’s no way all of this could happen while the parade was still going. Checkmate, Phil.

Take off your Daredevil Doug Safety Gogglesâ„¢ and let’s get started, Little Scientistsâ„¢! With your parents’ help, mix 5mg of aluminum sulfate with three drops of the menses of an innocent. You fool, you have summoned Dracula.

I get this cartoonist is going for irony, but a vampire writing a vampire book in a world where vampires exist would be subject to the same criticisms as a human writing a human book in our world. The only thing that happened here is a dipshit tried to imagine a world where vampires were real but then accidentally didn’t. A better caption would have been: …the handsome vampire’s fangs slid easily into the engorged penis like two penises penetrating a blood-filled penis. A passing parade startled him from his penis feast, leaving twin crimson geysers erupting from the penis like two ejaculating peni– “Jesus Christ, this is HOT. I don’t need to read another word, the receptionist job is yours.”

The book makes a few attempts at “real” jokes, but Phil was so lazy he couldn’t remember which punchlines had already been used. Sometimes they used classic jokes with a vampire twist, but they couldn’t quite get them to make sense.

This is one of the rare times you can’t just change the word “gorilla” to “vampire.” Because “anything it wants” isn’t the answer to the question of what you feed a vampire. It always wants blood, you dumb shit! It’s the only thing it eats! Which means at least one person contributing to this vampire joke book lied on their resume when they checked the box “I know what a vampire is.”

Well, yeah, you dick! What else would he do? 

And now you’re telling me that after being bitten by a creature of the night and given the power of bat, snowman, and chemistry set, he’s still a “panhandler?” So he feasts on the blood of the living, but only after begging them for change. What a desperate stretch. You’re humiliating yourself like this, and for what? For two thirds of a joke you already told? People can fucking see you, Vampire Jokes and Cartoons.

“I kind of remember something about wooden stakes through the heart,” thinks the cartoonist accidentally drawing a vampire murdering his wife. Or maybe this was no mistake? In which case, ha ha ha die, wife!

This is… I’m not sure who the Vampires of America are spoofing. The Boy Scouts? A plumber’s union? I think the audience needs more to go on to understand the punchline, which is just a song about night, which is when vampires go outside. As a framework, there is nothing lazier than inventing a vampire organization and calling it “Vampires of America” so you can reference any of the thousands of ones about night time. Nothing will ever top it and I’m not setting up a bit.

It was a bit. I have betrayed you. As the book goes on, American vampires register different corporations and LLCs to allow for some barely Dracula creed or theme song. The author thought they’d found the cheat code for infinite vampire jokes the same way a pumpkin owner thought they’d found the cheat code for infinite sex.

This is something you should only say if a doctor is telling you, “Most of your brain was destroyed by what we’re currently calling bat AIDS.” Anyway, I think you get the idea. Let’s get back to the other kinds of botched vampire jokes.

Forget that there’s no punchline because as a premise, this one is incredible. A child is keeping a vampire in the attic and has brought him so many bloody marys his mother is getting suspicious. How many did it take? From the word choice it has to be at least three, right? I think it’s fair to ask why this woman made her child even a single cocktail much less many. “Another bloody mary!? Hmmm… you’re almost suspiciously tying one on for a 4-year-old. Either you have a vampire upstairs and you’re both confused by simple concepts, or you’re a very functional alcoholic. Celery or no?”

If I could speak directly to the author for a moment, bitch, did you mix up vampires, the one thing you’re supposed to be writing about, with mummies? What kind of stupid asshole types “OF HUMAN BANDAGE” during a list of BEST-SELLING VAMPIRE BOOKS? Are you telling me your desperate mind fluttered around and landed on the wrong monster before it landed on The Novelization of Cleobatra Jones? Fuck. You.

Sure, it’s a witch humorlessly reading a list of dead nursery rhyme characters to a goblin. I don’t think it’s going to get a laugh, but the author had a clear vision. He pictured a world where the undead ruled the night and tried to imagine what their children’s books might look like. He never got past the dumbest idea, “all the popular characters are dead, dead, drained of their blood,” but at least there aren’t any mistakes here. Nobody forgot what vampires eat or whether or not they’re mummies. And why just look at the detail in this… torn asunder baby?

My point is, it’s an improvement from earlier, where a miserable dumbass was working backwards from “Fangs for the Memory.” Let’s see if they can keep it up!

I have betrayed you again. It was a bit.

“Maybe Batman is a bat man? Oof. That’s pretty bad. Hopefully I can top it before tomorrow when I’m to be executed by the state.”

So the vampire is looking for a job as a “body snatcher.” And the punchline is, “yes, it’s confusing here in this fictional world as well, reader.” I don’t even know what to do with it. It’s all lampshade. It might as well say, “Unusual situation being pointed out, but poorly. I think vampires are mummies but the only thing eternal is parade.”

I sort of love this one because it wouldn’t be much of anything elsewhere. However, in this vampire joke book it’s a startling subversion of expectations. It somehow jumped right past vampires and hit baseball? It’s like watching The Sixth Sense and Bruce Willis turning to camera and saying, “Nobody’s dead or anything weird. I just always seem to know what my cat wants.”

This family is watching their son walk into the darkness with an eel-handed ghoul and they say, “I think it’s time for Junior to have a little brother or sister.” What could it mean? Do they know he’s never coming back? This is something that would make a clown’s wife say, “You know, you don’t need to tell me about every dumb little fucking dream you have.”

This cartoon requires you to know a doggie bag is for bringing uneaten food home, yet somehow be mistaken that you have to bring your own empty one to the restaurant. But if you ignore this tiny flaw in the punchline, the idea of sneaking into a woman’s bedroom and tearing her into leftovers is a solid joke.

As crazy as this sounds, a lot of the jokes in this book suffer from overthinking. The author knows vampires do blood stuff, and so do doctors, and knew there could be something there. So he pictured a hospital. The doctor is talking to a patient… he’s mostly nude, getting massaged by a busty nurse. Normal stuff, but also a vampire…

… who is great, no notes. However, instead of a “joke,” the author dedicated all eight words of his caption to establishing this conceptual link he found between doctors and vampires. They both take blood, you see. But no doctor would use a vampire for several obvious reasons. One, monsters. The list goes on. You can skip past this fundamental understanding and make a real joke. The caption could be “If you have payment questions see our new financial administrator,” or “We found the maniac who took your hair,” or “this is our new thoracic motorcycle surgeon, Hepatitis Mike.” It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is, you’re overthinking it. Try a vampire joke where you go from your gut.

