Author: Seanbaby

Fucking Day: How to Date a Jamaican Man 🌭

Post author By Seanbaby
Post date 01/06/2023
3 Comments on Fucking Day: How to Date a Jamaican Man 🌭

I’ve read a lot of books by wrong, deluded fools, but it’s very special to find a book like 2012’s HOW TO DATE A JAMAICAN MAN. This author has no idea what she’s doing, and you’re going to love it. It’s got the racially charged penis descriptions you’d expect, the vagina hygiene tips you wouldn’t, and it will absolutely make you worse at having sex with Jamaican men.

The author’s name is Empress Yuajah, and I’m not sure if the “Empress” is a symptom of rad parents or unchecked narcissism. She claims to be a black Jamaican woman, but she exoticizes their culture the same way you might if you were writing something called Police Academy 7: Voodoo Cops. Despite her desperate self-publishing career, I can’t find a picture of her, and one of her books is a guide for white people to become Rastafarian. I’m obviously not here to police anyone’s blackness, but Empress Yuajah writes like she’s hiding a very problematic secret. For instance, she opens her book as if she’s an explorer who discovered a lost continent of sex wizards:

It was such a great summary she decided to use it for the back cover as well. A person less ignorant than Empress would know the danger in mistaking stereotypes for wisdom, especially horny wisdom, the least useful kind. If you believe her, you are now a worse person and craving a specific kind of dick. Also, you shouldn’t need any more advice. Just point your holes at these undefeated fuck champs and skip the entire book. Speaking of books, Empress opens this one with some ads for her others:

The great thing about self-publishing is how there are no rules. If you want to float a blurry picture of your other book under a hyperlink, fine. Make one page the words “More Love,” and nothing else. Fuck it. Hell, put in an ad for the book your reader is already reading:

Would you like to read How to Date a Jamaican Man with a longer title and allllllllllllmost a bit of shaft? Speaking of a bit of shaft, I’ll stop teasing you and get to the book. It’s dedicated to Steve.

As you’re going to figure out, Steve is the guy Empress fucked on her trip to Jamaica. He has no game, a big dick, and the terrible sex he had with Empress Yuajah inspired this book. He split her in half like a drunk tractor accident. And as someone who fucks, I’d like to say using little quotes around “perfect gentleman” is a real virgin move. You’re bragging about sport porking a guy named Steve, Empress. We don’t need to suffer through your cute inside jokes.

Okay, let’s get started. Empress writes the same way she fucks, so this will be confusing, unconfident, and racist. She begins with some real insider tips on staying attractive:

If you open your list of beauty tips with “take vitamins,” you’re not writing for someone who exists. By any standards this is beyond dogshit. Paint your fingernails as needed? Try not to be fat!? No trust me, I once asked a guy about the fat thing!?!? It’s got to be a terrifying thing to realize you’re out of wisdom once you’re done remembering lipstick, so in many ways Empress is a hero.

Take note of this structure, as it will reappear later. Empress will state a common sense thing impossible to not know, explain it by saying it the same way again, then offer extremely anecdotal evidence for it. I’m not saying she knows nothing about Jamaican fucking. It’s simply worth noting there is no way to know less than her about Jamaican fucking. Let me put it like this: if she had walked into a different hotel bar during her one trip to Jamaica, she would be writing a book called Why Everyone in Jamaica is a Juggler. It would also be dedicated to Steve, but he would be described as a perfect gentleman without quotes.

Hey, everyone! The lipstick rememberer who fucked Steve wants to let you in on the spoken and unspoken rules of promiscuity we’ve all navigated since 6th grade! Some men you sleep with will not marry you, and Empress has the one tramp friend to prove it. Which means it’s time to ask: what is going on here? What kind of sadist opens their book with descriptions of tantalizing Jamaican cocks, lures them all in with those sure-fire beauty tips, and then tells you not to jump on them? Who are we trying to impress? The bartender watching us jerk Steve off? This better not be one of those self-published books where the author has no external sense of self and accidentally reveals all their own issues.

Oh no. Oh my god, Empress. This wasn’t the bit I was setting up! I was thinking you’d waffle more between being a woman who writes books about hunting monster dick and being a woman who thinks casual sex is “trashy.” This is way, way too much. And too dark. Honestly, it might not belong in the same chapter as the lipstick advice. Which, again, was to sometimes wear at least some. So to recap Chapter 2, wash the soup off your clothes, stay away from being overweight, apply fingernail polish as needed, and find a way to blame yourself for the toxic behavior of men. She wrote this book for you, Steve. You must be a “real piece of shit.”

In Chapter 3: Jamaican People and Culture, Empress adds a fun new element– indecision. She still says obvious things and supports them by telling you some cab driver said it, but now she’ll also say the opposite. From this point on, you will learn less than nothing about Jamaican men. You will learn they can be one way or a second way, depending on what Steve told her between ball drainings. Anyway, when Empress Yuajah went to Jamaica everyone was fine with her being Rastafari. I find this interesting because it’s a detail a white person might make note of, but no second type of person.

As Empress explains, there are a lot of important things Rastafari has influenced including . Seriously, though; if there are three things the author is good at, it’s Rastafari outreach, bulleted lists. I love this so much. This is an unproductive cough from a dying mind. If it was 2:59 pm and you asked an Arkansas classroom “What has Rastafari influenced?” this is exactly what the chalkboard would look like when the bell rang. I can’t stress enough how useless this book is to any person engaged in any kind of endeavor. If your fish said these words to Aquaman he would tell you your stupid fucking fish isn’t making any sense. How to Date a Jamaican Man is supernatural in its pointlessness. Steve probably watched his hands and dick fade from existence the moment Empress dedicated it to him. Anyway, let’s move on to the dos and don’ts of saying hi. Sorry, I can’t wait to tell you and I’m going to spoil it: it’s do!

So being rude is rude in Jamaican culture, and if you don’t say hi, fuck. I mean, Jesus fuck, Empress can’t even get into it. Needless to say, this one-time Jamaica visiting guru has tried both “hi” and “not hi” and she suggests the first one. It sounds like you might die, but I can’t be sure. She used the words “out of this world,” which means “fantastic” so it’s possible she doesn’t know shit in any culture.

Look, I know Empress’ techniques seem hard. First fingernail polish and now saying hi? But it’s time to learn why we’re doing all this:

This is one of her best lists. Of the bullet points for why Jamaican men are popular, six out of eight of them are how she wants to physically fuck them. This is unprecedented levels of horny. Sex doll owners have a deeper relationship with their partners than this woman had with Steve. But whatever Steve did, good for him. He broke loose something wet and primal up inside her.

So now you know why we’re doing this. But before we go get some, Empress wants to review some of the more complicated aspects of being a human.

I honestly thought this was a guide for banging a local while staying at a Sandals®, but literally one third of Empress’ hygiene tips is to change your bedsheets weekly. Won’t the maid do that? Did Steve have her doing his fucking chores? And look at all that space she had left on the page. That’s weird, right? I’ve made my suspicions clear already, but here’s who stops listing basic hygiene tips before they get to lotion and hair: a white girl with dreadlocks and no second type of woman.

With this tooth brushing tip, Empress is confident she’s given you all you need to lock down your Jamaican man, so let’s go over the rules you need to follow.

“Don’t Show Weakness of Any kind” is strange advice to get from a person this observably helpless. There’s a non-zero chance this Jamaican goddess boarded the wrong gate and her whole book is based on a weekend in Honolulu. Steve was probably some guy from Detroit who faked an accent to sell Empress a timeshare.

