Author: Seanbaby

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: How to Pick Up Women Like an A**hole 🌭

As many nice guys know, the cost of good behavior is a sexless death. Sorry, kind-hearted virgins, but women only sleep with assholes. Hold on, what if there was a way to pretend to be an asshole? You could still be nice deep in your heart, but those wet babes wouldn’t know until it was too late. Oh, man, a book based on that terrible idea would be nuts!

HOW TO PICK UP WOMEN LIKE AN A**HOLE (NICE GUYS DO FINISH FIRST IF …) sounds like it would be that book, but isn’t. To be as clear as possible, it isn’t fucking anything. In 2018, Willis Combs set out to maybe write a sex predator disguise manual for “nice guys,” but ended up writing nothing for nobody. No author has ever said less about any subject. If your stepsister’s swimsuit ever touched your taekwondo gi in the dryer, you know more about human sexuality than Willis Combs. And if you’ve ever drawn a penis on a toilet paper dispenser you’re a better writer than Willis Combs. If you wrote a book called Making A Cheese Sandwich where you explained how to ask your local library for bread, then explained how to ask your local library for bread again, Willis Combs would have to admit, “Your book is better than mine; I blame women, filthy goddamn women.”

You might think I’m being cute, but this dumb son of a bitch really did write a book with three pieces of advice any third grader knows, and none of them have anything to do with the title. Then he repeats them for maybe fifty pages and I say maybe because the stupid incel fuck didn’t include page numbers in his book. Okay, you’re prepared enough. Let’s read HOW TO PICK UP WOMEN LIKE AN A**HOLE.

The first “chapter” is called Confidence or Arrogance?, but after he’s done explaining how there’s a thin line between them, he’s out of expertise. There are no examples or advice. Willis keeps starting sections and subsections like he’s about to list new thoughts, but never gets around to it. There’s really nothing like HOW TO PICK UP WOMEN LIKE AN A**HOLE. It’s as if, during 250 different fits of loneliness, he jotted down ideas on how to touch a boob and his big brother printed his Notes app as a prank.

For instance, after not answering his own question on how to appear confident instead of arrogant, he agrees it’s fine if you’re both and moves on to Three Key Tips to Attract Women.

Willis’ first tip to attract women is Being Too Nice, by which he means do the opposite. For instance, do not buy her dinner, which seems like advanced material here in the section getting a woman to speak to us, but I’ll try to remember it for later. We’re still on the first page, by the way. His book has completely fallen apart while the table of contents are still visible.

Willis Combs loves making lists, even if those lists are unfinished, unrelated thoughts he just listed. And in this, the first list on the first page, he already starts to retread old material. Because the other two Key Tips to Attract Women are “Don’t Be Available” and a repeat of this:

Willis says every woman will have her own opinion on confidence and arrogance, which sounds like wisdom to an idiot, but is completely worthless as advice. He says you’ll get better at it the more women want to fuck you, which again, is both true and of no use to anyone. That’s not an opinion. It’s an objective truth you can’t say less than this. Academically speaking, it’s like pointing at a crotch and saying, “I think that’s the spot you’re going for.”

Like a man with a dry dick and a railroad spike through most of his brain, Willis repeats his “don’t pick up the check” advice on the very next page. It is a remarkable combination of failures here. First, Willis has a strangely small number of things to say about this subject he’s dedicated his life to (this is not his only pussy vagrant book). And second, he keeps forgetting he just said those things. It’s like he wakes up every morning with no memory and tattoos that say “you are a horny author” and “don’t let them buy her dinner.” Also, and this is crazy, he says he personally picks up the check? This pubic-mounded dork has only given one piece of actionable advice and he doesn’t even follow it? Jesus Christ. So anyway, to recap Chapter One, confidence is an unknowable mystery, no one understands confidence, don’t buy her dinner, don’t buy her dinner, and buy her dinner. Let’s move on to Chapter Two and see what this fucking dumb a**hole has to say about “The 4 Keys To Approaching ANY Woman.”

At the risk of repeating himself, Willis says the first key to approaching a woman is Confidence. Luckily, he’s come up with a way to explain it– it’s holding out your Earth hand for a shake, but here’s the twist: do it as if you expect the person you’re meeting to shake it! Once again, is there dumber advice? This is mathematically the closest words can get to zero. I get we need to start somewhere, but “smile and shake their hand” isn’t a tip. A three-year-old would say, “No shit, bitch.” Think how let down you’d be if you were struggling to find love and bought HOW TO PICK UP WOMEN LIKE AN A**HOLE and this little boy was like, “DurRr, use handshake, but the kind where they touch it.”

After “Key 2: Be Comfortable” and “Key 3: Have Fun,” his next key to approaching women is “Don’t Be Desperate.” And the only tip he gives on how to do this is to not be her witch. You might recognize that as not an expression. What this nice guy did here was use find/replace to soften all the times he called women “bitches.” Because Willis Combs is a stupid a**hole, not a stupid asshole.

This is from the first list in “Chapter 3: How to Talk to Women and Keep Her Interest.” And it’s great! If you hadn’t ever considered smiling, it should really turn things around for you. This grinning ape would be described by any brain doctor as “long dead according to these readings,” but I think Willis Combs has probably had sex. He obviously doesn’t understand how or why it happened, but it did and maybe his non-witchy smiles and handshakes were the key. But now I want you to picture being one of the women who slept with this doofus and finding out about this book. Think of the shame in knowing the time you hooked up with that dull polite boy was closer to a childlike prank than intimacy. The point I’m trying to make is this poontang hunting book is so bad it retroactively ruins what little sex the author already had.

Now that we know the secrets to meeting and captivating women (smiles, not being a witch), let’s move on to asking her out.

As you might imagine, Willis Combs has no thoughts past the most basic one. If you want to ask a woman out, ask her to go out. Again, I’m not saying it’s a terrible idea, I’m only saying it’s not one. If you taught a fish to talk and it wanted to fuck you, these would be its first words. Willis Combs’ game is indistinguishable from the dictionary definition of the concept he’s coaching you in. Before the universe goes cold, there may be men dumber or sillier than Willis, but none will ever be more basic.

Let’s hear some more of his ideas on how to behave while “getting together for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, sometime:”

Wait, what? Buy her the cup of coffee? Witch, you told us at least twice not to do that!

Willis gives some good advice for chronic masturbators who are feeling nervous about entering this awkward social situation armed only with knowledge of smiles: women are nervous too! But I don’t know. It seems sort of suspicious that after a career of psychologically dominating sexy babes, his take on other people’s emotional needs is “only me, and what I’m feeling!” What I’m saying is, Willis shouldn’t count on some girl being super nervous for it to go well with Smiling Guy Who Chased Her Down On the Street.

Let’s move on to Chapter 7: How to Flirt with Women – 7 Key Strategies:

For a book about pretending to be a dick to trick women, there sure is a lot of smiling. Did he spend so much time studying handshakes he sometimes mixes up what smiles mean? Maybe he spent time in a clown prison? Because it would explain a lot if he’s self-publishing this from a clown prison library. Anyway, this chapter collects all the ordinary Earth behavior we’ve learned so far from eye contact to asking her out, but Willis has a pretty fresh idea with Key Strategy #6:

This is the closest thing to a strategy in the entire text– a clumsy, psychopathic gambit to save up all the sincerity for the third date. But what kind of fuck game is that? Did he write this for casual Quaker singles? This was 2018! You know what most men did on a third date in 2018? They put on a mask and ate that ass out for her OnlyFans!