Yes! Perfect! It’s stupid as fuck, but the right kind of stupid as fuck.

No! God damn it, no! I warned you about this. See, you took the term “blood money” and rolled it around in your brain until it had lost all meaning. And instead of abandoning it, you sent a vampire to the IRS offices to talk about his blood money deduction, a thing no one does at a place you wouldn’t do it. This is a failed adaptation of the riddle “How does a vampire buy his bow ties?” If this is a world where vampires pay taxes and can’t deduct blood money from their taxes, why is he doing it? How confused is he? How confused are you? You’re telling me this guy turned into a bat and flew to Washington, D.C. during vampire-exploding business hours to get lectured on tax evasion by his food? The only joke here is you. Wretched.

What. You’re telling me this vampire doctor keeps up his medical certification so he can go to his patients’ homes, leave a clear paper trail, and eat them? Are sick people that much more delicious? You know what? Let’s say we ignore how this is a terrible idea and you’d be outed as The Fucking Vampire Doctor immediately. What’s the joke? That a vampire doctor would make house calls? To whom would that be funny? That sounds like a test to see what part of your brain is impaled on a fence. If you whispered that into a child’s grave, their parents would forget they ever existed.

Oh, great. The old business man with a bat gnawing on his neck asking the operator to connect him with God gag. If you’re not going to try, Vampire Jokes and Cartoons, I’m not going to either.

“Hey, Nancy, you live in a world where children, possibly dwarves, set you up on blind dates with vampires, but you’re the only person who can recognize them. Here’s one now drawn with a really different pen than me. Oh, did you drop dead rather than exist in such a world, Nancy? Because we haven’t gotten to the punchline, Nancy. I was going to say he wants to borrow a cup of blood, Nancy.”

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Rachel, the old bat from Great Neck, New York who sucks. Blood.

Categories
PODCASTING DAY

Podcasting Day: Dr. Ruth’s Game of Good Sex with Hana Michels 🌭

This is going to sound sexy, but it’s not. We played an entire game of Dr. Ruth’s Game of Good Sex with chaos pixie Hana Michels. It’s a board game with the thrilling tactics of Candyland mixed with the medical penis facts of 1985. It comes with everything you see here, and it went off the rails immediately!

Most of the game is about the hilarious sexual mishaps couples have to navigate like smoke alarms and farting, but there’s also cards. So many cards. It’s part sex education, part Newlywed Game, and part advice column simulator. It’s an entire seventh grade health curriculum taught by silly coffee mug from an era when reverse cowgirl was still diagnosed as a mental disorder. Sixty percent of the gameplay is premature ejaculation, and that’s not because we were playing it wrong.

Look at some of these cards:

These are two Interaction Cards, where players can unlock powerful sexual weapons to use against other couples or pause the game so you can humiliate your limp-dicked husband. As you’re discovering, Dr. Ruth’s Game of Good Sex is many things, but first and foremost it is the least horny way to destroy a marriage.

If you land on Sex Clinic, you draw these multiple choice questions. Each of them is either unspeakable or stupid as shit. For instance, someone might ask, “My husband’s dick is too small for sex, Dr. Ruth! What do I do?” And then you have to decide the right way to respond. Do you tell him his tiny penis really is a problem? Do you tell him to buy a dildo as big as your last husband’s penis? Do you bottle up your emotio– wait, holy shit, is that other card telling us to help cover up a sex crime!? What is this fucking game!?

This is the third type of card you can draw on the 130-space game board. You might be thinking, “Jesus, how long does it take to play this?” Well, the instructions (all 8000 words of them) say “about an hour,” but that’s absurd. Not only are your game pieces constantly premature ejaculating off the board, sometimes you land on these ASK DR. RUTH spaces and have to deal with six Omega Class psychic attacks. Look at these questions! These read like a 2024 Florida textbook. You may never fuck again after listening to this podcast! Like and subscribe!

Alluring art by Brett Ellefson

Categories
PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: PUNCHES 🌭

I want to make this clear right away: this book is called PUNCHES. It’s by a Texas cop, it’s called PUNCHES, and this is the cover:

Self-published in 1988 with minimal proofreading, PUNCHES is a novel about a Texas cop, Sergeant “Jumpin” Jack Kellog, as he “takes on the Crime Confederation’s invasion of Texas.” The stupid among you might be thinking, “Texas cop? Invasion? Nothing about that sounds racist to me,” but you’re wrong. It’s a 1988 Texas cop trawling his imagination for crime he wants to punch. W. Hock Hochheim didn’t even know you were supposed to hide your racism. He probably has commendations for outstanding racism in the line of duty.

Speaking of great honors, my copy of PUNCHES is autographed. Which again, has this cover:

It’s stunning, and honestly, more than enough to make it a contender for Best Thing. But let’s read some of the words inside.

It opens with a group of three thugs stalking a nice suburban neighborhood. Here in the opening chapter W. Hock Hochheim’s words dance. Monstrous murder weapons have muzzles ready to bark death. K-Mart disco shirts are sleek and flapping. He gives shotguns mysterious histories.

The second man steals pants, is stereotypes, and has a dirty afro. Strangely enough, “afro” is the haircut all the book’s black characters have. Maybe 1988 Texas barber shops only had the one choice, but it’s possible W. Hock thinks “afro” is the generic term for black hair? I’m trying not to get too hung up on the racism, but it’s not a great sign when the black guy in the group has less backstory than the white guy’s shotgun. Anyway, he has a crowbar and his name is, I don’t fucking know… how about “Crowbar.”

“Crowbar” was so good with a crowbar that many undertakers, even talented and experienced ones, saw “Crowbar’s” victims and were like, “this will be my masterpiece.” Jack or no man messed with “Crowbar”! He and Shotgun had a friend named “32” because he used a .32 which he never lost, except for twice. Wait, that sounds insane. Let me find the exact quote.

