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It’s a very spooky Podcasting Day starring the Internet’s own Jason Pargin! Listen here!
Also listen to this: buy his best-selling books including Zoey Punches the Future in the Dick, now in paperback.
Here was the plan: As a special Halloween treat, Jason was going to join me and Brockway to make fun of Bordello of Blood, the Dennis Miller horror comedy from 1996 which, and this is going to shock you, sucks!

Instead, we ended up talking about our new favorite thing– behind-the-scenes complaining about a film’s production and principal star by the people whose careers he tried to ruin. Maybe did ruin? The point is, we mostly talk about Tainted Blood, a documentary about why Bordello of Blood sucks featuring all the cast and crew of Bordello of Blood except Dennis Miller.
We hear from Corey Feldman who is upset that Dennis Miller didn’t want to take his writing advice or his acting advice or be his friend! We hear from Erika Eleniak, serious actress, who wanted all the sexuality written out of her part! We also hear from Erika Eleniak who is upset they cut the part where her character was an overweight porn star named Chubbie O’Toole! We hear from Corey Feldman about why Erika Eleniak didn’t want to be his friend or “work on their brother / sister chemistry!”

This means we forgot to talk about the actual film Bordello of Blood, which also means my detailed notes and discussion outlines went to waste. For instance:

If you ever wanted to see how I watch movies and how a real, professional podcast gets produced, this is it. And here are my (completely wasted) thoughts on the suddenly fantastic climax of Bordello of Blood which I thought we would discuss for at least 45 minutes:

Oh, looks like I left myself a note to rip a gif from the scene where Angie Everhart flips off Dennis Miller. Sure, okay. You’re welcome, Internet. And strictly so Google can help future generations find this gif, fuck you, Dennis Miller. Fuck Dennis Miller, Dennis Miller you can fuck yourself. Here’s a middle finger, you fucking hack, Dennis Miller fuck you. Fuckyoudennis.gif

I was most excited to talk about the actual movie Bordello of Blood because Erika Eleniak was already a vampire by this point of the movie, and this entire Act 3 was for nothing– a hilarious mixup between the screenwriter and himself. You can see in my notes the exact moment this occurs to me:

It looks like I left myself another note to create a gif, this time of the Jesus laser that comes out of Dennis Miller’s dick and makes everyone cum. What a treasure. What a payoff. Truly some of the boldest acting decisions any performers have ever made.
Google, people are going to want to find this, so pay attention to these keywords: Dennis Miller Jesus laser orgasm Angie Everhart orgasm Erika Eleniak orgasm cumming FFM laserplay:

Thanks for listening! It helps us if you Christ dick laser us (subscribe) and Christ dick laser us (review).

Superman has the powers and technology to end all life on Earth in minutes. We wouldn’t even know he did it. He could hack every news site to read “EXPERTS SAY EVERYTHING FINE” while he flew through each of us at hyperluminal speed. He could push us into the sun and all we could do is ask why he was doing a handstand on such a hot night. So we’re lucky this immeasurably dangerous being was raised by such wholesome, All-American parents. Or, dun dun dun, was he?
I put it to you, ðŸŒs, that Superman’s dad is out of his goddamn mind– an insecure idiot who is almost specifically the last person you’d want to be the guardian of an alien god baby. Let’s look at three issues of Adventure Comics (The ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) where Pa Kent was given superpowers.

In the Silver Age, there were three ways one of Superman’s friends could gain superpowers.
#1: They didn’t. They just put on a costume and went crazy.
#2: They touch or drink some magical or radioactive thing.
#3: They didn’t. It was some stupid robot or whatever.
Adventure Comics (The ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) #224 is an example of #1. It starts like most Superboy stories– Pa Kent is meeting with an elderly man and agrees to go into his basement to let him shoot some pictures in a skin tight costume.

Ha ha ha you thought I was kidding, but no, this plot is based on every single cosplayer’s DMs. This guy made a sexy outfit which will be waiting here for the day Superboy becomes a Superman, his words not mine, and Pa Kent is miraculously the right measurements, so maybe they could, you know, go into his home studio and take a few pictures for his portfolio.

Any woman of any age would immediately recognize the danger they were in, but Pa Kent is a married Christian farmer from Kansas. He gets undressed and wads his body into this affectionate bachelor’s homemade unitard. And of course, the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with an amateur photographer on top of him.

Ha ha ha you thought I was kidding again.
What happened was, a “sudden thunder storm” appeared and shot him with lightning through the roof and three stories of cement building. After the weather suddenly cleared, he woke up, saw he was wearing Superboy’s costume, and decided he must be his own superhero son. I guess for Pa Kent, all this was easier to accept than what really happened.
I don’t have a panel to show you where he processes all this since it happened off camera and was explained to Superboy by the doctor who treated him. Normally you wouldn’t reveal these kinds of things about your patient to a stranger, but the (maybe?) doctor decided the safest thing to do would be for Superboy to help convince his disoriented father he has superpowers.

So, okay, it’s a 1956 comic which means we need to take a deep breath and catch up every few panels. This very confused old man, who has recently lost the last of his innocence, has been prescribed some amount of “everybody pretend he’s a superhero” by a pedestrian claiming to be a medical doctor and acting as a psychiatrist. It’s eye-clawing madness. It’s like someone trying to get fired from the Black Mirror writing staff by pitching, “What if we did exactly Batkid, right, but it’s an alzheimer’s patient and we start with some sex stuff?”
Anyway, you might be thinking this sounds unsafe, and you’re right. Pa Kent, humored madman, immediately jumps out a fucking window.

Instead of catching him and saying, “Okay, this shit is over. Dad, you need to get ahold of yourself,” he flies below him, huffing and puffing his poor father into the air with super-breath. Neither of them learn anything. The next thing Pa Kent does is jump in front of a truck.