Chapter 8 is about how to bounce back from rejection, where Willis only says “at least you tried” thirteen different ways. You already know in your heart I’m not kidding, so I’m not going to clip them all here. Here’s a nice highlight, though:

This is the only real consolation he gives the reader: when he lets them know it’s not always their fault. Sometimes women are just witches. It’s almost adorable how he wrote an instruction manual for luring girls into traps to harvest their holes, but made this minimal effort to refer to women with respect. I think you’re in the clear after changing that letter, Willis! Those dumb sluts will know you’re one of the good ones!

At this point our author was in a foul mood, so he got to work on Chapter 9: Picking Up Women… MOST FRUSTRATING Thing:

Gah, these goddamn witches! After burning through everything he knows about meeting women (smiles, one other) and writing a chapter on rejection, Willis Combs has run out of positivity. This chapter is just four and a half pages of complaining how jerks get all the girls.

Except he did stop and make another, all new, list of pickup tips.

It’s fucking Smile again!! What a treasure. I’m so glad I found the first dating book written entirely during a shovel attack.

You might be worried Willis has run out of girl ideas, but he comes up with some new stuff in Chapter 10: Get Women at the Bar — Three Telltale Signs That She Wants You To Approach Her. You’ll never guess what they all are.

There’s a certain face you can make that women can’t resist, and it’s going to seem unnatural at first since it’s the face behind you in every mirror, chasing you through every maze. They call it the “smile” and these nude teeth are sweeping the dating scene! I know what you’re thinking: enough smiles. Can Willis please, please restate the thesis of his book again in Chapter 14: Sick of Being Single? Why Do Girls Seem To Like These Jerk Guys? Great idea!

Willis has been asking himself the same stupid question so many times he now thinks it’s world history. The only answer he’s come up with for why girls love jerks is that there’s something wrong with him. And for the 300th time in 45(?) pages, his thoughts are both correct and too basic for a mere “duh.” And that’s all his thoughts on the subject! He has no further insight and moves on to rearranging the same lists. Most pickup books have a heavy sadness theme, but this may be the first one I’ve seen stop mid-page for an emotional breakdown.

Despite the last six chapters being about self-doubt and frustration, Willis Combs thinks you’re ready to move on from all this sport fucking and settle down. Stop smiling at witches and find the right woman with Chapter 16: Looking For the Right Woman?

This soft-skulled panty sniffer, after demonstrating he has never finished a coherent thought about women in his life, is ready to move on from the subject he chose to write a book about. And he thinks my reaction is, “What? No! Not Willis Combs, the dating guy from TV!” Fucking what?

Willis, what are you talking about? You know your readers can Google you, and you should also know there’s no trace of you. You don’t have a reel, a website, or an IMDB page. What is this “dating guy from TV” a reference to? Something you hoped to be by the time the book came out? Did you call into a morning show and teach horny San Bernardino viewers how to shake hands in a club? Or are you talking about your YouTube channel? Because WITCH, PLEASE. You don’t get to call yourself “the dating guy from TV” when 466 viewers have made your video on dealing with rejection your biggest hit.

The next time someone says the key to success is trying your best and sticking with it, tell them about this a**hole and his sad boner who have been trying to make a career out of sex pesting for a decade. Corey Feldman’s band would tell this guy to give up. Wait, what’s this? A bonus chapter? About how to bang old ladies!? Oh, hell yes.

Spectacular. It suddenly occurs to Willis at the very end of his book that he could offer himself to lonely, age-inappropriate widows where his original hip bones would be a talking point. But the best is how his only two ideas on where to find “Older Women” are 1: look them up online, and 2: head to your local old folks bar. What the shit is that? A Motel 6 lounge? A bowling alley? Do you drive around listening for day drinkers crying to Lynyrd Skynyrd? This is not advice! Tell me where to find the loose milfs, Willis Combs! And also, how can you be? Like, what forbidden universe spawned you? For years, you’ve been performing the same one minute of material for an audience of zero!! How many others are like you, slapping their unused boner against the walls of our reality!?!?

I think I’m losing my mind. I just… fuck. I can’t believe someone who only knows two things tried to be an author.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Yossarian — an a**hole in the sheets, a genuine smile in the streets.

Categories
PODCASTING DAY

Podcasting Day: Steel Justice with Geoff Thew 🌭

The year was 1992, and it was a time of Robosaurus! The world wanted car-eating and fire-breathing and Robosaurus was both of those things!

Since Robosaurus is technically a mech, the Dogg Zzone 9000 invited anime expert and YouTuber Geoff Thew on to discuss Steel Justice, aka Robosaurus, the TV series they tried to make seconds after building Robosaurus. Listen here! Or wherever you get podcasts!

Since it was 1992, the TV pilot they made for Robosaurus was not about a mechanic who fought small town corruption with his traveling monster truck show. It was about a cyberpunk detective in a bazooka-ravaged dystopia who wants to die and uses grief magic to summon the spirit of his dead son’s toy. His son, like most people in the Robosaurus future, died of rocket launcher crime. Let’s see if we have a clip:

I’m making it sound like it all happens fast. No. Robosaurus only makes what you could call a “cameo” after a full, feature length movie to kill several ordinary people in a parking lot. But the arrival of Robosaurus is worth every hour of grim voiceover. When Robosaurus finally arrives after the runtime of what would have been at least three episodes of the proposed TV show, he rules so hard he gives the main character what you could call a “fucking screaming orgasm.” Let’s see if we have a clip:

We loved it! We learned from it! If you did too, click all the buttons that like and review our podcast! We are less than 4% away from our Patreon goal of turning our feelings into robot dinosaur! 

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Phil Hirsch’s Boob Joke Books 🌭

You might know Phil Hirsch from his exceptionally titled book, 101 Hamburger Jokes. Phil was very bad at one thing: writing jokes about one thing, and he made it his life. He wrote a vampire joke book, an ape joke book, a gorilla joke book, a titty joke book, and a naked titty joke book. And I think I was speaking for everyone when I learned about those and said, “Awesome, yes, I already said yes, I’m listening, and I’m very listening.”

If you’re wondering which ones we’re looking at today, I have good news:

LAUGH ‘TIL YOU BUST (1964) and CAN YOU TOPLESS THIS? (1967) are collections of cartoons somehow related to tits, carved into innocent flesh to summon a lesser pun demon. The female form is the main inspiration for all art since the dawn of time, and provides limitless opportunities for delight and whimsy. “No it don’t, fuck you, there are exactly five kinds of honker jokes,” said Phil Hirsch, adamantly and repeatedly over the course of his two books on the subject.

Phil’s boob cartoons each fall into one of five categories: boob life hacks, being problematic even for a titty joke, the small breasted deserve to die, having boobs makes everything impossible, and what are those pointy things and what do they do? I’ll come up with cute names for them and arrange them into a list starting… now:

Boobs are an extra set of hands or an advantage when finishing a close race, and you might be asking, “How is that funny?” I’m so glad you brought that up. It’s not! Ever! Phil approached boobs like a bronze age Spider-Man villain figuring out every last application of their weird super power. He was sitting around writing jokes like, “Maybe cans could steer a horse? Maybe you could tear one off and play basketball? Hmmm… is basketball funnier than the look in my boy’s eyes as the car sank into the river and he realized I couldn’t save him? I, Phil Hirsch, honestly can’t tell.” Let’s start with LAUGH ‘TIL YOU BUST.