The book says, “He’d always ‘tote me a piece’ – carried a .32, never had lost one yet, unless you counted the two police confiscations that resulted in two trips to the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville.”

So, okay, “32” carried a .32 except for the times he went to prison specifically for carrying a .32. I dare any author to imagine a more terrifying criminal. W. Hock Hochheim’s years of law enforcement experience has given him an insight into how the criminal mind works better than anyone. Just take a look at Shotgun, Crowbar, and 32’s plan:

This was a standard 3-man cop revenge mission. These bad guys came together to kill the man who arrested them, Jumpin’ Jack Kellog. They were going to get into his Victorian-style home, probably somehow. That part would be easy enough that waking up and killing the guy should still count as Part One. Part Two of the plan? IMPALA FLOOR WINE.

This is an author who hunted actual fugitives for decades, and his understanding of crime seems like it comes from a half-remembered Fruity Pebbles commercial. This plan isn’t stupid. This plan is a stupid person’s idea of stupid. And shockingly, their idea to bring their famous signature murder weapons and hope somebody left a window open does not go well. Jack greets them the only way he knows how: PUNCHES.

The second rule of a fist fight is to never stop to catalog your opponent’s armed robbery convictions. Jack broke this rule, but luckily Shotgun broke the first rule of a fist fight: never smile. One thing I noticed from W. Hock’s writing is that he has no idea how people think, but weirdly, he also has no idea how they fight. And weirder than that, I can prove it. Because this novelist is also a karate author. Let’s look inside W. Hock Hochheim’s 2005 guide to close quarters combat.

When you have mastered the art of combat like Hochheim, you need a challenge. You have to start defeating men using only a four directional Donkey Kong bonk. Seriously, though; his fighting system is a marvel of unlikeliness. He writes exclusively for people who want to live an embarrassing life and die in their first fist fight. If you’ll indulge me, let’s look at another of his techniques.

Hochheim’s advice here is to pound on your enemy wherever, for a while, until they’re hurt. It’s not “wrong,” but is definitely the winning entry in a dumbest shit you can say without being wrong contest. And then he shows you how to sit on someone’s face? I understand a middle aged Texas punch commando isn’t going to be a world class grappler, but this is fundamentally bad advice. A body’s natural flailing will escape from this position and a child with minimal horseplay experience should know this, much less a “martial artist.” Your enemy can now either bite your dick or leave. This is how you aim your ejaculate away from a CPR dummy, not kill a man. Come on, Hock.

Back to the novel:

Jack is a maniac written by a karate nerd who can’t fight, so he bites his enemy’s nose to begin a deliberate gun-disarming maneuver. This is a fundamental part of W. Hock Hochheimer’s fighting style. Here are some of the effective ways readers can take someone’s gun:

Scenario 1 is the simplest. You fucking bash the shit out of them and take their gun. It’s sort of complicated, so he explains in greater detail on the next page:

You might be thinking, “Great idea. But what if my enemy isn’t some nerd? What if my gunman is cool?” Great question. Hochheim demonstrates the defense against this is Scenario 12:

What you want to do is grab the gun and the rest of this sentence is just the word titties twice because now you have their gun, titties twice. Obviously, you’re ready for the two most common gun situations, none and grabbable, but what do you do if your gun enemy is far away? The one thing they’d never expect…

Fucking flying! Gun grab! Back to! The novel!

Jack is pretty sure he killed his home intruder, and he takes a minute to appreciate how heroic that is, in a fiscal sense. Sure, he’s dead, but think of the Harris County taxpayer savin– ARRGH! CROWBAR!!

Hochheim knows what the reader wants: justifications for off-the-books state executions and the mechanics of bludgeon-blocking techniques. He spends a lot of time explaining the masterful grips and tactics of pulling things out of another man’s hand– it seems a little cerebral for a crowbar fight. Even the author agreed 17 years later in the axe fighting section of his karate book:

I think all axe battle techniques get developed like this. Someone swings a weapon at you, and you either invent the perfect block by accident or you die before you get a chance to remember the wrong way to do it. Back to the novel!

Two men grapple! One for revenge! One for his very life! But first an author lustily explains each step of the choke escape he had to learn to get his yellow belt. This is bullshit, Hock. Pinky pulling!? Let’s get to some punches.

Yes! This is how you get out of a headlock! Dick punches to keep those legs busy!

Crowbar, the fool, tries a punch of his own, but Jack’s idea is better– punches. Specifically punches to the head, punches to the head. It’s not clear how many he threw, even to the author, but two of them were good ones. They knock Crowbar into Jack’s bar. “Stay for a drink,” he doesn’t say. “I have a bar and no friends,” he doesn’t realize.

After winning the fight, Jack executes Crowbar with a gunshot to the head. As he does many times in the book, the author explains how this technical– no listen! He had every right to legally kill these men by county law! In a lot of ways, this is good for everyone! Who is this equivocating for? Does he think I’m going to argue with him? I’m reading fucking PUNCHES. Kill whoever you want. In fact, shut the fuck up about everything else.

Though well within his rights, this killing of two and a half home intruders isn’t relevant to the rest of the story. It’s just to let us know Sergeant “Jumpin” Jack Kellog punches and kills a lot of guys on and off the clock. But he’s back on now, and on the tail of a man known only as The Knifecaller Rapist. He interviews a witness named Ida.

As an author, it’s your job to create imagery…. to help the reader create the scene and the characters in their mind. Watch, I’ll do it right now: W. Hock Hochheim sat at his typewriter wondering how to describe an African American woman. He sipped a warm beer, grimacing at the taste. “Later,” he told his dusty desk nunchucks. They, like his son, had long gotten used to the neglect of the dedicated writer. Though a White through and through, Hochheim’s police work put him in contact with many black families. He racked his punch-bashed brain for things about them he remembered. A sudden smirk formed on his thin, stupid lips. He had it. “Fatherless choldren,” he typed, racistly.

Hochheim writes like Ernest Cline in that he’s counting on his reader’s weak imagination to fill in a lot of blanks. For instance, Ernest Cline might say something like “Oh geez, it looked exactly like that scene in The Last Starfighter,” and hope you’ve seen that movie, and Hochheim will say something like, “She was black,” and hope you’re a cop.