Notice it’s not a truck described as “runaway” or “driverless.” Pa Kent flew in front of a driver minding his own business. And wait, shit, did I say flew? We should remember he’s not really flying. He’s more like a concussion victim riding a burp, which means his son blew him into the grill of a moving truck. And to what end? This driver getting his truck torn in half thinks he’s killed someone! And I don’t think it would have helped if Superboy explained, “Sorry! I’m trying to protect the delicate mental health of a sex crime victim, my da– NOT my dad!” We’ll never know, though; since they just flew off letting this driver forever wonder why two Supermen dropped from the sky to fuck both ends of his truck and leave.
So we’ve established that Superboy is willing to throw his father into danger and terrorize strangers in order to protect this delusion. Following that possible doctor’s experimental psychological advice is that important to him. All he needs to do is keep him alive and pretend to not be Superboy until this passes. Easy. Young Clark Kent does this all day every day with literally every other person on the planet.
So Clark covertly blows his dad home for a nap. Then, in full Superboy costume, shatters wood at hypersonic speed with his bare hands outside his window. “Oh-oh!” Clark thinks when Pa sees his son, Superboy, doing Superboy things and starts to solve the mystery of how he, himself, is not Superboy. Most DC writers liked to work by aiming their face at a typewriter and shrieking until the centipedes eating their brain stampeded out of their mouth.

Okay, so his dad saw him as Superboy chopping wood at Superboy speed. It’s over. Wait, no. No. He can fix this! He can fix this!!!
Superboy thinks, “I dressed up to do my chores as a tribute to you!” and aims his X-ray vision at a nearby clock. I don’t want to get into all the time science behind this, but it heat-expands the clock spring to force the hour hand forward. “Aiiiieeeeee,” screamed the Adventure Comics writer, herding his mind centipedes onto the typewriter keys.

Wait, wait, fuck, hold on. Did I say thinks? Oh my god, I’m right. That’s a thought bubble, not a word bubble. So Superboy didn’t actually say anything to his dad. He silently looked at him. Which was enough? Pa Kent is fine thinking, “Well, I saw him being Superboy, but on the other hand, he did glare at a clock. I should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
We’re having fun, but this is obviously an unintended mistake by the letterer. Which is maybe worse than the regular absurdity because it means we now can’t trust the narrator, storyteller, characters, or the editorial staff. Someone might have accidentally translated and illustrated the assembly instructions of a German end table. Or Pa Kent might still be back in the costume salesman’s basement, where like the enduring Zack Snyder film Suckerpunch, all these events are taking place in the main character’s subconscious as they’re being molested. Hold on, that can’t be right. I better look that u– oh my god, I’m right again.

Superboy takes his dad outside so he can change his clothes in front of everyone because the entire community already knows about his derangement and they have gathered to laugh at him. Two men are several feet in front of him, laughing about it where he can see and hear them. The doctor, who I’m growing more and more certain was not a doctor, didn’t tell Superboy to include a public humiliation element in his father’s treatment. He came up with this all by himself.

Pa Kent, more certain than ever he is the grown up Superboy and this young lad is merely a stranger who chops wood for him in similar clothes, suggests replacing the roof of a nearby building. “Sure, why not? This is funny,” thinks his son. More people gather to make fun of him as he has a full mental breakdown but far, far more dangerous than that sounds.

Superboy lets his father, who is now a condescending asshole, cling to a speeding roof with his ancient, arthritic fingers. Pa Kent has only “had super powers” for an afternoon and he already finds these mere mortals to be nuisances standing in the way of his mighty whims. So Superboy spends the day testing the limits of his arrogance by throwing him into fires and gunfights. Ha ha ha this time I’m actually kidding.

No I wasn’t.
Superboy lets his awful dad inhale a warehouse fire while he impotently flaps a blanket at it from a diaper. And everyone in the city knows what’s going on except him and the gunmen painting him in white-hot liquid bullets. Then Clark Kent dedicates another small portion of his cosmic abilities to replacing all of his father’s furniture with balsa wood replicas.

The humiliation never stops. He tosses his dad’s body between zany bits like a less respectful Weekend at Bernies. And this prank has become so widely known Superboy’s new concern is that the townspeople are such bad actors his dad is going to figure out he’s not actually Superboy from their sarcasm. Which is ultimately the goal, sure, but without such medically unsafe suddenness? Oh no, guys, I just realized THIS COMIC BOOK MIGHT BE CRAZY.
Okay, this illusion is being maintained by an entire city of performers and all of Superboy’s amazing powers, so it’d be a shame if someone blew it by just blurting out “this poor fool who isn’t Superman thinks he’s Superman.”

Superboy blurts this out right in front of him. Hours of effort and millions in property damage are wasted, but what’s this? Oh no, what? Instead of figuring it out, Pa Kent says, “While you guys are talking about how I think I’m Superman, this is the perfect time to reveal my secret identity: I’m Superman!” If my daughter was making this up I’d tell her, “No. Absolutely not. You’re fucking four now! That’s too old to string together random senseless bullshit and call it a goddamn story!!”

Pa Kent starts to tell the crowd who Superboy is, and reality sets in as Superboy remembers that somewhere in this man’s unraveling brain is an important secret. And maybe blowing this hallucinating “lightning strike victim” from crisis to crisis while his closest friends mock him has worsened his mental condition. Maybe none of this was a good id– oh, good, he’s jumping in front of another truck.