Constantly wiping your vagina with moist towelettes is the SECOND RULE OF DATING A JAMAICAN MAN. I mean, I knew it would be in there, but number two!? What did Steve say about her crotch?

Here we are at the third rule and all we’ve learned is to be brave and maintain inviting holes. All kidding aside, though; I think it would work?

Well, I wish you told me this before I let my Jamaican King give me a harsh talking to about my sour poom poom. Empress, why did you make this a top ten list if the only two things on it were self-respect and hygiene? Could you at least try to surprise us?

Jesus Christ! I genuinely cannot wrap my head around the goals of this book or who it is written for. On which date did she bear Steve a child? Is it trashy to start a family before you’ve gotten to mouth stuff? My head is spinning… this goddamn maniac was just telling us to brush our teeth two rules ago. This is someone who learned a stereotype and wanted to turn it into wisdom so badly their brain broke. “You want my advice for navigating Jamaican culture? Um, watch out for pregnant!” You don’t need me to mansplain racism, but this is like saying, “Buy extra waste baskets. Some black men are Shaquille O’Neal, so they are going to miss a lot of free throws.”

The rest of these are all variations of “speak and behave like a normal human,” so let’s skip to the end.

Oh no, what did you give her, Steve? Hey, I don’t want to brag, but earlier when Empress told me not to get pregnant I already considered using Safe Sex to do it. In fact, aside from thinking vaginas cleaned themselves automatically, I already knew all this stuff. Let’s try to find something new.

Aiiieeeee!!! You’re supposed to hang your panties so everyone in the home can inspect them!? AIIIEEEEEE!!!!! STEVE, WHAT DID YOU TELL THIS WOMAN!?

Okay, this is fascinating. Did you know some Jamaican men have sex with some white women? No no, wait, don’t get Empress wrong– this can, in rare cases, be fine.

Ah, that makes sense. Jamaican men sometimes have sex with black women as well. You know, if this suspiciously anonymous author hadn’t said she was a black Jamaican woman I would have thought an ignorant white dingbat wrote this.

I bet you want to learn more about the complicated dynamics of interracial relationships as understood by a woman with such highly inspected wet underpants. So I’m going to jump to Chapter Not Numbered: Jamaican Men Who Love White Women.

Empress has broken her racism down into three categories: worship, lust, and money/gift which can sometimes be gift/money. She thinks this is helpful! She thinks you can check this list of unused 1995 Chris Rock joke premises to find out if your husband is cheating on you with a white woman for the sex or the idolatry! I’m truly stunned. I couldn’t dare tarnish such championship stupidity with a joke.

Holy fucking shit. Look, we know Empress is a bad communicator prone to errors in syntax and language. But did she share a story about a man who literally called her “nothing special?” And her response to that was saying, “Special!? Hey, I’ll take it!”!?!?!? No. No. Do you know what this means? It means that when Empress Yuajah Googles her name and sees I called her Steve’s Most Embarrassing Sexual Conquest, February 2012, she’s going to say, “Oh boy, I’m a sexual conquest! And, of course, a black!”

“I am told that white women from abroad are worshipped by the black men in Jamaica. I could see how it could be true,” types the 37-year-old white woman trying to make sense of how she finally lost her virginity. Wait, everyone shut up. The next chapter is called The Jamaican Male Mind on Sex.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha Empress forced herself to imagine what a Jamaican man thinks about sex and the first thing she writes is “I don’t know, p-penis?” Are they right? Well, the author checked with someone who has experienced nearly two Steves, and yes, absolutely penis. Can you imagine needing a second book on human relationships other than How to Date a Jamaican Man?

I love these windows into Steve’s game. “You’re going to have to touch it, ‘Empress.’ We Jamaican men do not believe in Masturbation or self-Masturbation. There are few exceptions. Also, it’s bad luck, I mean juju, for a man to buy his own drinks. And yes, for a penis, which is what you call this fleshy tube, this is HUGE.”

This was a weird place in the book for the author to bring this up, but at least in Empress’ experience, the love between a black Jamaican man and an also totally black and Jamaican woman is expressed by telling the other one they stink.

“Wait, slow down. My… vagina… is filthy… and… disgus…ting. Great! Thanks, Steve. You’ve been a huge help with my book.”

Here’s a warning, girls, from a real experienced love maker: “Sex hurts because the noble savage often misinterprets our screams for pleasure when we are, in fact, being torn apart.”

This is such raw to-the-bone ignorance. “Ignore her… just concentrate and finish,” Steve thought, having no idea he was pounding off into such an insightful anthropologist.

You feed a Jamaican man Jamaican food? This sounds like a sarcastic answer to a sarcastic question. It’s like someone found a Jamaican baby and asked a stupid dick, “What do you feed it!?” Empress, you fucking tooth-brained cow, what the shit is wrong with you?

Hahaha this student of the world took some time out at the hotel pool to look at the men and decided their sexiness must come from their people’s robust soups and bold spices! She still has a couple tests to run, but ran into some problems when she found out men aren’t allowed to take off their shirts at Red Lobster.

For readers seeking dates with Jamaican men, it’s good to remind them every few pages their vaginas are unclean. Menstruators, your foul crotch stench lingers in stew and the hearts of good men.

I’m kind of losing my mind. Let’s talk about something more serious– the lying Jamaican cheat.

Empress, master of lists, has narrowed down the Jamaican man’s need to cheat on his wife to nine reasons. To be fair to Steve, there are really only six since she repeats “he likes women,” “change of routine,” and “because he can.” And like all good advice-givers, Empress wants you to know the man lying to you and disrespecting you loves you. In fact, you might not want to bring his cheating up. Seriously, there’s a section on that:

Empress asks three times on one page, “Is it really cheating if he has money?” And speaking like a person who has had actual adult feelings, she suggests, “Hey, if no one has any STDs, who cares?” At the risk of going too far, anyone with eyes can see this woman has never known love and will die alone. Which means all of this is theoretical, and even in her wildest fantasies her ideal relationship is quietly enduring the infidelity of some lifeguard who got her pregnant. What’s next, a whimpering guide to taking a cheater back after you can’t find someone else?

No! No!! I was kidding!!!

Oh no, I’ve seen this before. We’re in a sadness vortex! We’ve got to– oh, hey. This next chapter will work:

Even after all this you may not believe me, but this chapter is only three anecdotes about polite men she met in Jamaica. The first one is about a tour guide who took her to his home. Can you imagine not knowing how things work so hard you would let a bus driver take you to his house? And then writing a book on how things work!? Can you imagine being such a sexless drip you could SEE A BUS DRIVER’S DOGS AND IT WAS THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE TRIP THAT INSPIRED YOUR BOOK ABOUT FUCKING!?

Okay, I want you to imagine one more thing. You’re a woman actually interested in dating a Jamaican man. You don’t know how to brush your teeth or apply lipstick. Your vulva is a wreck. You sometimes wonder, racistly, which kind of ethnic food Jamaicans eat. You have been soaking up all of this helpful information, getting ready to just howl in pain under an unfaithful Steve of your own. And then you get to this pointless story about the time some absentminded dumbshit borrowed a cell phone. I can’t picture a more perfect audience for this book, and yet I still think you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

We’re almost done with this cosmically insane spectacle, and if you’ve been following Empress Yuajah’s instructions, you’re now getting married.

Empress wants you to know that like every other thing that has ever been, she has no expertise in immigration law. This is only a rough guideline she got from a friend, as if the fucking rest of the book wasn’t. As if she hadn’t made that clear on every page of this thing. Anyway, you can try marrying him in Jamaica? Give it a shot, she doesn’t know.