Ida swore, to the Lord, she would never tell people about the Knifecaller Rapist whose attack she survived, but Jack’s face was too kind. Do you know what this means? It means each member of the different races has identified the other as one of the good ones. It’s beautiful when two people from such different backgrounds can come together to betray God by reporting a sex crime. Sorry, I’m making this scene sound crazy. Let me put it in another way. Jack met a sad black lady who looked like she would work harder if she could, and she betrayed her God to tell him about a sex crime he already knew about. This made ten legal decisions surge through his head and all of them were punch.

Jack starts his investigation, and he plays by 1980s cop fiction rules, which means he’ll play by your rules, all your goddamn hamstringing rules, but he’s not going to play by the rules.

There are a lot of moments like this where Jack ignores some kind of procedure that would only mean anything to a cop. And I guess you write what you know, but Hochheim dedicates at least 20% of this novel to law enforcement regulations. Is Jack Kellog a badass or a scumbag for violating statute 3A-2 of the Houston P.D.’s Code of Ethics? Author W. Hock Hochheim is so glad you asked, and will go over all the implications as Jack escapes this strangle.

You’re not going to believe me, but I swear to God, to the Lord, that pages 61 and 62 of PUNCHES are just an immunity agreement given to one of the characters. And I don’t mean a long-winded lawyer is explaining the details of it. I mean right before a marijuana plantation raid, the book goes, “here is the full legal text of the immunity agreement they gave this guy; let’s stop and read it.” I guess I’m a little disappointed he went so hard in this direction of Cop. I was expecting a bitter detective taking the frustration of his ex-wife’s restraining order out on crime, not all this paperwork bullshit.

Oh hell yes. This is what I wanted, Hochheim! In the chapter “SHITFIRE YANK!,” our hero meets up with a van prostitute! And he turns down a couple holes on the house not because of some fascist workplace safety guideline, but because the worn out old hag just didn’t get him hard like she used to. This is the kind of Cop fiction I like.

Soon Jack runs into an old boxing rival named John Handell where we learn some troubling news about our hero.

Sergeant “Jumpin” Jack Kellog is obviously an author insert, so part of his backstory is that he’s terrible at fighting. W. Hock Hochheim has seen himself fight, and he does not have a strong enough imagination to picture a man such as he winning a boxing match. Not once in eleven fictional, amateur bouts. Sure, he can picture himself squeaking out a victory in a pinky-maiming, nose-biting scramble, but in a test of skill and strength? Psh. Get real, reader. None of this ninja crap works.

Ow! Fuck!!

Ha ha ha this is maximum Cop. Our hero got so mad at this guy for making fun of him that he vowed to find something, anything to arrest him for. Then he got so fucking mad he forgot about that. It’s incredible! It would not surprise me if Hochheim starts one of these chapters by saying, “Shut up, wife! I command it! Sorry, I meant to scream that, not type it.”

This is getting too dark. I’ll clip a cute one.

Jack takes off all his clothes and gets a good look at his naked body. “You disgusting piece of shit,” the author calls him, the character clearly modeled after himself. “Look at how you’ve let yourself go,” he continues. “Go from what? You were never anybody,” he adds, and holy shit this one isn’t cute at all. Sorry!

You already knew this, but one of the themes of PUNCHES is how things used to be better in the old days before all these, whatdoyoucallthem, civil rights. These soft sons of bitches in their tiny panties… how is anyone supposed to tiptoe through this liberal hellscape of 1980s Texas, America? It used to be men were one of two things: Punched, or White. Why, it’s got me so mad I could… I could… 

… FRONT ARMBAR TAKEDOWN!

Speaking of 1980s Texas, Jack nabs himself one of those damn Communist hippies and has to dance around all the fancy regulations to get him to talk. Can you believe he’s only allowed to refuse the prisoner legal counsel and threaten him with sexual assault!? After holding him as a person of interest in a Cuban friendship? You can’t clip a cop’s wings like this and still expect him to soar. It’s like you fucking want crime.

W. Hock Hochheim writes Latino characters the same way he makes fun of a Chinese waiter– with the full cooperation of the Harris County Sheriff’s Department. Sorry if it seems like I’m leaving out a lot of plot and only showing you the violent rants of a racist idiot, but that’s what PUNCHES is. Jack fusses around like this, complaining his way through irrelevant frustrations. He’s forced to let the Knifecaller Rapist go because all he had was eyewitness testimony and evidence, but no knife. And by Punch Law, you can not make an arrest without a criminal’s signature weapon. Hold on… “not make an arrest?” That gives Sergeant “Jumpin” Jack Kellog an idea.

Jack finds “Tramp” Rasp, the Knifecaller Rapist, and does what any good cop would do– he stomps on the son-of-a-bitch’s feet and legs. He’ll kick a confession out of this scumbag if he has to! I’ll skip ahead to that part…

No, he’s still working those legs. Okay, let me jump ahead to the resolution…

Well, sure, nobody’s going to confess to murder from some light ankle beating. Jack adds some elbows, dick kicks, and a knee drop. Now he’ll talk.

Jack has a few more things he has to say before… holy shit, this is just a rage fantasy. Let’s skip ahead.

Okay, Jesus Christ, Jack. So he’s splintered most of Tramp’s leg bones and pelvis, hit him with a finishing move, choked him, given him a fierce talking to, slapped him, punched him, and threatened to cripple, blind, and torture him. Then most of those a second or third time. Tell him what he wants to hear, Rasp!!!

Oh, he’s still going. We’re at the “unrecognizable meat” stage of police procedure. This is, and I mean this in the clinical way, medically crazy. If you’re enjoying PUNCHES at this point you’re either an actual murderer or Hochheim’s ex-wife’s divorce lawyer.

Is this art? Has the attack become metaphor? He’s calling Tramp “the Tramp” now, which is either a typo or Jack stopped his attack on Tramp to kill a witness. This is something a werewolf would find in their typewriter after a full moon. Get it together, Hock.

Wait, what? “Then Jack snapped?” Fucking THEN? We are nine hours into a shrieking trash slaying!

Oh holy shit. Oh, holy fucking shit. That’s how he ends the book!? This… worked!? W. Hock Hochheim really said, “The guy in the book who is me won the garbage fight against the bad guy by so much they never did crime again, the end.” I have nothing to add to this; it’s beyond my every expectation. Punches.