The theme of this comic is deceit and delusion. The reader and characters are all being lied to, intentionally or by mistake, so it’s worth considering Superboy was going to let Pa Kent die here. After all, it’s… suspicious… how he can x-ray bullets out of the air and instantly exhale a human-levitating updraft under someone falling off a roof, but when the guy revealing his secret identity is jogging into the path of this particular truck he’s all, “Oh no. No time to react. What a tragic fate for this chatty nuisance with all my secrets.”
B-but wait. Pa Kent… stops the truck? With his mighty super-strength? Are you telling us there’s a twelfth layer of deception in this ten page comic book!?

Wait, no… my mind. Pa Kent goes to the back of the runaway truck and starts… stealing furniture out of it? And it’s the same balsa wood furniture from earlier? How? Wait, I guess I know HOW someone could move extremely light furniture into a moving truck, but why? None of this makes sense, and Superboy agrees, but not for the reasons he or you think!

It was a reverse prank! Pa Kent had his friend hide under a steering wheel and drive into him with a truck full of Superboy’s prop furniture to confuse him! And it worked! “Fuck you, space lad! That’s how you super prank on Earth! Aaghhh! Hrrk! I’m still going through a lot, and some of it is your fault! THE END.”
So I would argue nobody handled that well, and the judgement of everyone involved was questionable. Pa took an unpaid modeling gig in a pervert’s basement and then he and his son took turns daring trucks, gravity, fire, bullets, and trucks to kill him. It was an entire day of dangerous dishonesty, the funniest kind of dishonesty, and it ended with everyone certain everyone else was humiliated. Now let’s jump ahead a year and see how Pa Kent deals with getting real superpowers.

You might already be understanding the problem with Superboy as a concept. You can’t have this character engage in ordinary superhero adventures because Superboy is so powerful that anyone who can take him in a fight is, by definition, a galactic threat. Even the crazed comics writers of the ’50s understood you can’t create too many guys like that. The writers of Smallville solved this by making sure most villains died, but when every episode ended with them killing a child, that, in its own way, became a problem. The point is, Superboy stories were dumb fucking nonsense because what else would they be?
This story starts with two pretty egregious superhero mistakes. One, Superboy leaves out some unthinkable artifact from space on the dining room table. And two, Pa Kent starts screwing around with it.

“Hmm… some kind of weapon or marital aid from the stars! I wish my boy with super speed and hearing were available to help make this decision, but I think I’ll grab it firmly with my ungloved hands EEYOW!”

He handles it like you’d think. He immediately bashes into the ceiling diving for a mosquito, and heading straight outside to jump as hard as he can.

It goes perfectly. Pa Kent escapes Earth’s atmosphere and crashes into the moon. I’m not saying he makes poor decisions, but he has had superpowers for less than ten seconds and he was one micron to the left or right of plummeting forever through the empty void of space. This is the man who raised Superman from a baby. He watched his son’s powers develop over the course of dozens of shattered pets and accidental eye laser fires, and here he is accidentally abandoning his planet and family because he thought FULL FORCE was the best way to test his new star dildo legs.

Pa Kent leaps back, because who cares? I think even a 1957 Superboy writer knew the Earth spins fast enough that hitting your own farm on reentry would be impossible on your second super jump. Pa Kent probably flattened some Mexican town and thought, “Luckily this crater of scorched skeletons broke my fall! Now to get home before Martha touches the artifact and overspins the salad!”
Pa pulls a piece of coal(!) from the fireplace and squeezes it into a diamond. “I have mature judgement!” he screams as more coal burns behind him in an unventilated room, his dildo-altered DNA writhing after an unintentional trip to the moon.

Pa Kent sets off to be a better superhero than his son, first by… seeing the head fall off a Paul Bunyan statue? He is weirdly confident this is a temporary Paul Bunyan statue, so he tears up a tree where he thinks will be the site of a smaller, permanent Paul Bunyan statue and squeezes it to glue the temporary statue’s head back on, at least until National Forest Week is done being honored. I’d argue every single one of these details is insane from the town’s statue decisions to Pa Kent’s knowledge of them to the timing of this spontaneous shattering to his solution. If I was Superboy and came upon a man milking a tree into a statue’s crevice, I would fully expect him to say, “Join us, Super! Boy! Gllggbbb! Sticky juice for the fucking! Glbllbbbbgggg!”
Instead, he says, “Hello, son. It’s me. Your father. Let me show you how a real mature superhero fixes a public park.”

His father is a maniac. He is smashing through homes, ripping up trees… unleashing all manner of dangerous boners, Superboy’s words not mine.

With the superman powers comes superman drama, which in the ’50s meant a nosy broad was always trying to reveal your secret identity (the man with your face operating out of the same town). So Lana Lang’s mom is staging tricks to get Pa Kent, full rampaging lunatic, to reveal he is Strongman. And he does. At the very first opportunity. He picks up a 1000 pound barrel in front of her. Case closed.
Except! Superboy saves it by levitating it and saying, “He could only lift that giant barrel because of our attic electromagnet which works only on barrels!” And since the Langs are women in the ’50s, they say, “Jeez, I guess you men are right.” Also, wait, I don’t think Superboy can levitate barrels. Let me look it up, and oh my god, Mrs. Lang was correct– men are always right.

Pa Kent, mature hero with good judgement, reveals his secret identity again when he forgets his strength and obliterates a set of bowling pins. Luckily Superboy covers for him by… no, this can’t be right… fill the bowling alley with termites!? “Don’t worry, dad! I’ll simply get two buildings condemned because you’re too stupid for bowling!”
Watching his close friends try to make sense of this madness as termites devour their business equity, Pa Kent starts to realize he might have more to learn. But this does not make him humble. It makes him insecure and desperate. When the next crisis hits, a nearby falling plane, he orders his son to let him rescue it alone.