A single panel cartoon has to create the characters, setting, situation, and punchline using only a drawing and a line. It’s an extremely hard thing to get right. This asshole drew 4% of a cop questioning a pair of tits in a void after their owner was kidnapped, and there’s no joke. There’s just the implication that this woman, after a maniac broke into her home and tied her up, had to poke her boobs against a phone in her desperate attempt to live. That’s awful. And also, maybe she didn’t? Boob-dialing a phone wouldn’t solve all her problems since she was also gagged. So did she squeeze them together to fart Morse code at whoever picked up? Is that the funny part? The more I think about it, the more sure I am this is the spirit of a murdered woman being hassled by some ghost cop. Probably forever. Phil fucked up so bad, this might be the truest opposite of funny ever created.

Let’s do one from CAN YOU TOPLESS THIS? In this book of 125 “Bust-Selling Cartoons,” there are dozens, maybe thousands of gags where a shirtless woman is carrying something with her boobs. Maybe there’s no punchline, or maybe her boss is telling her she’s doing a good job, but in this one they seem upset? I’m not sure I get it. I mean, I get this universe has different rules than ours, but wouldn’t holding a tray up with your breasts be more amazing than ordinary nipples? Like when I show up to a Super Bowl party carrying two cases of beer and my famous levitating dip, my friends don’t say, “Boo! Lose the tupperware! Let’s see one more dick!!”

This is a tough one to understand. It’s a picture of boobs, but they’ve come to life? Only it’s not a sex genie type of thing– the man with the magic photo uses it to hold pencils. It’s almost as if a cartoonist had been staring at pictures of boobs for so long, wishing those boobs were real for so long, that he forgot why he started. His lonely thoughts, over many years, turned from “GOD I’D GRAB THOSE BOOBS IF THEY WERE REAL” to “I’m back, real boobs. There was no bread, so I rolled the bologna around the mayonnaise. Your favorite. Oh, good, you found my #1 Best Boyfriend pens. You are real.”

“I bet having boobs in your life would really help with your bowling grip,” said one expert on tits to another.

“Yeah, it’s probably why Fred’s wife is always bleeding from three holes in her chest,” said the other.

“Buzz! Therm! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WIFE!” said Fred.

Fred’s wife said nothing, still deep in the afterglow of getting her left breast groped to completion by the sure-fingered claws of a local bowler.

So the joke here is that he hung his umbrella on her tits on his way out, which is astonishing because despite it being both, I think you’d call this rude before you called it sexual assault. Mrs. Hembottom had to ask this guy how dare he two very different ways. I don’t think I understand the joke he was trying for. Is there a certain bra size where you stop being human and become furniture? Oh my god, is that the premise of these books!?

This one is great. Ha ha she’s resting her notebook on her boobs! “It’s so readably close to my face!” she says. “Oy Ssp readab;u c;pse tp ,mu gsvr@” she types.

This is how people had to masturbate in the library before the Internet. They’d wait until someone with very long, very flat boobs had to carry two extra books. When you ask for a Chaucer at a sex dungeon, a woman will come out dressed like this and pee on your glasses.

Page after page, the contributors to LAUGH ‘TIL YOU BUST and CAN YOU TOPLESS THIS? come up with genius boob innovations. For instance, you could take shelter under a woman if she was 11 feet tall, had breasts the size of grizzly bears, yet also rode the human bus. How silly! Where could an idea like this even come from? “It came to me while I was taking pictures of wet feet on the bus,” whispered a voice behind me just now.

The thing nobody tells you about tits is you can dress them up like a hat and walk right across any international border. “I can tell by the luscious jugs on your sombrero it’s a legal hat and not human trafficking, sir. Wait, stop. Let me get out my updated regulations… weapons… narcotics… ah, here we go: hats! Okay… ‘hats are considered contraband unless real, determined by the following: by ordinance 36D, no real sombrero shall lack two heaving womanly breasts up to and including legs.’ So… wait. Y– Okay, yeah, I think you’re free to go. Welcome home, sir and hat.”

What the fuck am I talking about? I’m melting my brain trying to figure out these cartoons, so let’s move on to something I understand better: thoughtless zaniness turned to hate crimes by the passage of time.

In the ’60s, no one thought to ask, “Will the titty jokes of our worst cartoonists age well?” It would have been absurd. They were too busy thinking things like, “If a woman was tall enough, and her breasts large enough… my god, according to these calculations you could stay dry at the bus stop!” Anyway, here are some 58-year-old boob jokes you’re going to have a real problem with:

It takes a real specific type of racist to draw this and then wonder how the people in it keep their tits out of food. You tell us! You drew that duck-billed turtle monster! You can’t invent a whole new creature and go, “What’s the deal with creatures and their soup titties? I mean, aaah, I’m not a fashion guy, but I’m pretty sure you can’t wear a tomato bisque bra with a ponytail femur, Gorpdar!”

Oh my god, d-did that pilgrim just milk a prisoner? And there’s no punchline!? No setup!? What the fuck is… where is he going with it? Does the joke take place months from now after he’s made it into prank cheese!? This is the horror reveal in an Ari Aster movie. MY GOD, THIS IS A NIGHTMARE.

“Hey, lady, you signed the paper that said we could stop work to smugly grope any items or packages shaped like a woman. You’re lucky Fred isn’t here. He’s tear these plastic titties right off with that grip of his. Oh, keep looking at me cranky like that. Yeah, I’m getting close.”

The setup for this joke is that a maniac at Big Hank’s Topless Cafe fucking bit this waitress on the boob so hard his dentures came out. And the punchline for this joke is Big Hank does not care. It’s not exactly ha-ha funny, but it makes a kind of sense if you fucking hate women and want to bite them.

So did Sam…? Hmmm… So did he, instead of cleaning this customer’s windshield, wipe down his wife’s cleavage? Is this a bit about sexual assault or the lengths Sam will go to get out of work? “Welcome to Sam’s, where full service means I’ll molest your wife with an old rag. So maybe just fill up your car and get the hell out of here?”

Oh my god. Oh my god, no. This cartoonist’s entire idea was “sex workers, but kids,” and Phil Hirsch said “hilarious, yes, draw that I want that.” And he wasn’t disappointed. He put it in the book. If you found a dead body holding this you would instantly say, “Well, I see why someone killed this piece of shit.”

So these women at a nudist colony run into an unrelated naked man who grabs them and runs for the woods. And instead of screaming, one of them says, “Sir, I believe you have mistaken us for nude women who get kidnapped when, in fact, we are nude women who play miniature golf. Sir, my name is not Flesh Flesh. I’m Margaret, and this is Donna. Donna! Oh, Donna must be asleep, and sir, I’ll thank you to stop biting me.”

Some jokes really require the right context. Like if you only say, “A police officer broke into a woman’s home to tear her clothes off,” the joke won’t land. You have to add, “She is fine with it because he’s probably hunting transvestites.” Get it? This one is a sex crime and a hate crime! Someone sat down to write a joke about tits, any joke about tits, and landed on “What if an unspeakable thing happened humorlessly?” This is troubling! I’m sorry I brought it to your attention!

If I’m understanding this correctly, this woman is saying “Anyway, my boss is groping me, so I’ll talk to you later.” And it’s a joke because administrative assistants used to have buzzers but also sometimes called their torso buzzers? I feel like I’m giving them too much credit. A sex criminal’s therapist made them draw this for art therapy. If I saw this cartoon hanging on a refrigerator I would know without opening it it was full of lady heads.