…
This article was brought to you by a hot Hot Dog Tip from Javo. 

Categories
PODCASTING DAY

Podcasting Day: Knife or Death with Lydia Bugg 🌭

It’s Dogg Zzone 9000 Day, and this week we are talking to our very own Lydia Bugg! We brainstormed on a fascinating topic she would love, and we both instantly and simultaneously said, “The way of the blade! The bond between man and sword! THAT SHOW ON NETFLIX WHERE ADULT NERDS CAN’T CUT THROUGH FISH!”

We’re talking about Forged in Fire: Knife or Death: “The Last Samurai,” so this episode is for the stab maniacs only. Non-ninjas, bow specialists, keep moving. Everyone else, you can listen here, or wherever you get podcasts!

FOOTNOTES: Behold, listeners, The Saga of Karl, 55-Year-Old Boy Samurai. It is eighteen screenshots of Karl’s sad rampage through the Knife or Death knife course, completely unaltered– no silly word bubbles or sound effects. Enjoy his journey as we did, with your heart soaring. You will believe in the spirit of the samurai:

At the risk of spoiling the ending, after this middle aged man slowly gave up and failed his way through a sword-chopping obstacle course, he did not, in fact, end up “being the winner!” But we can all learn a lot from Karl. Follow your dreams. Every day is Halloween. Losing is just winning, probably. When something is hard, play something else. Sensible shoes are a comfortable way to fix any sword. Never. Take. Fish. For. Granted. Thank you, Karl.

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: F.A.R.T.s The Movies 🌭

“The universe isn’t irreparably corrupted by darkness,” you say. But you’re wrong. In 1991 someone made a movie called F.A.R.T. The Movie. “We can come back from that,” you say. But you’re wrong again. In 2000 someone else made a movie called F.A.R.T. The Movie. “We are fucked,” you decide. And you’re finally right. Behold, doomed readers… F.A.R.T.s The Movies:

F.A.R.T. The Movie is a 30 minute collection of frantic, unfinished fart sketches. F.A.R.T. The Movie is an inept college sex comedy with seven or eight farts unrelated to the plot. If you took out the farts from both films, they would both be called The Movie, but one would be 99% of a fartless romantic comedy and one would be a sucking hole in the walls of our reality. Which reminds me, this is going to get confusing. The first F.A.R.T. The Movie was the second F.A.R.T. The Movie in the last sentence, and in neither movie does the acronym F.A.R.T. mean anything. I know. It’s fucking crazy. Crazy in a way it didn’t need to be.

Speaking of acronyms, both F.A.R.T.s The Movies will be judged using the fart comedy film industry standard of F.A.R.T., explained below (illustration courtesy of searching for “farting butt clipart”):

I don’t need to explain it. We all use this system every day. Let’s get started.

First impressions are vital because that’s all a F.A.R.T. The Movie will have. Even the people who made F.A.R.T. The Movie barely remember anything about it, and that’s not a joke. The zany sketch one listed renowned film expert, Drew McWeeny, in the writing credits and I know him on Twitter, so I immediately sent him this:

Do you know what this means? It means F.A.R.T. The Movie was made by mere intent. A fart-mad lunatic knew there should be a movie about butt smells but had no other artistic inspiration other than “maybe someone who reads magazines could write it.” It’s incredible, both that he bothered to try and how badly it came together. I’ll talk more about Drew’s contribution later, but first let me show you the back of the box:

In many ways it’s the most honest a VHS box can be. From the copy to the screenshots you can tell this thing looks like shit and was hacked together by someone with no sense of humor other than the one built into every human asshole. It’s like it’s trying to explain bad comedy to a baby. “Russell loves to FART! But his wife hates FARTING! It’s the eternal triangle-90’s style, which is not a real turn of phrase or where you put that apostrophe.” Two things are made clear by F.A.R.T. The Movie‘s box: they think a half hour of farts alone is enough for a film, and they’re wrong about a lot of things.

Now I want to talk about the far less honest box of the other F.A.R.T. The Movie. You might have already noticed something suspicious about it:

The tiny betrayals here hit you in waves, and I don’t want to steal that experience from you, so please take it in before I make any comments on it.

Really, stop here and focus on each detail. Think of why they made every choice.

You might have thought, “Oh, this was directed by the Farrelly Brothers? How have I not hea– wait, did they spell their name wrong? Hold the fuck on. Does that say… IN?” You may have also noticed at the top of the box they listed three actors you’ve never heard of rather than the world famous Farley Brothers. That might be because those Farley Brothers are Chris Farley’s brother, Kevin, who you may have seen in a couple things, and Chris Farley’s other brother you didn’t know he had. The second one can’t act and he’s spliced awkwardly into the movie every twenty minutes to have no effect on anything. Then again, that’s how I would describe the farts in this F.A.R.T. The Movie. So by stinky butthole standards, he is the principal star. Congratulations, Other Farley Brother. Clunk? Pojob? That’s it. Pojob Farley.

It’s worth looking at these pull quotes too:

I couldn’t find either of those film reviews, but that doesn’t mean anything. Online media in the year 2000 was just a place where confused people lit money on fire. Still, I’m guessing from the way they didn’t spell Shoreline Times correctly and the fact that GoodNewsBroadcast was a Christian website, these aren’t perfectly accurate. Do you know what a Christian website tells you when you ask them to review F.A.R.T. The Movie? They ask their God for permission to fuck you up, and He always says yes. Seriously, though; they don’t sit through a slightly fartier Porky’s knockoff and tell their readers it’s like falling in love.

F.A.R.T. The Movie is something a fungal colony would make if it was pretending to be its movie director habitat. The hero is a balding incel with a farting backstory that never comes into play and his sidekick is a balding Kevin Farley doing an impersonation of Chris Farley doing an impersonation of William Shatner. The idea that fucking anyone, for any reason, would say it’s “a cross between Animal House and Something About Mary that all generations can relate to” is absurdity. An obvious deception told by a fungus with no more reason to lie. If Sue Braden really said this, fuck her and the mold steering her. And Tim Conway Jr. from 97.1 FM Talk Radio Los Angeles… do I need to explain why it’s bad to invoke a supporting actor’s dead brother to promote a terrible movie his manager would have never let him get anywhere near? I don’t know if it’s committing any actual crimes, but to use the language of this era of cinema: F.A.R.T. The Movie‘s VHS cover has the ethics of a basketball coach with multiple magic dogs on the bench.