She’s also been told you can do something with a lawyer maybe? Again she was only told this, but it should take about the same amount of time as marrying him without an immigration(,) lawyer. It’s clear you’ve made a great decision if you’re planning your wedding with How to Date a Jamaican Man. Empress has covered everything, but there’s still a little bit more you need to know…

I guess this last part is mostly an apology. She’s sorry for not looking any of this up before she made it an entire chapter of her book. Speaking of looking things up, it’s 2012. Maybe pick up a copy of the Yellow Pages or a Caribbean newspaper?

If Empress ended her book here I would be happy. This series of wrong guesses is a perfect wrap up. Future civilizations may discover someone dumber than Empress Yuajah, but no one will ever say less. And yet this is not how she ended her book. It is my great honor to show you Chapter Also Not Numbered: Sex with a JM FOR the First Time:

Look at it. Take it in. During her research, the author of How to Date a Jamaican Man discovered you can do sex with the girl “on top” and those are her emphasis quotes. She’s telling you like you need to get ready for it. You can’t fuck less than this. Steve had to teach this woman how to unhook her own bra.

Ha ha ha ha Steve can’t fuck either. The world’s squarest virgin laid there judging her first lay as he jackhammered her into the Jean-Claude Van Damme splits. “He looked so happy doing it,” is brutal. By Jamaican law, Steve has to cut his dick off.

Ha ha ha ha ha this woman believed everything Steve told her. She got picked up by Jamaica’s least attentive lover and now she’ll be wrong about sex until she dies. “I’m sorry about the smell,” she’ll whisper to the many cats on her lap. “Da poom poom renk like me piss up myself, yuh know,” she’ll add after looking the phrase up in a Caribbean newspaper.

This is wonderful. We know what Steve’s dick looks like and that he blames premature ejaculation on the extra sensitivity afforded him by his foreskin. And, again, we learn it is quite painful when he puts it in you. He is hung, uninterested in foreplay, and not really paying attention to the signals you’re giving off.

I am having the best time watching this woman try to extrapolate an entire culture’s mating rituals from her flailing first attempt at casual sex. Let’s see how she sums up everything she learned:

Hahahahahahaha holy fucking shit. As if it would be anything else. Perfection.

Tags best of 2023, books, Free, how-to, sex

UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: RAPIST BEWARE! 🌭

Post author By Seanbaby
Post date 12/08/2022
5 Comments on Upsetting Day: RAPIST BEWARE! 🌭

All karate books take place in the imagination of the author, in a world where their particular dick stomp makes them a warrior king. As a rule, self-defense books are too cynical about the world, too optimistic about karate chops, and you should expect at least one personality disorder. I’ve read hundreds, which is how I can turn any situation into a groin strike in less than zero steps, but I have seen nothing like the grotesque make-believe world imagined by 1990’s RAPIST BEWARE!

It’s hard to call this a “self-defense manual” since there isn’t much martial arts. It’s more like an unmoderated discussion about sex crimes with a few cock biting pep talks. This is more like minutes from a Legion of Doom meeting– a list of evil things shouted randomly by a gorilla, a scarecrow, an ocean murderer, and ten regular murderers. I worry I’m not explaining it very well. Let’s see how Joseph E. Stellato (local car dealer) described it on the book jacket:

Joseph calls it an “x-rated self defense course,” by which he means it’s an “ex-tremely different rated self defense course.” I don’t quite get it, and I’m not sure why we should trust him. His karate credentials aren’t listed because I found him online and I wasn’t kidding when I said he was a local car dealer.

The author himself, Louis D. Casamassa, is really something:

Lou is an undisclosed medal winner in the Marines, an unnamed trophy winner in Karate, and received Bethlehem P.D.’s “Rookie of the Year,” an award I don’t think exists. His bio inside the book only managed to stretch that same vague information across a page and a half, so I looked him up too. And, oh boy.

His Twitter is a minimalist art piece about the lost soul of America. After almost 14 years, he’s only retweeted a couple Donald Trump dog whistles, a Merry Christmas, and this:

INT. RUNDOWN NIGHTCLUB – NIGHT

A middle-aged, karate-necklaced man, LOU, touches a stranger in a Marilyn Monroe costume while she waits for the bathroom. Pan out to reveal it’s his own tweet and he has added only the words “Marylin Monroe double”. Pan out to reveal it has one (1) like. FADE OUT.

I call this screenplay Creep. I do appreciate how over 32 years, Lou’s bio has gone from “many various awards such as Best Cop of the Moon and such” to “JUST GOOGLE ME.”

Anyway, I did! And look at what I found!!!

Google mostly gave me his awful, deranged book (which I’ll get to), and these three pictures (which are awesome). I also learned he made a second Twitter account for his dangerously hot political takes. Well, take. This was his only tweet from his second account:

I assume he means Democratic Congressman Adam Schiff, which makes his only tweet a pun on a mistake that maybe also got stepped on by autocorrect? It’s beautiful. It’s like a smug fish crawling onto land to suffocate. And I think he forgot his password because he started a third Twitter account four years later. Or he’s being impersonated by someone who knows his every mannerism:

“just google.my name. Thank you” he says to his two followers, one of which is his main account. By now you might suspect me of stalling. And yes, I would love to stay here and make fun of this old man shouting “COMPUTER, RECORD TWEET: I’M NOT RACIST BUT…” into his television remote. Because Lou’s book, RAPIST BEWARE!, opens worse than you think. The first fifty six pages are nothing but sex crime definitions and statistics. And they’re illustrated with random reenactments he made with his karate students. In addition to these unhelpful photos, there are no solutions or prevention tips. So let me be clear: literally 33% of this self-defense book is the author explaining what he means, very specifically, when he says “rape.” He has categories, profiles, descriptions of the trauma victims will experience… it is a nightmare. Especially when you consider he went on to be a passionate Trump guy, whose views on attacking women are… I guess you’d call them “pro?” Anyway, I’m about to show you one of these first 56 pages, and when you see it you’ll realize why I spent 600 words mocking Lou’s social media skills.

That page is from one of the two(2) chapters about the different kinds of rape. It’s fucking crazy. I don’t know why he wrote any of this because you don’t use different techniques to avoid them. Knowing what to call the subcategory of your attack is of no comfort or tactical advantage, and you probably already figured this, but that photo of the man holding a gun to the woman’s head is not referenced. The author simply thought the words “often injures or damages the victim’s genitals or breasts” could use some generic crime clipart. It’s an artistic choice he makes a lot.

Chapter Three is called “Statistics on Rape,” but I’m making it sound too fun. It is twenty pages of disorganized crime numbers fact-checked in the ’80s by a remarkably uneducated man. He’s got the keen bullshit-detecting skills of a Trump supporter, only 32 years dumber, so it’s a dark mix of exaggeration and tragedy. And mixed right into it are the unrelated photos of him and his friends having karate fun. “Eight out of every 7 women are killed by someone black they know. Here’s me in Rudy’s Tucson backyard winning Top Karate Yell from Throwing Star magazine.”

Another strange thing about this first section is that it’s written for men. The book is clearly targeted at a female audience, but in the middle of this fear mongering he says things like, “just imagine how women must feel.” I think he figured the ladies would make their boyfriends read the numbers part of the book. And I say this only because he gets so fucking condescending when he starts talking directly to the girls:

Lou knows you, as a lady reader, are ready to surrender at even the thought of a fist fight. But have you considered how resilient you must be from all that bleeding you do? All that sad bleeding? You know who bleeds for a week and doesn’t die? Winners. Plus, women are natural maniacs. Crazy and seeping disgusting fluids are the keys to winning any conflict, and I’m not being silly. These are the fundamental aspects of Louis Casamassa’s self-defense system, and I’m so excited to share them with you. But first, more about women in general.