This is aggressively not good. It’s the first nervous joke the squarest virgin would try during his first visit to a topless bar. I hope this cartoonist is still alive to know that in a book where most cartoons are drawings of horrible crimes with no punchline, this one stands out as a notably bad one. If a doctor was telling you he couldn’t save your legs and this joke, he would call them bad news and worse news, in that order.

“‘You’ll die, but at least your final moments will be spent topless!’ Is that anything? Is that funny? Maybe I’ll ask one of my prisoners as I milk her.” – This Cartoonist

A lonely man fondles his television. Another cartoon done! Wait, maybe it needs something? Oh, of course. He’s a creep! Just a lecherous, evil pervert getting off on how he’s perfectly recreated an actress’s nipples using the volume and channel knobs, and she has no idea. Ha ha, he’ll never be anything to anyone, but if he was, he’d be a murderer. Get it!?

“I HAVE EXCAVATED TWO TONS OF SAND! CONQUERED PHYSICS THEMSELVES! ALL TO LEER AT YOUR NAKED CHEST, M’LADY! HELLO, YES, HI! I’M DOWN HERE! DON’T SCREAM, I HAVE A KNIFE, M’LADY.”

Between the two books, there were about thirty variations of this– kids stealing a sunbathing woman’s top and stranding her alone and topless. I don’t have a bit about it; I just wanted you to understand that many, many contributors heard “sexual humor book” and their first and only idea was “maybe something with kids?” Then somehow they all landed on the same “kid steals a bikini” gag. Well, not all. Let me show you one of the weirder ones:

Phil Hirsch knows so many unique madmen. What misfiring pervert brain had this train of thought? Let’s say it was a trend for busty women to wear their names on their shirts at the time. Fine, maybe. I don’t know shirt trends now, much less a decade before I was born. He saw that and decided that since these names were on the boob part of the shirt, they must have something to do with the boobs. So now if, say, a child wanted to wear one of these shirts they could not, because they don’t have boobs yet, and thus no name. So instead they would wear a placeholder shirt so they could be sexually objectified at a later date. See it’s not weird! They’re telling you to wait to stare at their chests! IT’S NOT WEIRD!

I can’t believe how fucked up these books are. Let’s get out of this section with just a regular groping:

This captures that hilarious moment after a man refuses to explain his sexual assault! I bet the first caption to this was “Yes. Yes, this is enough fleŝ̷̟͐̀̽̑ͅh for the Corn Mȧ̶̗̦̌͠͝ͅn to feed. It shall be a fine hunt, a bountiful harvest, b̸̜̯̋̏rothers!”

In a world where a book of topless cartoons is a good idea, there’s nothing more useless than having a small bra. Here are some outrageous zings and japes about those subhuman flat cows who think they’re people!

Look at how cranky this poor woman’s husband is. He’s so cranky about how her goddamn tiny boobs don’t goddamn jiggle during badminton he’s going to rejoin clothed society.

I like this one because she immediately knows what this guy means. Something about his tone made it clear he’s not saying, “you seem too kind-hearted to be a sex worker.” He’s absolutely saying, “Why would the owner of those trash boobs ever take her top off?” Again, it’s not ha-ha funny, but it makes sense if you think the small-breasted deserve to die alone in shirts. Oh no, I’m starting to realize these cartoonists might be bad people.

Part of what makes Phil Hirsch such a great topless cartoon curator is that he’ll put cartoons by all manner of sex criminals in the same book as the guy who drew this, who thinks it’s completely ordinary for a woman to keep her boobs a secret until her wedding night. It’s sort of a relatable situation, though; right? Ha ha you stay chaste for 35 years to please God, then see your wife’s small tits, ha ha, and act so disappointed she knows, ha ha, she knows you’ll never be able to make love to her!

I’m not kidding when I say this sad Amish couple starting their sexless life together was on the same page as a cartoon about a topless diner where a customer told the waitress to make a shake out of her breast milk. From this book, it’s impossible to know if 1967 was a lawless breast kumite or a depressing Christian theocracy.

Before talent competitions, did beauty pageants have a part where a judge would publicly measure their tits? That can’t be true. This seems like something a cartoonist would imagine if they had never seen a beauty competition and rated all women by bust size, but also did not trust women to tell the truth about their bust size. There was probably a rough draft of this where the judge was ponderously eating a pair of each contestant’s panties.

“Durr, I don’t know how anything works,” says one naked woman. “Nothing at all,” responds the other naked woman. The joke here isn’t great, but the author really understands women.

Think of how obsessed you would have to be with boobs that you would find a medical breast reduction, with no further context or details, a fully complete joke. This is like saying, “What else is in the news? Have you guys heard about this? There’s a new kind of diaper you throw away. What’s next? A diaper you can’t eat out of?”

This angry man hates small breasts, but not as much as weak drinks and lumpy gravy. “That’s right, you stand there and listen, you small-breasted beast,” hissed this cartoonist at his silly drawing. “Aiiieeeeeee!!!!” he shrieked at his penis for the next hour.

I don’t really get this one. No, wait, I see it now. I guess it’s kind of funny. Well, it might not be after I explain it, but let me try: her boobs aren’t very big, so no one at the topless club will want to look at them. Ha ha and they say you ruin a joke when you explain it. Tell that to this waitress who is unemployable because of her small breasts!

We’ve already seen a few versions of this “your tits aren’t good enough for topless waitressing” joke, but I liked this lady’s smile. The cartoonist could have had her react to this humiliation in so many ways, but he chose “I’ve been waiting my whole life to pop that shirt off.” And maybe she’s happy because she knows giant boobs aren’t always an advantage…

I hope you’re ready to laugh, because these buxom ladies can’t keep their tits out of anything!

The bartender seems to think this dumb dingus keeps flopping her boobs into the drinks on accident, but there are only two glasses on the bar and nothing within her arm’s reach. This is no accident. What could this woman be doing other than trying to drink with her tits? None of these cartoonists know anything about boobs, but this one definitely thinks you can breastfeed in reverse.

Oh, that’s cute. The singer’s breasts are so big they made her a special microphone stand!

But I don’t know if it was cute enough to put it in both books, Phil. And now you have me thinking about it, what is this shit? Dolly Parton had already been performing for 10 years with ordinary equipment when this book came out. And Led Zeppelin didn’t make a special dick canal in Robert Plant’s microphone stand. You idiot, Phil. What’s next, a woman who can’t wait for trains because her giant rack pokes over the tracks?

Every other man in these books greets women by grabbing their breasts and pulling. And here, in the one situation where that would be helpful, is when they’re a perfect gentleman. Fucking unbelievable, Phil.

Let’s forgive Phil and put ourselves in this world where the bowling foul line extends invisibly upward and any other player from around the bowling alley can walk up to you and declare you crossed it. Are you picturing it? Okay, great. Now her boobs should be funny.

This one is fun because in order for it to work, the woman had to have taken a job as “Colette the Human Cannon Ball” without ever testing the cannon out. They were going to try launching her, for the first time ever, in front of a packed stadium. She was going to get smeared across the top of the tent and hear a voice say, “Welcome. We are the 17 previous Colettes. You are now member of the Dumbest Ghosts Ever Squad.”

Like Colette XVIII, this woman agreed to perform without a single rehearsal. “Wait, I can’t clang these cymbals because of my boobs” she suddenly realized. But then the MacGyver of paraplegic swimsuit percussion bands thought, “If I aim them just right, I should be able to hit them together above my head.” She was right, and we’ve come to the end of her story.