It’s worse than him being clumsy, stupid, and impuslive, though. Pa Kent doesn’t have powers anymore. And for the same reasons that made him a bad superhero, he has no idea. So he charges off to rescue a plane, alone, with the abilities of a middle-aged coal-huffing retailer.

So secretly, Superboy buries himself in a hole and uses a straw to spurt his moron father into a plane crash. This shouldn’t have worked! But more importantly, Superboy shouldn’t be willing to put more lives at risk to protect his father’s fragile delusions and ego.

Speaking of delusions, after he no longer has powers, the precious abilities he bragged about and instantaneously transformed his life and personality around, Pa Kent put on a big show about how losing them was actually a good thing. Sure, Pa. We were there. You went from curious star-dildo toucher to “actually I’m a way BETTER superhero than Superboy” in five goddamn seconds.

I hate Pa Kent so much. Let’s jump forward to 1961 to Adventure Comics (the ADVENTURES of Superman WHEN HE WAS A BOY) #289 to see his third take on Tertiary Superboy Character Gains Powers, and I’ll try to move it along since we’re 3200 words into this.

It starts with the standard Pa Kent wisdom. “What’s this strange space jewel? No time to ask my son! Got to touch i– ARRGH AN UNEARTHLY SENSATION!”

Setting a new record for space-jewel-touching-to-disaster, Pa Kent has already wrecked the family piano and heat-visioned a hole in the floor before he’s crossed the room. Time to jump onto a table saw, dick first.

Ha ha ha I was going to say you thought I was kidding, but there’s no way I got you with that one. You knew the second he touched that space jewel Pa Kent was going to try to fuck a table saw.

He wrecks the saw and punches a hole in the wall. “Fuck you, son. Fuck our house. Let’s break all the furniture– oh! Oh, let’s go smash your boy robots! If you’d have ever listened to me, this is the kind of shit we could have been doing with your powers this whole time! Pa! Kent!”

This rampage has a slightly different tone than the other times Pa Kent gained superpowers. Destroying the humanitarian robots and ordering Clark to stop being a superhero seem like red flags. And speaking of two red flags whistling right by Superboy…

… two red flags whistle right by Superboy. It’s Pa Kent stopping him from helping others! Nothing suspicious there… let’s see what happens next.

Okay, his dad throws a bucket on his head (boomerang-fashion) while he’s trying to rescue a falling balloon. If it was anyone else, this would seem strange, but this is totally Pa Kent’s idea of both good judgement and hilarious prank.

Hmm… something about the way Pa Kent signed for oranges while forbidding Superboy from rescuing forest rangers was unusual. Can you guess what it is!?

Gasp, it wasn’t his father at all! It was Kryptonian scientist Jax-Ur in a mask! Wait, assuming it was a really good mask and his impersonation was perfect, can’t Superboy see skeletons? Identify people by heartbeats? H-he should have known, right? I don’t need to look this one up; it doesn’t matter. If an alien in a rubber father face can walk into your home, break all your belongings, act like an alien in a rubber mask, and you don’t figure it out for a week, you and your father don’t have a good relationship. Pa Kent is such an unpredictable piece of shit and rewrites his DNA so often that everything Jax-Ur did short of writing, “MY NAME IS STAR CRIMINAL JAX-UR” on a produce receipt was seen as normal Pa Kent behavior. That’s not a cute joke, by the way. That’s how Superboy figured it out.

After catching this tiny slip-up, Superboy banished Jax-Ur to the Phantom Zone and we learn, dear God, every soul sent there can see Superboy. Jax-Ur is going to see him next time he’s blowing his senile father through the clouds. And when he lands and makes love to his wife Martha, careful not to crush her mortal bones, Jax-Ur will be looking on. “I know you’re there, Jax-Ur,” he’ll whisper. “Is that like a safe word?” Martha will ask. “No,” he’ll tell her. “It’s a lot to explain. Wait, right there. I’m! Hnngggg!! Do you see this, Jax-Ur! Look upon what I have done, Jax-Ur!” Whoa, holy shit, this article really got away from me.


I know it’s not Reflecting Day here at 1900ðŸŒ, but like to talk about something very emotional anyway. It’s an important event from 1985 that changed everything we knew about telev– nay, art. You might be thinking, “This is a fun bit where he’s leading to something that WASN’T an earth-shattering super-event.” And now you might be thinking, “I was wrong! I was so fucking wrong! The setup was sincere! This is real!” Because I’m talking about the spectacular Season 1, Episode 6 of MacGyver… “Trumbo’s World!” The one where he fights ants!

The episode opens with MacGyver sneaking into a Spanish paramilitary camp to rescue a geologist. He creates a disguise by climbing a tree and improvising a fishing pole to steal one of their towels. The show is remembered for the amazing gadgets created from trash, but MacGyver solved a lot of problems by just taking off his clothes and hoping for the best. It’s a childhood lesson I still use to this day, yum.

The other thing worth remembering about MacGyver is that it was a full hour show and they had a lot of time to fill between diet soda grenades and power washer jetpacks. So he wanders through the enemy camp, eats some of their soup, and while a slow synthesizer remix of the show’s theme song plays, he complains it’s not as good as his mother’s Basque stew, as she experimented with many international soups. Not a word of that is an exaggeration. One of the producers said, “Get me ten minutes of shirtless MacGyver! I don’t care what you have to do! Well, I mean, don’t do something like a voiceover where he tells a childhood soup story or anyt– hello? Are you still? He hung up. Ahh, he probably heard most of that.”
Anyway, the geologist doesn’t even know why she was kidnapped, but MacGyver suggests maybe this Spanish militia thought she was a physicist and she could build them an atom bomb? No more thought is given to this extended excuse for shirtless MacGyver. He gives two completely contradictory and insane answers to questions no one asked to explain something no one needed a reason for. No one seeing shirtless MacGyver having a raft chase with a group of Basque secessionists would ever say, “Hold on, a second. I need a WHOLE LOT OF SHAKY BACKSTORY TO EXPLAIN THIS.” For instance, during the raft chase MacGyver stops, pulls out a roll of barbed wire, strings it across the river, and America recently celebrated 36 straight years of no one caring where MacGyver got that shit.