When Lou was a rookie cop, Rookie Cop of the Year if you believe his book jacket, he was called to a restaurant to break up a lady battle. And boy, were these dames lookers. Maybe. Some of the details don’t add up like how someone called the police, but the women waited for them to arrive before they started fighting. Or how they had a feminist objection to getting their fight broken up by a man. The point is, Lou thought he was going to die, to ladies, and remember: he was a goddamn karate cop. That’s how strong you are, women.

His anecdote continues…

The fighting women he was there to stop joined forces and kicked his ass, which is why he’s here to teach you, natural lady savages far his superior in every aspect of combat, how to protect yourself. He finally begins in Chapter Six: Grossing Out Your Assailant.

“Oh, I know where he’s going with this,” you might be thinking. You’re right. Absolutely. This is a very dumb idea by a man with a limited imagination with a 0-1 fighting record. But Lou is very proud of his very dumb idea.

So now that you know how impressed you’re going to be, let’s learn how to pee on criminals. Wait, not yet. First, let’s hear the origin story of this idea. It came to him in an arcade, and like your assailant, you’re about to be grossed out.

So if Lou, many time recipient of undisclosed awards, is to be believed, he seduced the hottest girl in town during a game of pinball. With his teenage game and below average looks, in a public place, he took her from “no thanks” to “nibbling on her neck and that kind of stuff” in the span of one hot dog. If there’s any truth to this story, and there isn’t, her side of it would probably be “that boy bit me.”

You might be thinking, “Sounds like Lou might be the assailant in this story.” Those are good instincts. It’s exactly how he knows how to stop one.

Lou, with keen judgment, mistook this stranger eating a hot dog for “ready for the big kiss.” But the moment was ruined when she burped in his face. In that moment, he suddenly realized the secret to keeping people exactly like himself away from women.

It’s fun to imagine all this being true. How in Lou’s wildest fantasy, he went for a kiss with an unsuspecting girl, got rejected by way of hot dog ghost, and leapt to his feet to curse at her. He could have made up any story, and this is what he went with. Anyway, let’s see the self-defense that event inspired:

This is it! His first self-defense tip, on page 66! Lou says to cover your face in spit and snot, which is a technique you should practice at home. And while I think this would be a fun way to cool off arcade perverts while you’re having a hot dog, I’m not sure it would have a huge effect on the criminals Lou Casamassa has been describing all book. I mean, he did several pages about madmen motivated by Satan to burn your genitals off. Blowing your nose won’t stop an attack like that, so let’s get a little more serious.

It’s tip number two and we’re already at burping, the author’s only weakness aside from women and reasoning. Since violent crimes depend on a classy, romantic setting, a burp should work on anyone. And ladies, if your digestive system is too dainty to make smells, don’t worry. The noise may still be gross enough for your assailant to call the whole thing off. Oh, you don’t think so? Fine, let’s raise the stakes.

Fart, women. Fart like your life depends on it, because it does. The smell of fart is how the Soviets held back German forces for seven months at Stalingrad. But I do want to take a moment to address how after describing all manner of horrific attackers, Lou Casamassa seems to be training his readers only in how to defeat him on a date. There is no woman alive on Earth who knows less than Lou Casamassa about defusing this kind of “assailant.” By the time a girl is 13 she has put thousands of hours of thought and practice into it. So for him to stumble in this late in the game and say, “Hey girls, I’ve solved it: FARTS,” is fucking outrageous. This is the dumbest goddamn idiot in a very competitive field, and he’s still going:

Sure, pee on yourself. Scream that you have an anus infection. “Most of the time, this should stop the attack,” says Lou, hoping you never think about how he could possibly know that. So, lady warrior, you’ve learned how to spit, burp, fart, and pee. You know what comes next?

Of course you knew. We’ve been dancing around this for four karate tips now, and at last Lou tells you to defeat your attacker by rubbing shit all over yourself. That’s the whole move, by the way. After mansplaining all manner of bodily functions, it’s only here during the pooping your pants when the author decided, “No need for more details. This is one is self explanatory.”

So Lou built up to “poop on yourself,” which is either very bad advice if you know anything, or very obvious advice if you’re a dumbass. That has to be it, the ultimate karate tip. But no, Lou has one more idea for grossing out your assailant– by grossing out their mind.

“I would never make love to a woman having a seizure,” thought the karate instructor. “Well, write what you know,” he also thought.

Those six tips represent the entirety of the first chapter on actual self-defense. They are indistinguishable from being a baby with a serious medical condition, but Lou believes it has armed you with the power of life and death. Which means it’s time for the next chapter:

Once you know farts and fake seizures are big turn offs for a nude cannibal, their life is yours to take, and no this sentence didn’t skip anything. Let’s hear Lou’s thoughts on the hardest choice all karate students must make when they look at their hands: HOW SHALL I USE THESE TERRIBLE WEAPONS?

Suspiciously, Lou is the only karate book author who says he will not personally be there when you’re being attacked. What Lou is saying is, “if you are under attack, that’s not me.” What he thinks he’s saying is that you won’t have access to his judgment while you’re standing over your assailant’s burp-deflated boner. But Lou, the women just learned what pee-pee is. They might not be ready to be the arbiters of human life. Can you break things down in a way even they, as women, can understand them?

This is perfect. If you want to un-save a life, you take the way you save a life, and then reverse it! It’s similar to a weight loss plan based around coughing up food and repackaging it as Hamburger Helper and walking backwards from the DMV where you changed your name from Steven Seagal. Hold on, I need to shut up because it’s page 71 and Lou is finally describing an actual physical attack move!!!

Oh my god, the first karate move Lou teaches is FORM YOUR HAND INTO A SHAPE LIKE THAT OF A CRAB AND TAKE THEIR FUCKING EYE.

“It will come out like a slinky,” says the eyeball plucking expert whose life was changed by seeing his first girl-on-girl fist fight a couple years ago. This book is so inconsistent. Lou is in a constant state of wonder at the majesty of woman and the potential of her snot. He knows nothing about anything. But whenever it comes to a rapist being slightly inconvenienced, he speaks about it like it’s some terrifying thing he’s seen a thousand times. Again, suspicious. He doesn’t know much, but he knows unwanted horny men hate farts, and what an eye looks like when it gets popped out by crab hands.

I have no criticism here. This is the perfect way to work your eyeball-popping muscles.

And if there’s a better technique for training to chop a penis in half, I have yet to see it. This next move, however…

Louis Casamassa’s eyes burst open. “Get me my notebook!” he shouts to his wife, a scarecrow made of restraining orders and chicken wire. “I just thought of a way to stop sucking a dick!” You know, biting an uninvited penis might be the least necessary advice Lou has given. And it’s not only the biting part, it’s the childlike explanation of what happens when penises get bitten. Who is this for? If a confused mermaid grew legs and walked out of the ocean, she would be more advanced than this by the second human man she met. And oh fuck, these situations are getting darker:

At the start of the self-defense section, Lou was complimenting women on their affinity for raw, primal violence. But all of his actual moves involve extremely risky timing. Here he tells the reader to wait until their attacker is all but done with the crime before unleashing a tiger palm. I think that’s my problem with his whole system. He can’t even destroy a dick without making it gross and weird. And I hate to come at you with more bad news, but this isn’t the only time he gives this exact advice:

So to recap, if you are attacked, release every fluid. Turn your body into a volcano of liquids and gasses. This will certainly work. Oh, it didn’t work. Okay then wait. Waaait. Now! Palm strike from a disadvantaged position! This will certainly work. “Well, it worked on me!” says the author’s subtext.