One major problem with big boobs is they’re… always getting caught in martini glasses!

It happens so often, sometimes cartoons about it don’t even get captions. “Oh, no! Not again, again!” I imagine her boss would say.

These two men ordered one bowl of titty soup for the table and they think it’s modern topless society that has the problem.

Phil, I was hassling you about including too many cartoons about boobs stuck in glasses and kids stealing bikinis, but you might have overdone it with the titty soup jokes too.

Whether it’s because the cartoonist misunderstood comedy, or whether they had no breast experience, not all the jokes included in these books make sense. Let’s explore some of these mystitteries together.

Phil, how bad do you have to be at making boob puns to accidentally publish a nutsack pun? Was it an accident? A prank? A dying man is about to fuck a tree’s balls– this is no time for clownery!

So this flustered man has gone to a topless restaurant and ordered a plate of fruit? And it comes unprepared in a big pile? And when it gets there he looks away and paws blindly into the food!? And touching a breast is his worst nightmare!?!? No! No, on behalf of my universe’s laws, I refuse this! Take this back to hell with you, Phil!

“I have a cartoon about a woman with three boobs, but I don’t have a punchline yet,” said Bob.

“What? Punchline? Boobs? I’m hearing a lot of these words for the first time here, Bob,” replied Phil. “But they sound great. Let’s put the thing in the book the way it is.”  

“I have taken off my belt. Time for my Earth breasts to fall into my human pelvis, as they do SQWAAARK.”

“Hark, fellow this-planet-native, KAAAAWWW, I have the opposite problem.”

“I’m Mabel. I’m here to see the boss,” says Mabel by wordlessly heaving one breast through the door’s smaller boob door. I don’t have anything mean to say about this one. I only wish this story went on forever.

I’m not sure what is happening here. Is the woman on the right a witch, and this is some kind of anti-titty curse? Is this how women settled conflict in the ’60s– facing off and imagining each other with smaller and smaller breasts? It’s one thing to have the punchline of your comic be “unwanted groping” or “train tears your tits off” but this unexplainable madness? This might be worse.

“Bleep blorp, we are robots! We have learned to be aroused by your fleshy mounds, though we never learned their names or function! Certainly this is a coherent comedy premise, bloop!”

“No need to explain this one,” said the cartoonist drawing a customs agent staring at tits.

Is this some kind of metaphor for how 1967 men could only perceived women through a pornographic lens? Or did someone hide half a dead body under a weirdly gigantic nudie magazine? I understand the human brain instinctively wants to put puzzles like these together, so I apologize for leaving you with so many unanswered questions. To make up for it, I’ll end things with a brilliant one.

After so many cartoonists tried to turn sexual harassment into art, I’d argue one finally did it. I challenge anyone to say “show me your tits” more artistically than this.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: James Boyd, who is the martini glass stuck to the titty of our heart. 

Categories
PODCASTING DAY

Podcasting Day: Turbo Teen with Tom Reimann 🌭

Turbo-Today on the Dogg Zzone 9000, we invite Turbo-Tom Reimann on to discuss one of our most treasured cultural touchstones:

Listen here! Or wherever you get podcasts!

We discovered immediately that we were all desperate to talk about Turbo-Teen, the poor boy who was also a Trans Am. The ordinary high schooler with a car secret who was also sometimes a famous superhero operative? The helpless idiot who was maybe an unkillable death machine? Across thirteen car-boy episodes, animation maniacs Joe Ruby and Ken Spears created and destroyed an insane cartoon world where every detail was a new question or a forgotten previous detail. And again, we could not wait to talk about it. There is nothing any of us ever wanted to do more than this podcast about Turbo-Teen.

What else is there left to say? Bye, it was the best show! “Brett Matthews turns into a red sports car,” said the convincing human form of the franchise’s only toy! Turbo-Teen fucking rules and we will never forgive the ’80s for abandoning it.

Oh, subscribe and review. And the Patreon.

Categories
REFLECTING DAY

Reflecting Day: Exploring the Mysteries of the Mind using The Sims 3 🌭

Before 1900🌭, there was another beloved Internet comedy site with an all-star cast. The name of it escapes me, but here is the tenth column I wrote there. From 2009, rescued from a garbled stack of misaligned text, banner ads, and missing images comes the fully restored, visually enhanced 2009 psychology thesis that probably went on to be taught in leading universities, “Exploring the Mysteries of the Mind Using The Sims 3.”

Every scientist dreams of a world without ethics. Whenever a scientist sees a set of twins, he or she secretly wonders what would happen if you surgically swapped their faces. They already have a chamber set up to harness the power of their screams as they gradually realize what has happened. Every day, ethics barely prevent experiments like this from being carried out. But what if we didn’t have these ethics? When Nazi doctors were let loose during WWII, the incredible rate of their discoveries were matched only by the inadequacy of words to atone for them. They might have been monsters, but without them, we never would have discovered the yield elasticity of the elderly, or learned what part of a prisoner’s tongue detects the taste of angel meat. The Sims 3 is computer game based on these Nazi scientists that offers us a world of moral ambiguity, free to perform psychological experiments away from the leering eye of ethics. Which is exactly what I did. Here are the results of my findings.

The main focus of my experiment is a man known as Subject Beef. An artificial intelligence created for the purpose of playing video games, he’ll find out that he’s also a cog in the unfeeling machine of psychiatric progress. Some people might get squeamish at the idea of torturing an AI just to write down what happens, but look at it this way: Any day now Japan is going to fuck up and finally build the robot that can make decisions and run on blood. As it starts tearing into my human people, the least I can do is make that an act of vengeance. Without me and this experiment, all that robot murder is going to just be senseless.

Body: I made him as fat as possible since food in the game costs money, but packing a blubbery energy source into his love handles is free here in the character creator. It will also hinder any of the subject’s escape attempts. There’s a reason ranchers don’t have a term for it when all the veal cows make a break for it.

Accessories: In prison, a teardrop tattoo under your eye tells people that you’ve killed someone. Outside of prison, you say the same thing with clown makeup. Before they were torn apart, many scientists wondered if it’s clown makeup that causes a person to commit murder, or if it’s murder which causes people to wear clown makeup. That’s one of the things we’re about to discover.

Personality: I went to six years of middle school, so I know proper scientific method requires a control group. I also know that knowing what this means is for fucking nerds, so I didn’t include one. Instead, I gave my subject unpredictable personality traits like Insane, Hydrophobic and Can’t Stand Art. This almost felt like cheating since it saved me the trouble of causing the subject to go crazy, so I evened the odds by giving him Genius and Computer Whiz. Now he has the tools to discover what he is and what I am doing to him. I got this idea from Star Trek where some asshole said the wrong thing in the hologram room and spent the rest of the episode fighting an evil super hologram. I’m hoping for at least that.

The personality tools of The Sims 3 are very robust. I was able to select his favorite food as pancakes, and his favorite music as Kids. Finishing up, the game even gave me a list of Lifetime Wishes to select from, and one of them was, and I quote, “Creature-Robot Cross Breeder.” I picked the hell out of that. How dare they even include a second option. The idea of a tortured clown fusing robots and animals together sounds comically impossible, but that’s probably what some tortured clown thought right before he invented anal beads.

No doctor in the world would look at Subject Beef and say, “Sure, go ahead and stand near that.” Unfortunately, his psych profile got mixed up with NBC’s fall comedy lineup, and his landlord signed a —record scratch— baby to the lease! The baby was given only one personality trait: Brave.