MacGyver and the geologist escaped by heating up the camp’s shower and running away while everyone laughed at the scalded guy. And it didn’t work. Everyone saw them run away. MacGyver had to wait while a panicked woman rappelled down a cliff for the first time and men a few yards behind shot at him with rifles. They missed at him for minutes. Then he rappelled through the bullets himself and covered his exit by lighting their rope on fire, which oh yeah, I should mention the geologist was being kept in a prison cell with a can of gasoline and a rope. And this amazing sequence of lucky events only bought them another two seconds because each of the bad guys had their own rope.
Please note MacGyver was sent here. He wasn’t part of this woman’s “geology mission” and forced to throw together some desperate escape. This was a plan. Some private security firm said, “This is a delicate rescue op in Spain, so we’ll have to send one man, nude. Preferably experienced in soup. Barbed wire and gasoline must be procured on-site.” He should have been dead hundreds of times over. If you wanted to remarket this as a comedy about a guy who can’t die, you would not have to change a single thing. And I worried this cold open might have used up all of MacGyver’s luck because the rest of this episode is him fucking everything up and watching his friends get eaten by ants.
MacGyver is called to the Amazon by his friend Charlie who says he has “a very strange problem.” That’s all MacGyver needs to hear.

The problem that was too sensitive to explain over the phone or letter is this: a dozen species of birds have been seen in flight. “Desperate flight,” in fact. Charlie thinks they’re running from something in the heart of the rainforest. That’s the whole thing. No one has gone into the jungle and never come back. There were no legends or unexplained noises. You know everything.
But instead of saying, “Motherfucker, I’ve been on a plane for 23 hours, a boat for 72, and I paid two hundred bucks for a night in a half star hotel and you’re telling me this is because you want to see what scared, you think, several birds,” MacGyver thinks for a moment and goes, “Here be tigers and unknown beasts.“
Charlie’s response is only, “Exactly.” Our expedition is underway!
This is only the sixth episode of MacGyver ever and already the writers seem to be specifically saying “FUCK YOU” to anyone who cares how MacGyver gets into all these hijinx. It’s like someone told them they weren’t allowed to just start the episode with MacGyver in a giant anthill with a handful of thumbtacks and writing this scene was their temper tantrum.

They don’t mention how MacGyver and Charlie know each other, but it doesn’t seem to be from adventuring. Charlie is useless. He’s a fussy scientist with no leash on his childlike sense of wonder and no sense of danger. Even before you find out the thing that scared the birds was a big colony of ants, you’d look at Charlie and say, “This whiny flight-of-fancy guy is going to get eaten by ants before the end of Act 2.”
The two best friends get a boat, but can’t find an “Indian guide.” Apparently you can send MacGyver after a group of heavily-armed terrorists with his nipples and nothing else, but he can’t figure out how to walk the opposite direction of birds in the woods. They get a lead on a villainous chocolate plantation owner who is notorious for attempted murder and also does not offer a native guide service. They call him Trumbo, and MacGyver is like, “Trumbo sounds like a guy who can help.” They boat there and they are immediately fired upon with guns and arrows.

Sure enough, Trumbo, the evil slave owner holding them at gunpoint, who does not run a jungle tour company, can’t supply them with a guide. MacGyver offers to fix his irrigation pump as a trade, Trumbo says no, but MacGyver fixes it anyway. It almost feels like the script said, “EXT or INT. SOME TIME OF DAY. Random, unrelated things and conversations TBD happen between the engineering bits and fist fights.”
MacGyver is so good at fixing the pump that Trumbo offers him a job, but he turns him down. MacGyver tries to explain how slavery is bad, and Trumbo explains that’s not what is happening. He brags about how good he is at the noble act of cutting down the rainforest and turning it into cocoa plantation. It’s weird. If you wanted to remarket this as a comedy about an action show being meddled with by sinister corporate sponsors, you wouldn’t have to change a thing. Trumbo might as well have turned to camera and said, “MacGyver, you and I are like the heroes at Nestle, makers of the new Mochablast Jiggle Chillers, fighting courageously for freedom. Every day, that great company brings us closer to a world with fully deregulated clearcutting and a return to ownable humans.”
Anyway, the cocoa baron who shot at MacGyver for rowboating near his plantation is the good guy. And the only reason he isn’t offering them a guide is because he won’t risk any of his men on a spooky mystery. So he’ll go himself.
So now the main bad guy has joined our heroes and they finally set off to solve The Mystery Of Some Maybe Scared Birds. But they soon find out it’s more serious than that when they come across a new piece of the puzzle. Charlie says, “WHAT? What could possibly cause panic in both birds and small ground animals!?” Here’s what he was looking at:

This is not a wild animal stampede. This is a fuzzy buddy messaround. This is a Friendship Falls Gumdrop Festival’s 80th Annual Gerbil Race. And look, I don’t know what the logistics were for setting up a hamster stampede for a union TV production in 1985, but I do know this is adorable and hilarious.
The dream team of bird, and now small ground animal, investigators make a plan to hike three kilometers to a native village Trumbo knows about. But MacGyver stops them. He’s noticed one more subtle clue– a terrible screeching coming from nearby. He walks toward it and sees a canyon filled with the show’s secret real main villain: ants. “An eating machine. Two miles wide and ten miles long,” he says. Then the show, for the first of many times, cuts to random ant footage from at least three different ancient nature documentaries. Which only makes their choice to film seven furry best friends having a little race even stranger. The producers don’t care about the shots matching, so they could have cut to stock footage of an actual stampede!
Anyway, they now hear human screams over the sound of the ant screams so they head over to the village. It’s more like ten feet away than three kilometers, but MacGyver writers would like to remind me to fucking get over myself and realize we’re not here to make goddamn maps.
At the village, a group of native caricatures are just getting their asses kicked by ants. They are a pre-pants civilization absolutely at the mercy of insect swarm attacks. And while they bash an ocean of ants with sticks and writhe on the ground in itchiness, they leave one of their women for dead under a canoe.