I am very worried these are Lou’s own sexual memoirs, but there are a few moments of pure dojo stupidity. I present to you… The Tiger Look!

The Tiger Look is when you make a mean face! Like a, raahrrr, tiger!!!

Holy shit, Lou had a karate teacher that had him spend 20 minutes of every class making faces in the mirror! Then Lou added diarrhea and here we are!!!

Another awesome karate thing Lou does is this:

Lou has created a martial arts technique where you drive away if someone is getting into your car and he gave it two(2!) ancient kung fu names. You can call it “the tail of the dragon!” or “the dragon sweeps the snake!” Just don’t call it late for dinner! Help I’M LOSING MY MIND! PEE ON ME!

After explaining how your changing body works and making sure all your penis attacks are as dramatic as possible, Lou ends his self-defense section with some paranoid survival tips. He tells you things like never using an initial on your mailbox because woman hunters will clock you instantly by the curve of your G. Most of his tips are like this– not exactly “unsafe,” but incapable of making any kind of difference. When your karate teacher is telling you to hide the letters of your name to foil the Random Mailbox Lady Murderer, maybe check to see if the rest of his advice was about poop. Oh, it was? I guess that explains why this is all dumb as fuck, huh?

So that’s Lou’s entire book– his entire martial philosophy. I’m only leaving one thing out, and it’s probably crazier than everything leading up to this point. RAPIST BEWARE! ends with 11 pages of karate poems.

James Kerr, if you believe Lou’s story which no one would, was a boy who was hit by a car and crippled both physically and mentally. Oh shit, I should have added quotes. Those are Lou’s exact words about his dear disabled friend who wanted nothing more than to learn the deadly techniques of Louis Casamassa, which again, are bad karate with a touch of incontinence and dick biting. Anyway, ladies, Lou knows this has been a traumatic book for you. So please enjoy this first of many unassociated karate poems:

This is a poem about having a nice time in karate class and I can’t think of a more appropriate place for it than right after 122 pages of unspeakable sex crimes. There are 19 more of these.

We’re not going to read them all, but I need you to know these never go anywhere. I need you to know Lou Casamassa wrote the most disgusting and ineffective self-defense book that will ever be, and finished it with twenty wheelchair karate poems. If I died being the only person who knew that, it is all my ghost would ever talk about. Okay, let’s do one more:

I knew Lou was a piece of shit from earlier, but I still wasn’t ready to find out he and his karate students named the guy who couldn’t walk “Snake” because he was always on the ground. Sorry, but my ghost would have never shut up about that either.

Tags books, Free, Martial Arts

NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Spider-Man vs. Urkel 🌭

Post author By Seanbaby
Post date 11/25/2022
12 Comments on Nerding Day: Spider-Man vs. Urkel 🌭

Who would win between Spider-Man and Urkel? Picture it. The proportional strength of a spider driving a fist through young Steve Urkel’s skull. Officer Carl Winslow saying, “I didn’t see a thing,” as he stuffs a bag of fentanyl into the dead body’s accordion. “Must have been a drug killing, Spider-Man. We’ll take it from here.” He fires a round into the boy. Another. “Did I do that? DID I DO THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!?” Spider-Man watches, almost sexually.

I’m trying to set the tone for what we’re doing today. This is a gory examination of a comedy crime scene. I pitted Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book (2004) against YUK IT UP WITH URKEL: Hilarious Urkel Jokes (1992) in a joke book-off to the death.

Using methodology any researcher would call reckless, I have developed a system to compare novelty joke books. I call it F.U.C.K. T.H.I.S., and it measures the eight things shared across the genre:

F.orlorn Desperation

U.nlubricated Nameplay

C.onfusion

K.indergarten Puns

T.ortured References

H.orse Corpse Beating

I.mpenetrable Esotericism

S.tupid Bullshit

There comes a point in every joke book when the author is just done. There is no whimsy left within them. If you’re ever in a prison camp and being ordered to write 101 Spider-Man and Urkel jokes, be afraid. Your captors are well-trained torturers. So let’s look at some of the agonizing joke attempts that sputtered from these writers as their brains gave out, starting with Spider-Man 2:

You can really feel the struggle here. “It says here Peter Parker is good at science… is there something there? No. Nothing. Unless? No. Wait! Physics…al? Is that something? ‘I would like to order a bag of physical things,’ said science-expert Peter Parker at the thing store. Oh, god, I’m so close. Isaac Fig Newtons maybe?”

This shit isn’t even spidery. If Peter Parker was failing class he could feel “spi-dirty,” or “like he’s been paralyzed by neurotoxin and getting digested alive.” You’re not going to land on funny, but you want to at least land on something that won’t make the listener say, “You’re a fucking monster for reading that.” If you told me Peter Parker felt “Physic-ally ill” about almost failing class, those would be the words on your unmourned grave.

This is hard to look at. The writer ran out of ideas, but then remembered there was a pretzel cart in Spider-Man 2. “This might be something,” they figured. But they were wrong. These are the final thoughts of someone being choked to death at an Auntie Anne’s for the crime of being too fucking stupid to live.

What really pisses me off is I can’t tell if the unrelated picture of a disgusted Alfred Molina helps or hurts these jokes. I’m being stupid. Helps, obviously.

There’s an iconic train sequence in Spider-Man 2, and the author celebrated it with an entire section of train jokes(?). They finished one before their mind gave out. This goddamn idiot asked what Spider-Man would be if he had fallen on the train tracks, the things he was already on in the scene they’re referencing, and the answer was “Hero-ick.” That’s closer to a warning sign than a punchline. If my grandfather told this joke I would cry, holding his hand so he knew someone was with him.

With its skeletal hands, Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book clawed at any tiny plot element. And since space riddles are apparently easier to write than Spider-Man riddles, Mary Jane’s date with an astronaut dominated almost a third of this book. It wasn’t exactly “out of this world.” Watching this author exhaust every pun for every side character is like watching a deep sea crab pick through the silt for shark diarrhea. Let’s move on to Urkel.

Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book is only a long series of riddles. It’s one bad idea executed terribly. But YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! is thirty bad ideas executed terribly. Here they decided there should be a chapter for Urkel magic tricks without considering what that meant. It meant they had to come up with a “dorky” version of magic. Of magic! Magic was invented by equatorial weavers as a way to dry local panties, and this author tried to make it nerdier. Their mind shattered against this task. “Maybe Urkel plans a rad rap party? A-and vandalizes it? Then polka please help. Please help me.”

There’s a chapter where Urkel runs an advice column, which is a fine framework for comedy. But instead of his zany perspective leading to outrageous advice, they just use the format to smear a limp Family Circus caption across fifty words. If you adapted a suicide note into a fart I would say, “You stole every element of that idea from YUK IT UP WITH URKEL.”

Urkel dedicates one section to mean shit you can say to people because he is not the hero. He is an abusive sex pest with no social skills or external sense of self. But Urkel’s tired list of canned insults would absolutely dominate Spider-Man 2 in a war of words. If you told the Spider-Man 2 joke book “you’re sharp as a basketball,” it would reply “one basketsmall step for man, one giant three from outside because Mary Jane dated an astronaut, but Peter wishes he was an astro-naught.”

So F. goes to Urkel.