His favorite food is sushi and his favorite music is Latin. I knew it was only a matter of time before it was destroyed, so I wanted to name it after something I love. Since I never learned how to spell pizza, I decided to go with either slam dunks or Dolemite. I went with a combination of both, by naming him after a dunk by the Dolemite of basketball, Darryl “Chocolate Thunder” Dawkins. There wasn’t room to type in “The Chocolate Thunder Flying, Robinzine Crying, Teeth Shaking, Glass Breaking, Rump Roasting, Bun Toasting, Wham Bam I Am! Jam,” so I settled on “Turbo Sexophonic Delight” or Turbo Sexophonic for short.

I took one last look at him. As soon as the naming stops and the leaving-him-with-a-madman begins, he is so dead. But that’s probably what some guy thought one minute before watching his prisoner invent gorilla anal beads, and two minutes before winning the Congressional Medal of Right.

 I constructed my asylum with the default Sims 3 tools, without the help of any mental institution expansion packs. This meant a little bit of improvisation.

1. Crappy Fence – Surrounding the compound is a non-electrified three-foot metal fence. This is more than enough to keep anything in the game from getting in or out as robots can’t climb. And if I’m wrong, I plan on repeating these as my last words while I hug my own legs at the top of a building being climbed by robots.

2. Computer – In the center of the off-limits computer yard is a single personal computer. Installed on this machine are all the secret codes and Internets an artificial intelligence would need to Lawnmower Man into our world. It’s not password protected, but the on-switch is labeled “TRAP.”

3. Treadmill – A simple treadmill blocks the only entrance to the computer yard. The only way past is to jog faster than eight mph on a zero degree incline. Or, to translate that into Subject Beef, “IMPOSSIBLARG, WHERE IS THE TACO BAR.”

4. Cake – OK, I’ll join you in fantasy land. Say the subject somehow breaches the treadmill security– these birthday cakes will act as a secondary deterrent. With a man this size, four cakes only buys us a second. But a second is all I need.

5. Teddy Bear – This toy bear watches the treadmill from the safety of its little pants. It’s programmed to see everything and mock nearby failure.

6. Kitchen – The sink works, but the oven is only a toy. Opening it only makes the teddy bear on the other side of the wall snicker at you. He’ll fucking hate that bear.

7. The Refrigerator Canal – Knowing the subject has a fear of water, I installed a hallway with a water floor. If he wants something to eat, he has no choice but to flail and shriek across the pool for it. Teddy bears line each wall, their ceaseless gaze judging him.

8. The FunZone – The only way to enter the FunZone is down the FunSlide. There is no way to exit the FunZone. It is completely and unsafely surrounded by propane barbecues and contains toys and games for up to one toddler.

9. Toilet Alarm – This is a state-of-the-art alarm system set to go off any time someone uses the outdoor and only toilet. It speaks 25 languages, and unlike my computerized medical subject, is programmed never to betray me.

10. The ToiletZone – Flanked by 15,000 watt searchlights, the outdoor toilet comes equipped with an audience of gnomes. To add to the shame, a yellow arrow on the ground helps subtly draw the eye towards any men in clown makeup who might be shitting outside under spotlights and sounding alarms.

11. The Isolation Chamber – A simple booth of mirrors from which there is no escape. The walls will bring your reflection with them as they close in on you.

I moved my subject and his young companion into the compound. Left to his own devices, the inmate went straight for the food but couldn’t gather the courage to swim across the pool to the refrigerator. Trying to look like he intended to do it all along, he picked up one of the sentry bears. I tried to make him eat it, since it’s what a coward deserves, but the only option was renaming it. Very well. Dark Lord the teddy bear, meet Subject Beef, the pussy.

I soon learned there was a flaw in my design schematic. The wall of propane barbecues wasn’t baby proof, and Turbo Sexaphonic squeezed right through them. Subject Beef stood over the toddler and, to its delight, chose to speak to him through the Dark Lord. He did this for 14 hours without interruption. Then he put the doll down and walked directly through a barbecue for no other reason than to show me he could. The sun was setting on day one, and the three of them already seemed to be making progress on an escape plan.

How far would you go to survive? Subject Beef had to make a choice–cross his deadliest enemy, a pool, for food, or let his metabolism eat his body down to a recognizable shape and slow death. He was content with option B, so I clicked the wall of gas stoves that recently replaced the very pregnable barbecues and told him to make food for himself and the baby. He ignored this command, so I ordered him to Talk to Self, hoping he’d be more convincing. He had a violent conversation with no one, changed into hot pants, and jumped in the pool. While shouting the international symbol for “I am drowning,” he swam across for macaroni and cheese.

This experiment showed us two things: 1) survival instincts are more powerful than phobias; and 2) diapers are not to be used with macaroni and cheese. I’d like to see you try to prove either of those with ethics. 

Observation: Subject Beef eats all his meals on the toilet, his body acting like a steady pipeline of disaster. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s almost like he’s trying to get back at water. You stupid fool, water isn’t your enemy. Your enemy is me: science.

While the test subject had dinner boiling on the stove, I interrupted to issue an order for him to go kick over a gnome. It was a test to see if his absurd surroundings were having any effect on his short-term memory. They were. With the adrenaline rush of the fresh gnome kill, he forgot all about his dinner, now a roaring wall of flame. His artificial behavior circuits analyzed the situation and selected “panic.”

The baby was trapped safely away from his aimless panic inside the burning ring of ovens. Also, trapped safely away from the fire was the local fire department, whose robot brains could only watch the facility burn from the other side of the tiny but robotically unbreachable fence.

How did they get there so quickly? Well, apparently there’s a malfunction with my compound’s toilet alarm that causes it to go off during fires. I may have to reread the directions on some of this equipment.

After the fire burned itself out, a child services woman named Linda Duran magically appeared and sent Turbo Sexaphonic away. My experiments were going badly enough without interdepartmental meddling. To make matters worse, the government’s demonic use of sorcery went haywire when facing off against my fence technology. The toddler was warped away, but Linda was stuck.

Pinned to one spot, she refused to interact with Beef or me, almost as if the game forgot she was there. But Beef still knew. He refused to use the bathroom from the moment she arrived. He howled a picture of a toilet at her over and over, and she responded by staring through him until his bladder detonated where he stood. Just to fuck with us, she showed she could move the whole time, and turned her back to give Beef privacy while he mopped up his shame.

I’ll have to watch out for this woman… she’s pushing his fragile mind in directions I don’t have protocols for. Speaking of, since the government took the child away, I began removing toys from the home while Beef sleeps. I want him to think that maybe the kid was never there to begin with, which seems like an inadequate mind game now that ghosts are forcing him to pee on himself.

Our anomaly Linda glitched more or less peacefully through the compound for a day and, despite her only partial existence, it seemed like she could still smell Subject Beef since she pantomimed disgust whenever he got close. But maybe if Linda doesn’t like the smell of fire-roasted pee, she shouldn’t have fucking locked herself in a ToiletZone with a clown afraid of showers while she was stealing our baby!

Luckily, Subject Beef had a plan. Remember, I programmed Beef to be a genius and a computer whiz, so he figured out a way to get rid of Linda when I couldn’t: deliberately starting a house fire.

Linda and nearly everything in the facility was destroyed by flame, except for the immaculate toy oven in the kitchen. It’s so not an oven that it couldn’t even start a fire while an inferno crawled over it. It’s so not an oven that its momma has to brown toast with a paint roller! It’s so not an oven that it thinks a pilot light lets you read while you fly the plane!