The back of the box is really something, but in a different direction:

Wow, look at all those fart non-fart jokes ordinary words. Like the other F.A.R.T. The Movie, it tells you more than it means to about who the filmmakers are and what they’ve done. It tells you it was made by people who think farts are funny, but aren’t quite ready to make them fundamental to the story, but hold on, maybe maximum farts? No take them out completely wait, we were right the first time, fart. I can’t stress enough how tacked on this farting stuff is. Despite naming their film F.A.R.T. The Movie and making the cover a fart-filled whoopee cushion (a double fart in many ways), these insecure nerds were ready to cut F.A.R.T. The Movie down to 108 minutes and release it as Sex Predator Buddies as soon as any distributor asked.

Seventy four Kevin Smith movies have proven you can eventually say something funny after you try enough times. Sorry, when I started that sentence it felt like it was going to be a joke. I think I’m still cranky from F.A.R.T. The Movie. The point is, F.A.R.T.s The Movies sometimes make dull swings for misunderstood “humor” and accidentally hit truly special insanity. Let’s celebrate those moments.

First, let’s look at F.A.R.T. The Movie. The balding college student with an inconsistent fart problem has ditched his beautiful, kind-hearted soulmate to stalk an emotionally vulnerable hot girl to a bar. The hot girl hates him, as stated by the film several times, because she thinks he’s a loser creep (he is). However, she wants to get revenge on her unfaithful boyfriend, Johnny Alpha (really), who also hates him (he let him get horribly injured during a trust fall activity (really)). His well-known fart condition is only a secondary, easily removable reason for the characters to dislike him. Anyway, she does a sexy dance to seduce him:

He gets so horny he farts on the bartender, killing him, but that’s not the funny part. Or maybe it is to you in which case here’s a joke you’ll love: unanswered cries for help from a chemical toilet. No, the funny part comes next after what feels like seven more hours of dancing. She stops doing a seductive merengue and goes fucking nuts.

In a fit of demonic editing, the scene goes from alluring dance to Paula Abdul audition. To a slow Latin soundtrack, this woman throws high kicks, plays pool, drops the beat, and after she runs out of organic ways to show her panties, just starts pulling up her dress. The whole movie I was thinking, “How does a competent actress who is this much of a smokeshow only have Team Knight Rider and Command & Conquer: Tiberian Sun on her resume?” I think we’re seeing the answer. The F.A.R.T. The Movie director of photography caught footage of a malfunctioning android moments before its tiberium core exploded.

The other F.A.R.T. The Movie is made up of so many zany sketches it’s almost impressive how rarely they try to be funny. It’s almost all lazy premises like “What if a priest talks about farts and the concept should be enough, right? No need to write jokes?” But there were a couple fart game show bits that blew my mind. As anyone who’s made anything knows, game show parodies are the first idea on the whiteboard of any brainstorming meeting, so I didn’t have a lot of expectations when I saw the set of WHO CUT THE CHEESE.

First off, all the contestants introduce themselves by farting, which is deceptively brilliant. It implies these people come from a world where farts are used as communication. Or maybe it means it was written by someone whose joke construction is farts are funny, so farts are funny, so farts are funny, so farts are funny. Both are equally ridiculous. The host tells them, “Contestants, please, identify this fart.” And then a fart comes, as if from nowhere. Did the host do it? Did they have it contained somehow!? Anyway, they all hate it, and one of them farts in return. This seems to be how you buzz in, so he adds, “That’s a rotten egg fart.” The line is delivered with an indecisive authority no trained actor could have considered.

After a long pause, the host says, “… yeah.”

And that’s it! That’s the whole fucking thing! It is almost violent in how much it doesn’t care. Nothing has ever given less of a fuck. You probably didn’t expect a well-structured narrative going into F.A.R.T. The Movie, but surely no one could have expected so little. They built a set so four people could fart and one of them named a fart. But it’s the other game show parody I really want to talk about.

It’s just exactly the Gong Show, only it’s called BONG SHOW, which is great because it’s not a fart pun, implying this takes place in a world where there are things other than farts. We see a blindfolded woman performing her act which is guessing people’s farts. I’m not explaining it well. What she does is smell their farts and then guess them. Two women in swimsuits bring up a volunteer from the crowd and he farts on her.

She starts to guess his fart. She says, “Mmmm… very fragrant. Definitely a woman. He likes to wear silk panties.”

It looks like it’s a real bit! The old man is secretly wearing lady underpants and it’s messing up this fart-telling act! That’s a premise with a setup and payoff anyone can unders– what’s this? No? It goes off in another direction and then just kind of ends with the celebrities fighting over a gong? Ha ha ha what?

I love this. It’s a second game show about guessing farts, only this one they’re bad at it for reasons the writer and editor didn’t agree on! It had too much depth… too much mystery. So at the risk of hurting author and movie genius Drew McWeeny‘s feelings, I reached out to him again.

I was right! He wrote it! If that’s not strange enough, the sketch also stars the real four-year-old Ke$ha who farts on the old lady and gets her to say, “Wooo! What a lot of musk! You are a verrry virile man.” I don’t know. Maybe all we see and are is a misinterpreted fart on a poorly edited Gong Show parody.

Both F.A.R.T.s The Movies take some real liberties with reason to create circumstances for their fart jokes to have a chance to land. For instance, F.A.R.T. The Movie opens with Russell (who loves to fart) unloading his ass into an elevator before he exits.

These goddamn people watched this man performatively leave them with his noisy fart and then start to perform the great single act play Who Among Us Farted Because I Guess We’re All Fucking Stupid?. I want you to understand, these movies don’t suck because you’re better than them. You are, probably, but they suck because they will fart off of faulty premises. This is a butthole built on sand. This is an Elon Musk tweet promising “I will dig a little tunnel under Florida to reduce swamp traffic” translated into Fart.