Legally, a joke book is allowed to contain up to 25% of unlubricated nameplay, which is the main subject’s name squashed into a different word with no reason or goal. That means if you’re writing a Q*Bert joke book, someone can just eat a fucking Q*Burger every 4 gags. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m only saying that what Spider-Man 2 and Urkel did here was technically legal.

This idiot author got so excited about how many words start with “man” they gave their financially struggling character from Queens a Manhattan apartment with a fireplace. The worst thing you can be when you’re a joke this bad is also wrong. Does this look done to you, Thea Feldman, author of Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book? A kid might read this, you piece of shit. I mean, the depth of this failure… that Spider-Mantel line is the entire origin story for a serial killer who hunts joke book authors. And maybe he’s right.

Thea is not above adopting a Frankenstein syntax to force a triangle joke through a square hole. Me think not worth all effort. I’d almost respect her more if she wrote apologies instead of these sad punchlines.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Look, I’m truly sorry. Like with the pretzel cart, I assumed I would eventually come up with something. You deserve better than half-finished Spider-Man knock knock jokes.

Um… Look, I’m truly sorry. Like with the pretzel ca–

No. I appreciate you trying, but this isn’t that.

Okay. Now the structure is fucked up. And you know what? My son hasn’t smiled since he learned Peter keeps a picture of Aunt May on the Spider-Mantel. Screw your apology.

Who are you to judge me?

The guy who wasted $3.99 on a book, that’s who!

The guy who wasted $3.99 on a book, that’s also a dipshit prick.

. . .

We’re now reading YUK IT UP WITH URKEL, and oh my god, look at this Urkelplay. The first one is so magnificently specific you couldn’t get it wrong. The second one requires you to imagine a hippo attack, but a long, gentle sitting kind, and it’s by a hippo who speaks the tongue of man well enough to know “uncle” is a cry for mercy, but if someone’s name is close enough to that, they’ll scream that instead. This joke book doesn’t give a fuck, a much more likeable kind of lazy. Look at this:

America made a coin in honor of Urkel and called it the nurkel! They pulled the uterus out of the middle school girl he stalks and called it an urkelectomy! This is breathtaking. I have to see more.

Dear God… Urkelonymous. And t-they just fucking added “Urkel” to the end of Thomas Jefferson. There are no rules here.

Spurkelers. There’s no context where these things sense. There are no people to whom you could ask these questions. What is happening? These aren’t… they’re not anything! This is an 80s comedy where a chimpanzee researcher’s floppy disk labeled “ALL HUMAN KNOWLEDGE” gets mixed up with one that says “1.44MB OF THE WORD URKEL.” It’d be called Party Ape University 3: Advanced Urkelnomics, and if I’m imagining entire screenplays based on three pages of your joke book you win. A giganturkel victurkely for Urkel.

The most common reaction to these kinds of joke books is “huh.” But sometimes, when things go really wrong, it becomes “huh?” Let’s look at some of the question mark ones.

What the shit? What happened? Oh. Oh, I see. You ATE a clock. And you’re not you; you’re Peter Parker, the superhero who never ate clocks before now. And I guess it was the world’s last one? It’s a lot to surprise your readers with, Thea. You led me into a weird maze and the prize for solving it was finding out the saddest truth. So let me return the favor, Thea: you have the sense of humor of a pediatric urologist being convicted of malpractice.

Your name is Pizza Parker? Motherfucker w– oh my god, no, Pete’s a Parker! Wow! It’s not a joke, but I do feel like I unlocked a gate in a God of War tutorial.

When it comes to pointless, baffling entries with no attempt at jokes, Urkel is a powerhouse. His book is filled with incoherent punchlines without setups, probably transcribed from Family Matters episodes, and here is a casual reference to him blowing up half of Chicago with a volcano in 1988. “Is killing an American city a joke?” thought the author. He couldn’t have expected an answer, but the unknowably dark series of events leading to this moment in his life whispered back, “YES.“

What the shit are you talking about Urkel? How did you do this? This is hyperbole without the hyperbole. You were so short no one could… determine your shape? See you? What? And this wasn’t a weak one at the tail end of a dozen “I’m so short” jokes. This was the only mention of Urkel’s height in the book. Which means someone had to come up with one short joke and it was, “I tell ya, I was so short that when I walked… it looked like I was not walking. What else? Oh, I saw your mama the other day and she was so fat she was bigger than everything else. Thank you, good night!”

In the middle of YUK IT UP WITH URKEL!, there was this picture of him in a dress with no context, caption, or explanation. So now I’m doing the same which means in the category of C.onfusion, it’s another unbelurkable performance from Urkel. He leads Spider-Man 2 by three points.

Ugh, puns. Fuck this.

Jesus Christ, the tragedy on display here. “I guess mortgage payments do make me antsy. Oh, aunt-sy! I see, because I have a nephew? I guess being an aunt sort of defines me. I could never have kids of my own, but back to what you brought up: bills, and how it’s very funny when two words sort of sound alike.”

I promise you would never forgive me if I posted more Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book puns, so let’s get right to Urkel.

This is an aggressive amount of puns. The writer of YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! seems like they’ve been waiting their whole life for this moment.

This is gruesome. They are taking violent, blind stabs at wordplay. But it’s not a struggle like in Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book. It’s like something inside them has finally been set free and they do not give a shit about us. This has the energy of a hallway fight scene. YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! is battling its way out of a prison guarded by puns. It’s brutal and effective and fuck any homonym that gets in its way.

My god… it’s glorious. Marvurkelous. What could stop this force of punning terror? Spider-Man 2 with its pretzel and Spider-Mantel bullshit? Ludicrurkelous.

Sometimes you sit down to write a joke book about Spider-Man or Urkel and realize you only know three things about those characters. And none of them are funny. What do you do? I’m excited to show you!

“Spider-Man is a good jumper, see, so this… t-this is a Spider-Man joke right? He loves spring because of jumping! When people think of Spider-Man they think, ‘webs, pretzels, springs.’ No? Okay, sorry. Lesson learned…

… I’ve learned nothing! Fuck you, he springs! And also, you know his self-doubt? Here’s a joke referencing that! He’s a baloney hero, no the sandwich, I’ve lost map, no English, which is the way funny?”

I can’t stand this. Watching Thea limp from one concept to another is like watching a one-legged cat crawl after a cyanide pill on a string.

You know when you’re watching a boring movie with someone and they say, “I’ll be right back, you don’t need to pause it,” but then they come back, ask what they missed, and it’s too dull and annoying to explain? This is the Spider-Man 2 joke version of that.

“You didn’t miss much. Spider-Man is strung out because he’s tense, and he makes webs, but webs have threads, and another word for thread is string. So then they added an out to it to make the phrase ‘string out’ and you’re all caught u– you know, we can watch something else if you’re not into it.”

By all that is holy, look at this. The author of YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! knew they had to squeeze in Urkel’s catchphrase, and this is what they came up with. They put it at the end of a Shakespeare quote without changing anything else. “– Romeo Urkel” they added to make it somehow more than perfect. This writer is nothing close to a genius, the opposite in fact, but they are an Urkel joke savant. I am in awe of this.

The score is 5 to 0, Urkel. Spider-Man 2 can’t win and there is no reason to go on, but a big part of these joke books is…

“I love Spider-Man jokes so much I can forgive forty pages of bug puns,” said no one ever. And yet here we are, looking at a book written for only that person.

Peter works for The Daily Bug-le. This unspeakable fishwife added a hyphen to the name of the actual newspaper Peter Parker worked at and called it a joke. This is a dumber version of nothing. It’s like asking what Professor X’s favorite letter is and the answer is “X, only a different font than you’re thinking of.” What kind of mind is this? Did she get this book published by winning some kind of Most Time Spent Dead After Drowning Sweepstakes?