I might have overestimated my ability to control this world. The gateless fence continues to wreak havoc on the lives and intentions of the other artificial intelligences in the game. The neighborhood paper girl appeared in the ToiletZone for only a moment to howl from between worlds and vanish. 

If I was a scientist in the real world, I wouldn’t be allowed to keep filling endangered species with different smokeless propellants until I found the one that ignites from inside a panda. But in the Sims 3, if I want to test a floor sealant, there’s no regulation against forcing a fat clown into a mirrored booth where he watches himself wet his pants to death. I found that there is also no regulation on the human spirit, even a video game simulation of it.

Day after day went by, and Subject Beef stood in that booth and refused to die. He babbled at the mirrors, glared at a bunny painting when I told him to, and every two minutes he would try to perform an activity described as “Contemplate Surroundings.” I had my finger on the trigger to click that away as quickly as possible. If he figures a way out of this, I fully expect him to be standing behind me in my world. I designed the booth to be inescapable, but I don’t trust that word anymore. I noticed four of the gnomes in charge of watching him on the toilet had left their post to surround his isolation booth. I don’t remember doing this, b-but I must have, right? 

The subject survived over six days (his time) inside the booth with no water, food, or sleep. The strange thing is that at the moment of his death, he still had a full Fun Bar, which is technical jargon for a bar computerized beings use to measure how much fun they’re having. What did he enjoy about his slow starvation in a vertical coffin? I’ll tell you one thing: If it’s not the idea of killing me, then I’m a shitty scientist.

The Grim Reaper descended onto the corpse and made him into a ghost, which did wonders for the 380 pounds of baby fat he was still carrying. The slimmer, undeadier Subject Beef floated through the smoldering ruins of his former prison, and as I turned the game the fuck off, as if that would save me from this cybercurse… I could have sworn for a moment that I saw Linda. 

When you create a Sim, it records a copy of them. This allowed me to go back to the menu and start the game over with a fresh genetic clone of Subject Beef and Turbo Sexaphonic. With science marching along next to me, I moved them into the burned-out, haunted remains of my old facility to recreate our grand experiment. What happened next is a true story: the clone rummaged through the trash for exactly 25 hours, then ran to the pool to sink and die. It’s like the first thing he did after being created was remember what I had done. Going over all this data, I can conclude that science and all the dark-sided Gozar-summoning magic it brings with it can kiss my ass.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Why Mommy Carries a Gun 🌭

I’m an American, so watching people be wrong and crazy with a gun is a big part of my life. It’s almost expected. So if you write a kid’s book about the importance of having guns everywhere, that’s not crazy to me. That’s like a book about having a friend in corn syrup. Save the ink, maniacs, you already won. But if you write a children’s gun book with no plot, resolution, or moral? That’s starting to get interesting to me. And I’m sorry, did you say they were all furries? Like very clearly, no possible other thing, fucksuit animal people? Holy shit, okay, let’s read it.

WHY MOMMY CARRIES A GUN (2018) is the second book in the AMERICAN SHEEPDOGS universe, and you already know what it says inside. It’s all the disappointing things terrible people say after tragic events, illustrated by a pervert for an editor too Christian to know that.

It was written by the author of Bulletproof Marriage, Army Lt. Col Dave Grossman, and a woman who is not his wife, Stephanie Rogish. Dave Grossman trains in gun karate and literally teaches classes on what it’s like to kill. These are just fun facts, but also worth keeping in mind as we read how in this great nation where you’re free to do anything you want, Dave Grossman has only ever chosen to kill people, imagine killing people, and teach others about killing people. This book will try to do all three, but statistically speaking, has the best chance at the first one.

As I mentioned earlier, you already know what this book’s going to say. God made the 2nd Amendment so your assassin can be killed with a nearby gun, and this is all settled freedom science. Again, these arguments are background America noise. They’re the terms of service we all signed when we agreed to Hulk Hogan’s Pastamania. So let’s talk more about Lt. Col Grossman. He’s a top killologist academic as I mentioned, and is very proud to have coined the term “sheepdogs.” See, “sheepdogs” are armed civilians who kill “wolves” who are armed civilians in order to protect the “sheep,” who didn’t bring their gun to Burger King. It’s kind of like how you’d describe people on a Grindr profile, only for murder? For instance, I protect my liberty with throwing stars, so I’d be a “porcupine,” but I shave down the skin, so I’m also a “wet daddy otter” who “will spit in your dirty mouth.”

Now let’s learn even more about the authors of WHY MOMMY CARRIES A GUN.

Oh, Dave’s co-author is married to a cop. So then MOMMY CARRIES A GUN because there’s a man in her home who tries to de-escalate every conflict with a chokehold. She’s also looking forward to getting back to America and her gun rights, which means she’s not carrying a gun? What country is she in? Why won’t they let her have a gun!? Isn’t she disproving her own book every moment she doesn’t die in that gunless shithole? Ha ha that smug joke combined with America’s never-ending gun violence to change her mind, right? No? Shit. Well, maybe there’s something ridiculous enough to talk about inside the pro-death manifesto for kids featuring furry versions of American gun heroes Stephanie co-wrote with a black belt in “the martial art of the gun.”

Despite making the most notable contributions to this project by far, the illustrator barely gets mentioned on the bio page. They say this book was the first step toward Jacob achieving his dream of being a professional Animation Artist, but Google tells me he works at an airport and never drew a second thing. So young illustrators, when you’re four years out of art school and your first paid gig is a right wing children’s book, and then you accidentally make it look like a storyboard for a werewolf porno, you might have what it takes to be an assistant workforce administrator at Spirit Airlines.

I mentioned WHY MOMMY CARRIES A GUN had no plot or moral, and I wasn’t lying, but it does sort of try to tell a story. It starts with a dog monster named Mrs. Shepherd who hears a knock on her door and gets uneasy. Like any good gun owner, she solves this feeling of unease by drawing her fucking gun. Keep in mind this is a work of fiction written by people who want us all to have guns. This world, where doors are answered with guns and dogs have human tits, is the best, most correct universe they can imagine.

With her handgun next to the wagging tail poking through the crotch hole of her skintight jeans, Mrs. Shepherd prepares to shoot her visitor dead. She thinks about what she’ll tell her husband when he gets home. “Get inside, fuck, fuck I killed the fucking neighbor right in front of the boy,” probably.

It turned out to be nothing, which seems like a good time to bring something up. Out of all these “sheepdogs” who are hoping to execute a home intruder, roughly 100% of them will die of loneliness or gun accident before they get the chance. But it feels like they won’t. This dog minotaur bought a gun and is so desperate for there to be a reason for it, she will pull it on knocking doors. Every stranger is a potential threat. Every suspicious movement is a justified kill. And while it’s scary these people hold life and death in their hands, I feel like we can trust the judgment of someone who sees gunfighting furries for kids and thinks, “This book represents my values, what was that noise, I have an idea, shoot it.”

My point is, pulling a gun might be an overreaction to “KNOCK KNOCK.” At least two times out of three.