There’s a sketch in F.A.R.T. The Movie where a commercial for fart spray claims to recreate the exact fart scents of your dead relatives and pets. How!? Why!? And in the other F.A.R.T. The Movie they get pulled over for drunk driving and have to cover the scent of beer. Easy, right? The protagonist of the film has a fart problem! So they, of course, try to hide the beer smell with cigars. What? They do finally remember the main character farts when he’s nervous, but he shits his pants instead because he’s the wrong kind of nervous. What!? There’s a scene where pooping into a toilet is too noisy(?) so he hangs his ass out the window and shits outside. And this is a travel!

Look, we’re going to be here all day if I try to point out everything wrong in F.A.R.T. The Movie, so I’ll sum it up with a screenshot of the farting college student next to one of the two women he pulls:

Oh, this is the perfect time to move on to:

Each of the F.A.R.T.s The Movies have a tone where it feels like we’re about to sneak up on a lady taking a bath. It’s like two different men said, “Let’s make The Boob Tube or Revenge of the Nerds, keep all the sex crimes, replace all the boobs with farts, and add all the lonely sadness that implies.” But you don’t necessarily need nudity to be erotic beyond all reason. F.A.R.T. The Movie, prove it:

Special thanks(?) to LaziestManOnMars for sending me both F.A.R.T.S. The Movies.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Girl Watcher 🌭

Today we’re talking about The Girl Watcher. It was a magazine about exactly what you think that ran from 1959 to 1959, and it will come as a great comfort to know its audience must now be tethered to a hydraulic water pump in order to maintain an erection.

The Girl Watcher wasn’t sure new readers would get its vibe, so the cover explained this magazine is “A GUIDE TO 👀 GIRL WATCHING.” And if you were still having trouble understanding what was going on, it also said, “Start a Girl Collection.” Hi, potential reader! We know you like checking out babes, and we already know your next question. The answer is no, they are not safe.

We’re going to read the first issue and this is how it opens:

“Humor” is too strong of a word for it, but the writers put in some effort to make their misdemeanor stalking sound like wildlife photography. Not a lot of effort. It’s a one note joke that unraveled quickly and completely, because imagine trying to extend that bit for a third paragraph. You can only dehumanize women for so long before you realize you’re not writing a comedy. Even in 1959 there was a threshold where a The Girl Watcher writer would go, “Oh, it stops being cute when we follow her to where she lives and tell her no one can save her.”

If you were expecting a magazine with mostly nude dames, this isn’t really that. It’s more about the men who stare at those dames when they’re trying to get to work. Again, it’s called The Girl Watcher, not The Girls Being Watched. So there are a lot of hilarious gags praising “true Girl Watchers,” like these fellows in the trash hoping to get a glimpse of pantyline. I love the idea of ancient perverts buying this magazine to masturbate with and finding out it’s mostly pictures of other perverts hiding in garbage.

Look here, 1959 comedy fans! A gentleman is hiding behind a tree to take notes on stranger butts! Get it? It’s funny because police will one day use that notebook to solve a string of sex crimes! I honestly can’t understand the premise of this. Is he really writing things like, “Calves of good size, haircut below average, couldn’t see face, 3:17pm.” Is there a conceivably funny answer to “fucking why?” This is so misogynistic many comedy lovers would reject it outright, but for the sake of argument, let’s say you hate and hunt women. Even for you, what’s the joke here?

“Some of the Girl Watchers pretend to read the newspaper. These lads know the importance of staying incogn– never mind, it looks like they’ve kidnapped one. The end of this article, I guess!“

For a sexy humor magazine, that was a heavy start. Let’s see if their second article is more light-hearted.

Oh fuck. Oh, no. It’s about hunting women in the park and that would be bad enough. But it’s also about a reader from the Congo who was given two 19 inch pygmy girls as a gift. He asks if he’ll still be a Girl Watcher now that he owns his own human women! So, okay, it’s probably not a real story for a couple reasons. One, it’s the first issue. How would they be getting reader mail already? And two, you can’t keep two Zoogo pygmies in the same terrarium. Unless you like it when Pygmon The Untethered forms, you fucking idiot.

The third article is a zany feature about helping Girl Watchers self-identify. In most ways it’s identical to the first article about the different types of Girl Watchers which supports my theory that this magazine was written by scattered inmates with no editorial oversight. Anyway, let’s see these goddamn Girl Watcher types:

It’s worse than you thought. Probably much worse. THE FLUSHER will fake being drunk to leer at women staying at the YWCA. I’m not sure I have an irreverent spin on that. If you told a man to commit the most unspeakable act of evil without touching anyone or committing crimes, THE FLUSHER would win. If these words weren’t literally already in The Girl Watcher, I might have said something close to “this is the kind of magazine that tells you to pretend to be homeless to scope out the babes coming and going from the domestic abuse shelter.” I would have thought I was an edgy, absurdist genius for thinking that up. I’m truly stunned.

Compared to THE FLUSHER, THE PEEKER is downright adorable. This guy only spills mustard when he smells a titty? Fucking marry him, ladies.

They refer to THE STALKER as resourceful and imaginative because he comes up with good ideas like, “hiss, crawl under the women and look up, hiss.”

THE PERCHER looks like he might be THE PEEKER on a three day titty bender. Which means he’s probably spilled enough food on himself that he’ll get swarmed with birds before he can get to stage two of his plan. Which… it’s got to be leaping onto a woman, right? It couldn’t just be climbing out of the tree after a day of public masturbation, could it? I mean, the joke can’t be “I’m perched up here, whores! You whooores!!!“

Soon the writer abandoned the silly descriptions entirely. He decided telling you which body part the stalkers liked was enough. “The Legman, fuck it,” he wrote. “It’s probably a guy who likes legs, they’ll get it.” And then he handed it to an illustrator who said, “Sure. I can draw a man probably looking at legs. People will get it. Hell, they’ll love it. Oh no, this next one is dark and I’m a hypothetical pantyhose sniffer in a comedy bit.”

This Girl Watcher didn’t get a character class. He’s only called “Lester.” And Lester had the idea of dismembering four different mediocre women to make one really good one. “That’s a complete joke and the perfect way to end an article,” thought the writer. And to his credit, what would you call this Girl Watcher? THE CORPSE FUCKER? Oh, you would? Well, then you agree, the choice to just use Lester’s first name was a good one.