Like her people, Charlie abandons the canoe woman and starts taking pictures of ants. He can’t believe it. Ants! Real ants! He takes dozens of extreme closeups of ant faces to really communicate the size of their colony, never believing it for a second. Amazing! Ants! It was ants all along! The colony swarms him, mindlessly unaware of their luck in finding meat too excited about ants to move away from ants.

MacGyver and Trumbo try to rescue the woman from the canoe, but two men and half a woman are no match for a canoe. Three men might be, but Charlie is too busy having never fucking seen anything like these ants. MacGyver finally gets his attention, and instead of helping, he hands a stick to MacGyver and runs back for more antwatching. This woman has never laid eyes on an American before, but after watching a slave owner, a hunk, and a fucking idiot make themselves at home in her ancestral lands and let her die from an easily preventable death, she’s already an expert.
Let’s check in with Charlie.

He’s not doing great. Charlie is what ant soldiers call “an easy day at work.”

MacGyver’s homemade canoe winch works, and they pull the woman to safety as Charlie is off somewhere shrieking for help. And here’s where we seriously almost lost Richard Dean Anderson. He’s an athletic actor who does a lot of his own stunt work, but if the stunt coordinator told him what was going to happen when a goddamn bamboo spear uncoils with the force of a full canoe, Richard forgot about it after the cameras started rolling. Look at that! They were one inch away from having to replace most of their lead actor’s head! Why did this stick prop come to a deadly point at all? And why was the pointy end on the, surprise, much longer half? Did the ants do this!?
Speaking of, the ants are tearing this village up and MacGyver has no ideas. He saw these primitive tribesmen rolling around and clubbing the ground and thought, “Well, I can’t improve on this.”
Let’s check in on Charlie again.

He’s fucking dead. Devoured to the hat by ordinary ants right in front of his best friend and world’s greatest rescue hero, MacGyver. You can’t screw up harder than that. This is like opening a book on cat safety and getting mauled to death by a kitten while sharing an elevator with celebrity bad boy of cat training, Jackson Galaxy. So MacGyver has let the quest giver die, teamed up with the villainous baron, and the village he tried to rescue has been wiped off the map by insects. It’s over. There’s nothing left to save. In only his sixth episode, MacGyver has suffered the greatest loss in syndicated television history. The end.
No. There are thirty fucking minutes of show left.
They go back to Trumbo’s lawless chocolate mine for a last stand against this unstoppable force of nature. Not to rescue anyone, because all the slaves are leaving. By the way, Trumbo responds to this by opening fire on them and would have murdered them all if MacGyver hadn’t pulled him off his horse and kicked his ass. In any piece of media other than this very specific episode of MacGyver, Trumbo would be a nefarious scoundrel who must be stopped at any cost. Here, MacGyver agrees to stick around and help him defeat the ants and save his plantation! Why, you ask? Goddamn it, it’s like you haven’t been listening at all. The writers don’t care! Before Nestle’s PR guy came in with notes, the first draft of this episode opened with MacGyver getting sentenced to execution by combat arena by the Snake Council of The Moon.
Trumbo and MacGyver hatch an unlikely plan to create tiny rivers around the plantation. Unfortunately, these rivers need to be held open by a wheel located directly in the path of the ants. This job was given to the only worker to stay behind, some guy named Luis. If MacGyver could have rigged something to hold the wheel in place that wasn’t made out of delicious human ant food, he didn’t bother. And more bad news for the abandoned slave fields: the ants accidentally invent boats.

The little rivers get smaller and smaller while MacGyver and Trumbo wonder why that darn Luis isn’t keeping the water flowing. See if you can guess what happened!

You were wrong! Luis was, get this, eaten by the ants!
Trumbo and the writers seem to think Luis died a hero, but he died for nothing and from not walking to a location without hungry bugs. MacGyver has now watched 66% of the named characters in this episode get swallowed by ants, so he moves onto Plan B: homemade flamethrower! This lasts about two seconds and doesn’t work, so it’s onto Last Resort: blowing up the dam and destroying the entire plantation he (for whatever reason (fuck you)) has sworn to protect.

AAAAAIIIEEEEEE! SHIT! FUCK! IT DOES NOT GO WELL!
In his panic, MacGyver throws off his makeshift bee suit and blows the dam up while he’s still right in front of it. He is only barely not killed while stock footage of a flood washes away everything the noble Trumbo built on the backs of local natives displaced by his deforestation. Every good guy is dead! The only survivor was the main bad guy whose sadness farm MacGyver tried to save and failed! The end!

There’s nothing else! MacGyver blew it, the end!