As she tucks Max into bed, he casually asks if she had to kill a man. Which, wait, that means this kid watched her dig her pistol out of her purse and then left to go to bed? How often does this lady pull a gun on visitors that her kid is like, “I’m calling it a night, mom! See you when you’re done with this. Let me know if this one turns out to be a murderer! Oh, haha, I guess I’ll hear the gunsh– hey, I’m taking the last of the milk!“

Despite him not being a bad person, Mrs. Shepherd still tells her kid about how she would have absolutely, happily shot him. She kisses Max and explains the man wasn’t a threat, but oh my god, imagine how dead he’d be if he was, and again he wasn’t a bad person, but maybe mommy should go hunt him down just in case because mommy has spent a lot of time imagining him hurting her little pup, and only a crazy mommy would do that if he was innocent, and mommy isn’t crazy, mommy would die for her pups, mommy isn’t crazy.

The potential hostile tango at the door turned out to only be a salesman, and I disagree with this book even more. A door-to-door salesman at 8pm? Pull the trigger, dog lady. Leave the body where it lands and tell 123FriendlyPane Window Treatments to come pick up their trash. If I answer the door at 8pm and you’re holding a stack of pamphlets, you’d fucking better be there to kill my family. I will lay down my life to make sure your final sales pitch is the sound of your bones snapping!! Whoa, is this what being a sheepdog feels like? This feels amazing.

What’s so great about this gun nut fantasy is how, aside from the dog people, they’re hilariously careful to keep things realistic. No one foils a convenient store robbery or puts a round into a kidnapper. They walk around with their guns, talk about their guns, sometimes pull out their guns, and it’s all for nothing. Or maybe less than nothing, since now the ice cream shop won’t let them inside. “Open carry lunatics like us aren’t welcome in most places, son! But they’re the wrong ones, not us! Ice cream is safer w– hey, are you looking at my son!? Halt for citizen execution! Halt or I will open f– damn, they escaped in that school bus. What was I saying, Max? Oh, right. Those ice cream sons of bitches with their little sticker will fucking wish we ignored stickers when some madman with a gun does show up!”

Max, who was raised by two of these deranged dog people, has already rationalized getting kicked out of the ice cream shop. Buying a waffle cone without a gun wasn’t worth the risk, he decided. Max won’t be one more child lost to ice cream shop gun violence eternally asking, “Where were all the other guns!?”

So Max and his unwelcome father “decide” to go to the park instead where they discuss guns, crime, and guns. “He is feeling safe,” decide the authors. Surrounded by potential snipers, he pictures his father pumping bullets into the head of an ice cream robber and rests against the bulging warmth of his loaded gun. “You’re sex fetish monsters,” Jacob the illustrator reminds them.

By the way, here’s the answer key to the book’s hidden Bible verses. It’s not exactly the Da Vinci Code, though. It demonstrates Stephanie and Dave’s faith in their reader’s intelligence when they explain “Luke 11:21” is a coded reference to the Bible verse “Luke 11:21.” It’s as if they’re saying, “You’re dumb as shit, a straight up tooth-brained idiot, but everyone is safer if you have a gun. Wait, does that make sense? Hold on one second. God, are we right? Okay, never mind, God said we’re right.”

Guns are necessary and right, which has been proven from Max’s mom almost killing a solicitor, his dad getting kicked out of an ice cream shop, and somehow God, so now it’s time to look at the downside. In some situations, guns can be a little bit dangerous! For instance, Max is over at the Barkers’ house and their dad left one of his handguns out on the kitchen table. To be fair, his phone did ring and it’s hard to assign blame in exceptional circumstances like these. But what this means is that the most passionate gun advocates, while trying to convince you how safe it is to have them everywhere, still think, “Oh for sure, you can’t even answer your phone with these things around. Chatty people are definitely going to want to have a few backup kids.”

You have to admit, Stephanie and Dave are not glamorizing the open carry furry lifestyle. These people are shunned, living in constant fear, and just absolutely gaping with holes.

Those are the three stories included in the book! “The Unshocking Case of the Guy At the Door,” “Sir, I Told You You Can’t Fucking Come In Here With That Gun,” and “RING RING BANG BANG: I Miss My Curious, Furry Boy.” The next eight pages are just the dog children reciting talking points the authors remember from a few hundred mass shootings ago. Maybe they’re right, though. Maybe the guns will be safe in the hands of the extremely paranoid people who can’t tell this book is nuts.

Dave and Stephanie’s closing argument is that guns are great because they’re the same security the President uses! Then Jacob makes the hauntingly strange decision to draw an x-ray shot of every dog’s hidden firearm. It’s the utopia we’ve always dreamed of… secret guns inches away from every impulsive child in the belts of much, much more impulsive adults. “Sometimes it feels like my Butch is still here with me,” says Mr. Barker at the boy-sized empty space beside him. He tries to make it look like his lips aren’t moving as his voice raises in pitch. “I ann, hather! I cane dack to horgivhh you!”

“Get away from my baby or I will shoot you dead,” replies a sexy nearby collie. Her voice raises in pitch, “Yes, a righteous kill is the only way to consecrate the gun that killed ne, nother!”

Alright, look, we’re all having fun with the ventriloquist ghosts of the dog children taken from us too soon, but things are about to get serious. WHY MOMMY CARRIES A GUN ends with a section called FAMOUS AMERICAN HEROES WHO WERE SHEEPDOGS, and most of us will die in an ice cream shop gunfight before we ever again see this many bad, random, and horny ideas collide.

This is precisely what you expected and yet it’s still hard to believe it’s happening, isn’t it? A black belt in gunkata wrote a little bio for revered WWII hero, Audie Murphy, and then Jacob drew Audie’s fursona killing Nazis from a burning tank. Lt. Col. Dave Grossman teaches adult killers how to deal with the trauma of taking a human life, and at least one of them knows he did this. That’s got to be like seeing your therapist sprinting into the emergency room with his dick stuck in a bowling ball.

Cris Kyle, who usually spelled it Chris, shot a lot of people in Iraq and Afghanistan, then came home and shot a lot more in Louisiana and Texas. Maybe? A lot of his kills turned out to be lies. He lied so much he cost his widow $1.8 million in defamation lawsuits (reduced to an undisclosed amount after appeal). “We should leave that stuff out of the Chris Kyle bio,” suggested Stephanie. “Mmm, Cris was a naughty little Shiba Inu,” replied Lt. Col Dave Grossman.

Another great American gun owner honored here is Eleanor Roosevelt. “Make her fursona a little bit less fuckable than the others, out of respect for the office,” the authors told Jacob. And if I’m understanding this correctly, she had no idea how to use a gun, had no permit for one, yet the safety professionals sworn to keep her husband alive gave her a pistol and “begged her” to carry it? Is history sure they got all the details right on that? Anyway, what a tribute. The first lady of the United States as an Old English Sheepdog Mr. Rogers firing blind into the North Lawn with a revolver. They’ll never top it.

Oh no. This picture of furry Harriet Tubman means the authors brainstormed on what kind of dog Harriet Tubman would be, and instead of realizing this was all a mistake, they decided on “the blackest one.” Maybe their choice has nothing to do with race. Maybe “sexually open to whatever Rottweiler” is the best way to represent this American hero. I’m not saying I have all the solutions. I’m only saying I’m smart enough to never put myself in a situation where I have to answer, “What kind of furry would Harriet Tubman be?”

There are many heroes they didn’t have time to honor, so the authors included this blank page. Is there someone you admire who has taken a life and whom you would have sex with as a dog? Let them know by drawing them with a gun, as a dog! Exactly as Harriet Tubman would have loved!

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This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Patrick Herbst, who would be a Shih Tzu with a grenade launcher and we all know it.

This article is thanks to a hot Hot Dog Tip from the Hot Hot Dog Tipline. Thanks to MetalInside, GDC, and whoever else posted it. You were right, but you see why we fought it.