If you ever watched Urkel’s show, you might remember a running gag where he pestered Laura Winslow for her love. This is the origin story of that– she came into his view and he literally charged her the moment she let her guard down. It was only his hilarious clumsiness that saved her from a groping, and we’re done with the joke. I hope the others aren’t this problematic…

… okay, I wouldn’t say this is exactly Urkel trying to hire a child prostitute, but I’d see your point if you put it that way.

This one feels like … a mistake? Does she mean “The Sound of Silence?” I know it’s not like me to split hairs during an Urkel joke, but I’m not really connecting with his sex pest material. Also, why is the photographer still taking pictures of this? Buddy, you have enough to make the arrest.

Let’s go on to another chapter. Oh good, the next section is about wacky gadgets Urkel has invented. Maybe we can move away from stalking the teen girl and get back to a zany Urkel messaround.

This is cute on the surface, but if Urkel is building contraptions to unfog his glasses, it implies he’s already built at least five devices to keep his genitals in check. Laura Winslow is in a lot of danger if any of these poorly built machines fail.

So let me get this straight. Your teachers, at least once a day, force you to write “I will not make goo-goo eyes at Laura Winslow during class” and you’ve automated it? So the school faculty is fine with sentencing for sex crime convictions being carried out by robots? This is lunacy, and not the good kind. Who thought it was a good idea to add a boner to Urkel?

Let’s try to reset things with some Urkel math problems. Surely these couldn’t all be about harassing Laura Winslow.

God damn it, Urkel! I take away all points. The score is now 0 to 0 in a contest between two serious assholes.

Imagine you were writing these books. For weeks your whole life has been pushing words around based on suspenders or objects Doctor Octopus has thrown at Spider-Man. You have lost track of what normal people think and feel. You start typing things like this…

These jokes are garbage, sure, but worse when you consider you have to set them up with, “Hey, do you remember a lot of specific elements from the 2004 film Spider-Man 2?” At this point it feels like Thea is trying to see if there’s any combination of words over which God will kill you. “The Tritium from the plot of 2004’s Spider-Man 2 fueled Doc Ock’s passion, you coward! What does it take for you to do something!?”

Thea spent so much time struggling through Tritium puns that she started associating Dr. Otto Octavius, the octopus-named man with eight arms, with electricity. To her, simply mentioning his name sets up the punchline of “something electricity!” As for Spider-Man, she has become fixated on how he’s always busy. So eventually her go-to joke becomes asking about Peter and answering with “time concepts!” It’s like running into Bill Cosby and saying, “Hey, you were in Ghost Dad. Guys, it’s the star of Ghost Dad! So what have you been up to since then? What’s next for Ghost Dad?”

These are technically jokes the same way it’s technically not a federal crime to marry a donkey. I wasn’t expecting approachable, broad comedy in a Spider-Man 2 joke book, but outside of the people who saw the movie fifteen minutes ago, who are these donkey-marrying jokes meant for?

Let’s check back in with Urkel.

Spider-Man 2: The Joke Book would mean almost nothing to someone unfamiliar with the movie, but YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! goes even further. It rejects the very concept of a non-Urkel context. The idea of something not being Urkel is the joke. This was not a book designed to be taken out in the world to make others laugh. This is a black hole of Urkel, and everything entering its event horizon is torn apart by the cosmic Answer: What does this have to do with Urkel?

Sometimes these bad jokes can make you groan or wince, and that’s fine. But what is never acceptable is when the perfect reaction to a punchline is, “Well, yeah. You fucking idiot.” Let me show you.

Well, yeah. You fucking idiot.

I mean, what else would it be? His name is Ock and there’s a month that literally starts with that sound.

It felt like a trick. Like the answer had to be Ape-ril because he tested his crushing strength on apes or something. I’m trying to picture the face of a child who hears “Ock-tober.” Or worse, hears they are right when they answer, “It couldn’t b– it’s not October is it? No. No, they wouldn’t do that.” If this was YUK IT UP WITH URKEL! the answer would be Urkeltember next to a picture of him watching Laura Winslow sleep. Speaking of, let’s see some Urkel.

Urkel will take the dumbest goddamn idea and torture it to death over the course of 100 words, and I think I love it. This is a magic trick where the trick is that it isn’t a magic trick, the premise doesn’t work, and there’s no punchline. A person who has seen a joke before couldn’t write this. This is raw misunderstanding and bewilderment, and it’s beautiful. It’s like a dog who doesn’t know enough about bowling to know how to miss. As long as Urkel can escape this section with no sex crimes, he’s the clear winner.

I’ll allow it. Urkel wins!

Tags books, comic books, Free, Joke books, tv

LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Taoist Feces Exercise 🌭

Post author By Seanbaby
Post date 11/18/2022
12 Comments on Learning Day: Taoist Feces Exercise 🌭

Hold on, this can’t be right. This DVD is called… Taoist feces exercise.

What a lucky mistranslation this must be of an ordinary kung fu style. How hilarious that the Chinese phrase for “self defense for seniors” is the same as our word for “feces.” Unless… no. No, this video couldn’t possibly be about… no. Impossible. This isn’t… no. No.

This is a kung fu style for pooping. I guess you have no reason to believe me and my Mandarin is not good enough to detect sarcasm, but I am 99% sure this is a kung fu style for pooping. Even if this wasn’t called Taoist feces exercise, I would recognize a man channeling the cosmos to shit his pants anywhere. Which raises the question, fucking what?

Taoist feces exercise is a series of ten tai chi movements sincerely designed to evacuate your bowels. They are demonstrated by 90-year-old Xuan Tongzi, sometimes by a waterfall, sometimes from a dimension beyond our understanding. The subtitles say he has a “florid complexion and bell-like voice” which are strange things to notice about a man flushing waste through his body with ancient magic. I would have probably said, “Xuan rides atop a torrent of diarrhea and that should be plenty of details by which to recognize or remember him.”

This martial art is perfect if you need to desperately poop forty minutes from now and have plenty of room to stretch. The ten skills cure more than “can’t poop,” though! There is a long and unlikely list of diseases it claims to eliminate. Again, maybe. These are not good subtitles, and I do not trust turd karate.

According to the video, these stretches should take care of your “hypertension high blood fat hyperglycemiacervical spondylosis hyperosteogeny and constipation and so on.” And maybe I’m cynical, but it seems suspicious that sitting down and nodding your head cures constipation but also a diverse bunch of medical problems found right next to each other on Wikipedia’s “List of diseases.” It’s like saying, “I’ve had plenty of sex partners! Milky Puppet, Chandra, Charlotte, Chelsie, Chair, and Chair!”

So let’s hold off on telling science some old guy in his pajamas solved hyperglycemia cervical spondylosis and focus only on the constipation. And about that, I have some good news: mother fucking time travel.

This started as a man dedicating his life to kung fu and then dedicating that kung fu to shitting, so I’m betting this was crazy before its meaning was beaten to death by language barrier. But if I’m understanding him correctly, which again– ridiculous, he knows you’re worried about pooping too soon. Don’t be. These movements will create time fluctuations in your bowels to hold your feces in stasis until you can get to a toilet. Maybe? All I know is I am so happy right now. This coot doing laxative tai chi said the words “time quantum from the time point of going to lavatory to relieve the bowels after.” What a miracle.