The year was sometime in the early ’70s. Three people with one wet cough and zero erections tried to invent the first porn parody.
We are joined by our friend Michael Swaim (Small Beans, Cracked, IGN) to try to make sense of it in our first ever episode of 1-900-HOTDOG Nights (with sexy new theme song from Auralnauts). It’s filthy. Filthy.
It started with a married couple arguing over an erotic newspaper. The husband worked at a factory, maybe an office. He didn’t know how to have sex or maybe he had too much. His wife was unemployed, wait maybe she was a prostitute. She had kids from a previous marriage, hold on, they could be her current husband’s and at school during the time of filming. The point is, there was no script and 98% of this adult film was an ad libbed argument between two confused, naked idiots. It’s called Bat Pussy.

Maybe. Probably. It was found in the trash two decades after it was abandoned, and the “main” character is called “Bat Woman” almost as often as she’s called “Bat Pussy.” She’s the protector of Gotham City and she’s upset because her vagina sensed, and I quote, “fuckin’ dirty motherfuckers are makin’ fuck films in [her] Gotham City.” But also she seems mad for not being included in the production of the porno? And look, I promise I’m not trying to confuse you, but it’s also worth mentioning that no one in the movie is filming a porno.

Bat Pussy was an impossibly strange idea even before they fucked up every possible aspect of production, and they were right to hide it. We shouldn’t have dug it up and described it to you. Don’t mention that when you leave a review! Try to forget it when you subscribe! Thank you, and you all know how to fuck.


There are so many things that make people smile. I bet you could think of a thousand and three of them if you really had to! Well, meet Lisa Birnbach, Ann Hodgman, Patricia Marx, three “authors” who took that bet as a team and lost.

Lisa, Ann, and Patricia published 1,003 Great Things to Smile About in 2004, seven years after they wrote 1,003 Great Things About Getting Older and two years after 1,003 Great Things About Moms. Which is crazy because it means that after publishing 3,009 ideas, anyone looking at their life’s work would say, “Those old ladies only had one idea.”
Much like the disorganized thoughts of the authors, I’m going to go through 1,003 Great Things to Smile About randomly. Not that anyone would know since Lisa, Ann, and Patricia don’t number the entries in any of their 1,003 Wet Mental Coughs books. But I promise I did not make up a single one of these. Let’s start smiling.

This is the perfect one to start with because at first glance this seems cute, right? A book of 1,002 more of these would be adorable right up until the existential pointlessness was too great to ignore. It’d be a perfect work of art demonstrating how fleeting moments of pleasure with no purpose makes you nothing. You’re a houseplant mindlessly turning toward sunlight.
But let’s step back from the cosmic despair of this book. Imagine you saw a cookie shaped and decorated like a little shoe. Aww. You love it. Now some fucking asshole walks up and goes, “There are some great cookie-cutter shapes out there!” as if the source of your joy was recent innovations in the cookie cutter consumer market. As if your smile came not from the tiny, crispy shoe you can eat but from how making them is easier than ever thanks to all those shapes out there! Not only does this entry from 1,003 Great Things to Smile About fail to inspire happiness, but any hypothetical stranger saying these exact words they chose would destroy any cookie joy you were already feeling.
So let’s be clear, before we go any further: This book is so bad at its easy, easy job that if you ever smiled at the specific things it mentions, you won’t anymore. And more bad news for smiles: the next entry is just “Bleach.”

Yes, that’s the whole thing.

You know that relatable feeling when you find your keys? What if I told you I wasn’t going anywhere with that? That my words were leading to no second point or analogy, and the idea of a smile you might get from finding hypothetical keys was the whole thing! Where are you going!? My friends Lisa and Ann and I have over one thousand more!

It d-doesn’t have to be keys! Maybe you found an umbrella!

The closest thing this book has to context is when Lisa, Ann, or Patricia follow a train of thought through their brain. Like maybe an entry is “The Eiffel Tower” and the next one is “baguettes.” You, if you’re being generous, can put the puzzle pieces together and realize, “One of these ungifted writers is trying to tell me they remembered France.” But there were no clues for this one. “We’re number one!” suddenly appeared in the middle of generic life experiences and names of TV shows. What? How? Maybe they included some clues as to why anyone would publish hundreds of their brain’s saddest misfires?

That was fast.

Okay, it looks like these women also get bitten by a lot of diseased wild animals.

I say 1,003 Great Things to Smile About offers no context, but that’s not entirely true. A slightly different version of this entry is on the back cover. “Your son remembers your birthday… and doesn’t reverse the charges!” is the first example they show to potential customers. What does this mean? Well, it means they take for granted you have a son currently away at college and you’re both using phone technology from several years before the book’s publish date, but it also means they were trying. Someone went in and tinkered with this, and maybe other entries. This isn’t an Alzheimer’s patient noticing things as a nurse rolls her to the sunroom. This is three professional writers and their publisher doing their best. Try smiling now.

The lanyard is not imperfect. What more do you need!?

Smile! The flowers can see you!!!

After reading more, I’m not sure all these entries were meant to go in the book. Some of these might have been phone messages for the other authors.

And some of them might be their dying words.

If three old ladies want to rate which woman is prettiest and be happy when their opinion is validated, that’s fine. Not fine, but pathetic beneath any contempt. Here’s what is worth mentioning, though: according to Google, Miss Idaho has never won Miss America or Miss USA. Lisa, Ann, and Patricia are so out of ideas they’re writing down fabricated memories of beauty pageants they didn’t watch. I came here to make fun of lame, saccharin tidbits, but this is like watching a very special chimpanzee get thrown into an incinerator by a lab assistant who doesn’t know how to say, “Me, alive. Me, can think” in sign language.

What? You goddamn idiots are on the record rooting for Miss Idaho! You wrote it down in your fucking book! In a hypothetical situation you made up! Not only do you openly love the Miss America pageant, you create actual false memories of times you enjoyed watching it! Fuck you! I hope the next one is an actual nice one so I can calm down.