Not all of the magazine is as silly as carving a woman into parts. Next up is a profile by the journalist Sir Oswald Chisholm, and it’s… oh no. God damn it. It’s called…

The article is about a 49-year-old fat man in London who definitely doesn’t exist, but who maintains relationships with young women around the world by giving them gifts. There is no moral or entertainment value to it. It really is a bland description of what it would be like to buy a dress for a sad woman in exchange for companionship. Here’s an excerpt:

I guess it’s a power fantasy about having enough money to turn all human relationships into prostitution? The other articles have been about objectifying women, but this one is about how, no really, you can just go buy them. Except I’m not making it sound creepy enough. I’m not even sure how to describe the depth of this article’s creepiness. Wait, wait, I just remembered it’s called “Collecting Pretty Girls.”

You might be starting to worry that the writers of The Girl Watcher had a real contempt for women. That should go away when you find out the next article is a nonfiction story about Eddie Waitkus. He was the baseball player murdered by a deranged female fan.

It’s… I don’t know, telling, that the writers of The Girl Watcher would be drawn to this story. It’s almost as if they could relate to someone whose loneliness turned into some kind of single-minded, irrational obsession. Like this author shouted at a cashier he was following to her car, “You know who gets dangerous when they long for a love they can never have? Fucking women.”

So far this magazine has identified the kinds of men who stalk women, stalked some women, and identified the kinds of men who stalk women. They’ve also implied that you’re lucky they’re men because if they were women, ladies, you’d already be dead. So it’s safe to say these men understand women. They should have no problem writing an extremely fake advice column by an 18-year-old British girl.

It’s going to sound like I’m kidding, but it starts with half a question from a “reader” who can’t tell if his girlfriend wants to kill him, and then completely abandons the text to show a picture of “the author’s” panties. You have to skip ahead twenty pages to learn his girlfriend chokes his neck with both hands while she’s on the back of his motorcycle. And her advice is to … I can’t be sure, but I think “she’s” saying to kill her before she kills him? Here, I’ll let you take a look:

They’re writing both sides of this, so it could have been anything. Well, not anything. They’re 1959 virgins. But they could have given this fake reader permission to make love to a chimpanzee. They could have worked together to turn a beach ball into something like a chimpanzee vagina. The point is, in the universe of infinite possibilities, they invented a woman who said, “INDECIPHERABLE NONSENSE, STRANGLE HER?”

Okay, enough for the fellas. These next helpful hints are for their PRETTY GIRL READERS only, and that’s not a joke, those are their exact words.

These goddamn maniacs are trying to sell the reader on the fantasy of “you’re holding the same magazine that beautiful women read!” Nothing has ever been less likely. There is no magazine more single-minded in its quest to alienate female readers than this. You would have to publish a magazine called Dressing Up Like a Hobo To Stalk Women at the YWCA Quarterly, which once again, this magazine already did sincerely, and I’m sorry for repeating the bit, but I still look upon it in cosmic wonder.

Suspiciously, one of their first tips for models is to fuck the photographer. “Suck his fat dick, if you know what I mean,” said their first draft. It’s shortly after this when the author loses their mind. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s not low effort or humorless. It’s like their shitty brain started to misfire in a medically upsetting way and no one was there to help them.

What the fuck is going on? If I’m being generous, I think the gag is how girls dream of being models, and they obviously don’t mean the wrong definition of dream, but what if they did and everything was all weird? This is horny madness. This is what happens when a murderer’s balls get so full they cause a brain swelling. And there’s more! Look at this shit:

Surrounded by the busy clacking of typewriters, the editor-in-chief of The Girl Watcher reads aloud from a draft handed him by his newest writer. “I AM GIRDLE BRONCO. MY BOSS IS WOLF, BUT MY PANTY GIVES ME SPEED.” He looks at the page for a moment, his expression impossible to read. “Looks good, kid. Fuck this syntax up a little bit and we’ll get it over to art.”

If you’re hoping for sanity in the next article, I have some bad news. It is written entirely in Jazz.

There’s no way of knowing what it’s about. Anyone who speaks this is dead, and I am genuinely worried some of that is racial slur. I am beginning to think letting stalkers publish their own magazine was a crazy idea. At least things are moving toward the deranged and away from the problema– fuck.

Okay, wait, maybe she will be okay. Maybe the writers of The Girl Watcher think of themselves as good people and imagined this girl would be perfectly safe in the presence of 26 men.

Are you fucking serious, The Girl Watcher!? Can we have just one article where a woman isn’t in mortal danger? Maybe a fun piece on, like, a dance craze sweeping the nation?

It’s hard to overstate how quickly this story about the popularity of bongo drumming transformed into the author’s fear of black penises. The protagonist of “bongo!” watched in racist apathy as his date got her purity and innocence pumped out of her by Big Wheel, king of the local bongo circle, and I wish there was more I could tell you about this story. It’s like a lore book no one expected you to read in a game called Assassin’s Creed: Jim Crow.

Oh yeah, remember June?

This poor guy can’t keep his best friend’s wife’s mouth off him. What should he do? “You little bitch, I’m going to emasculate you,” suggests this 18-year-old beauty from across the pond!

“My mommy told me to get laid, and I showed her! I found a gal whose bra size goes from 11-year-old girl to Hacksaw Jim Duggan. I’m confused. About more than bras. And not only me, the guy I’m pretending to be, but also me, the guy pretending to be you. June, me, please help.” – Shook

“Fuck you, Shook. You fool. It’s funny to me how you’re so stupid you can’t get laid.” – Shook writing as June about the blowfish girl they made up in a moment of desperate confusion

A confused-about-boobs virgin writing for The Girl Watcher has invented a character called Desperate because he’s desperate to have less sex. “I made love to the wife of the World Champion Skeet Shooter,” he complains. “Make love to ME NEXT!” he advises himself, adding no further ideas other than a compliment. Go ahead and live forever– you’re not going to see anything more pathetic than this. When he wrote this, this man’s genitals dropped off his body like the long evolutionary arc of a cave salamander’s eyes. It’s astonishing what the people our ancestors wouldn’t fuck were able to achieve.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: FancyShark, who will assist any girl that fears they are being watched by a girl watcher. Giggle twice if you need HELP.