“I practice accumulative feces skill in last seven to eight decades,” Xuan tells us, his teeth snapping down on every inconceivable word. Whoever was in charge of his green screen knew the seriousness of this announcement and took away the crashing waves and cosmic wonder. He’s no sorcerer. He’s just a man in a television studio telling you he’s been storing pressurized waste inside himself for 80 years. “May our deaths be glorious,” he tells a toilet with a bow. “Whatever they call you.”

Find a safe place attached to an anus you trust, and let’s begin our movements.

The first movement is called “Head skill.” You look to the side, then up and down, sometimes chomping. As with everything else in Taoist feces exercise, I can’t be sure if his martial arts style includes random bite attacks or if he’s screaming in pain from snapping his neck around. There is no microphone on Xuan Tongzi. Whether he is shouting instructions or his last words as his colon turns inside out, there’s no way to tell. My theory is they recorded 55 minutes of whatever the Mandarin word for “AIIIIiiiIEeeeeeEE” is, then decided to do voiceover instead.

“Head skill” really is just looking around from a chair, so I think you got it. Let’s learn the next movement.

“Teeth granding skill” is similar to “Head skill,” but with less head. Bite, bite, bite, you shit-filled kung fu masters! We are now twenty percent done with Taoist feces exercise, and we have simulated a mild discussion. That’s the razor’s edge you didn’t know you were walking every time you had a conversation from the middle car seat.

I refuse to believe how close this is to nothing. Let’s get some more teeth granding information.

Okay, so you bite exactly 36 times and… then stir tongue? I know we’re watching an elderly madman crap his pajamas, but this got fucking gross.

Let’s move on to the next movement: “Rub waist with separate hands to reinforce kidney.”

This one seems easy. Scream nonsense, absolute chittering nonsense, while you swat at your kidneys. There doesn’t seem to be a wrong way to do it. Maybe I’m the idiot, but for some reason I thought we would be learning how to swirl some kind of mystical energy through our bodies, not reaching back and pinching crap out our holes like we’re toothpaste tubes. So far, this seems like something the first ape to discover constipation would have invented with the added slurp of some tongue stirring.

We’ve attacked the poop from the back, now let’s go at it from the front. Focus your tummy for “Abdomen kneading skill.” This is extra crazy when you consider how in the fiction this man lives in, he could have dedicated 80 years to death touch or levitation. Xuan probably trains alongside kung fu masters working to throw qi balls or bring the dead back to life, and he’s chosen to master rubbing his belly for maximum poop. If Xuan was in Street Fighter, half-circle back would make him eat a bowl of oatmeal and excuse himself.

Another thing I admire about Xuan is how he admits this might not work, but in a way that makes it seem like it’s your fault. For instance, if you have done all this and “bowel not be relieved still,” it’s up to you to make adjustments. Try closing your scapula backwards. Or shrink neck. That’s really his advice! Because everything about Taoist feces exercise is perfect! Try shrinking your neck, you prison-boweled coward!

“Face-washing skill” is useful in emergencies where you rubbed your feces in the wrong direction.

Let’s move on to the most important part of your digestive system– the back of the head. Snap your fingers against your skull in a skill Xuan calls “Sky-shaking drum.” This is the kind of excellent move-naming we were missing. If I had any notes for Taoist feces exercise, it’s how everything should have been called something like this. The tummy rub could have been “Naughty Bear Steals The Honey” and the kidney milking was obviously “Dirty Boy Fingers The Breakfast Sausage.” This move has some really specific instructions, so let’s learn more.

You’re going to want to really squeeze those antilobiums, but it’s a trick. You want your skull to think you’re building to some kind of sky-shaking drum climax, snapping and squeezing, then suddenly yank your hands away. It’s called Dominant Monkey Edges The Ear Canals, and it will make you shit.

I don’t have anything to add to this next one, so I’ll simply repeat Xuan’s instructions, which are also the name of the skill.

Rub ears

“Comb hair with fingers” builds on the face and ear rubbing we learned earlier with an added tapping. Remember to do this gently– sound is greatly amplified inside the body and if you frighten your feces it may never trust you again.

The next skill is called “Horse-riding step and move hand like clouds,” which is a big step up in difficulty from sitting on a dining room chair and pawing at yourself. With a wide stance, you summon and consolidate your qi around your pelvis, which should add some psychic damage to your farts.

In a movement Elvis Presley might call, “Say, Forrest Gump, show me that crazy little walk you just did there,” Xuan grabs each knee and wiggles it. This leads to disaster. He starts demonstrating a move he did not name, but definitely calls “Rubbing the diarrhea out of pant leg.”

Lick around the inside of your filthy mouth while you squash liquid poop into your slippers. Don’t worry if you don’t get it right the first time. It takes some up to 80 years to master this technique.

It’s been a crazy workout, and depending on your quantum fluctuations, you are now either bursting with feces or covered in them. It’s time for “Cooling-down.” Start by rubbing yourself, doing your best to avoid erogenous zones.

When you’re starting to feel more comfortable, really go for it. You should look like a below average actor in a shampoo commercial. “The Beginner Mime Looks For His Wallet.” Spread your legs and rub until you’re evenly coated in everything your body rejected from breakfast. If you’re doing it right, positive energy will be swirling around you, the kung fu shit pervert. Okay, now stop.

The next skill is called “Get rid of the stale and take in the fresh.” You stand very still and let a cameraman film you while your viewers get increasingly confused.

I should mention this DVD is over an hour long, but not because Xuan had a lot to tell us. It repeats these movements over and over, and a weird amount of Taoist feces exercise is this old man standing very still while three seconds of ocean footage loop behind him. It was only on the third demonstration of “Standing,” when we got more details about what we should be doing here. And here is where we find out if you have become the poop master.

Without looking at the next gif, try to guess Xuan’s instructions.

You were right! You fill your thorax with air and pull up your anus! There is nothing left to teach you!

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Badger, ancient master of Shinto Piss Karate.

Tags Free, how-to, Martial Arts, VHS

PODCASTING DAY

Podcasting Day: Kumite – The Home Game with Vanessa Guerrero and Zak Koonce! 🌭

Post author By Seanbaby
Post date 11/16/2022
4 Comments on Podcasting Day: Kumite – The Home Game with Vanessa Guerrero and Zak Koonce! 🌭

Fuck you, Alf. Wait, wait I can explain! As of today, there are more episodes of the Dogg Zzone 9000 (100: Amazing) than there are of the long-running television show, Alf (99: Pathetic). So let me repeat: Fuck. You. Alf.

To celebrate this incredible milestone, we are doing exactly what we always do: whatever the hell we want. For one hundred episodes we have followed our hearts, and they have never let us down. There are no rules in the Zzone, there never will be, and Alf can fucking suck it.

Over 100 episodes, we have watched ninja movies with a UFC champion, and made a professional voice actress read Heathcliff comics. We taught an adult film star how to make love and a different adult film star the Christian way to be toxicly masculine. Across five episodes, Brockway almost solved a 12-year-old reality show murder. We made a Jeopardy! champion watch a game show about lie detector humiliation, and had an animal lover on to help us beat up animals. We discussed hillbillies losing many fights to Bigfoots with a bestselling author, reenacted a Barbarian Brothers movie with another, and asked the creator of one of the largest sci-fi franchises of all time to decode a “Superbowl Shuffle” knockoff. We made our own Lydia watch every Conan movie, and today we are playing Kumite: The Home Game!

Kumite: The Home Game is a roleplaying game system developed by Robert Brockway where Zak Koonce, Vanessa Guerrero, and Seanbaby play the three parts of the brain inside disgraced ninja liar, Frank Dux. Do you know what the producers of Alf would have said if you came to them with that premise? They’d say, “We don’t exist anymore because we are quitters.”