God fucking damn it! Just one genuinely happy thing! Please!

FUUUUUCK!

W-what? Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I ran this page through the scanner because I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you one of the entries in this book about great things to smile about was, and I quote, “That horrible guy at the bar just sent you a drink.”

I guess in a few parts of the book, Lisa, Ann, and Patricia forgot what they were doing and accidentally wrote things that don’t make you smile? Is it only one of them who is confused? Is it Patricia? Because unless Mabel O’Nobody is a better Blanche than Julia Roberts these are objectively bad things, only maybe worse, because I think these are jokes about objectively bad things. It was already the most depressing book on happiness before they started being depressing sarcastically. But this!? These jokes? If you were writing a movie where the twist was the main character not knowing they were in Hell, these lines would all be too obvious as clues.

I don’t understand!!!! Three of the one thousand and three things are this frustrating interaction with a church bazaar customer! Do these women feed off the suffering of everyone who’s ever read their book? Which is to ask, are they feeding on my suffering alone? If so, I hope you’re enjoying the feast, you dusty fucking minotaurs.

If my theory is correct, right now, Lisa, Ann, and Patricia are in some nursing home workshopping early ideas for 1,003 Fun Eats to Do On a Place and they just got a surge of energy from how much I hated this one. “Ahh, yes, a reader got to the one where all we typed was ‘Yea! You got a red gumball.’ Taste of his fury with me, Lisa and Patricia! Delicious.“

Well, sure. If you had to list a thousand all-time great smiles, one of them would be the time you found your husband’s vintage pornography collection…

… and another would be the time you realized a sitcom’s title was more than a name. It was a revelation.

Maybe they’re onto something. Gilligan’s Island. Maybe these women barely experiencing life while the nursing home’s television idles on ancient reruns really have this whole happiness thing figured out.

One endearing quality of Lisa, Ann, and Patricia is how they are never right. Not only about what makes people smile, but also about everything. They managed to live hundreds of years each and gain no wisdom along the way. For instance, they each saw a media trend of hit shows requiring minimal creative staff and no talent budgets and agreed, “No industry would have an incentive to maintain thi– is that gumball red! YEA!”

“Purple M&M’s, maybe?” asked Patricia to no one. The stupid cow shrugged as she hit enter.

A dark force rippled as Patricia pulled “Kiehl’s lip balm now comes in three tints” from her musings notebook and entered the words into her manuscript. The same words would appear clawed on the inside of the chest cavity of a child nine thousand miles away. “THREE TINTS OF BALM,” he would whisper, though up until that moment, Kikongo had been the only tongue he knew. “THREE TINTS OF BALM,” he would die saying, long before anyone with answers would arrive.

I guess this one’s fine. Three moist coins in a bus station is three moist coins in a bus station.

Oh, good, one of them found another umbrella.

I guess we’re at the “what if you actually found jewels” stage of ideas. Look, I know these women aren’t therapists, and they have no obligation or qualification to give real mental health advice, but I’m not sure an imaginary sapphire meets the book’s implied standard of “a thing,” much less a great one to smile about. This is like telling someone starving in a life raft to picture food. It’s very literally barely better than waiting for death.

So they’re taking home lost items they find in cabs, scrounging change from payphones, fantasizing about sudden jewels, and now they’re rummaging through their receipts for rare pennies? It seems like these women really needed this fucking smile book to work out. And I know how this makes me look, but thinking about how unlikely that was is giving me my first smile.

This one surprised me. Judging by her writing, I would have pictured Patricia’s daughter as more of a Second Windmill than a Sancho Panza.

W-what? I was watching my middle school daughter perform in a play and now I’m eight? And Fabulous Sancho’s grandma has decorated the outside of our house? As a reader, it seems like I shouldn’t have to be doing this much work to make the author’s extremely specific (probably false) memories relate to me.

Yes, Ann, we all remember how you introduced this groundbreaking style of nail treatment to America. Who can forget how the local salon’s sign used to say “Regular Manicure: $25.99, Completely Novel Manicure Ann Has to Name Because It Hasn’t Been Invented Yet: $35.99.”

We get it, Ann. Your deep knowledge of industry secrets like staple foods and popular retailers are what made you into Shady Graves Retirement Village’s most dynamic trendsetter.

Oh, Lisa, you bitch!

Ha ha ha she knows, Ann! She’s telling everybody!

Ann, you’re not fooling anyone! You think your friends believe you spent $1400 on a purse? The one filled with gift certificates and filthy change? The one you were holding when you asked the bus driver if there were any “coin stores” on the route “that are looking to buy rare pennies”? Even Patricia knows it’s a fake and she has spent the last seven hours typing the idea “Stickers.”
Oh my god, here goes Ann with this story again. The time she wore a sweater for Esther’s boutique flyer.

“They said my daughter could have modeled, but um, been there, done that, girls. The life of a model is harder than you think. Gosh, I guess it was 1972? If I remember, it was for a boutique flyer photoshoot? Very avant professional. I had to stand in a sweater in front of a roll of paper, they call it a paper-roll, but here’s the thing: it was almost 70 outside. Ha, not exactly sweater weather. The man, ‘photographer’ is what we call him in the industry, had me do some different smiles, sometimes not smiling… Anyway, I just don’t want my daughter to have to go through all that. I was there for almost an hour and I had to get my own snacks.”

Another email mystery solved by the Best Friends Cyber Senior Squad.

This one is a good reminder that these aren’t ordinary old ladies, but actual lunatics.

How did they know the secret way my twin and I ask each other if we’ve ever fucked a fish?

Great news, ladies: big-ass thongs (if you’re into that). It’s weird to me how this is the only qualified entry in the entire book. They take for granted I have a daughter, I’m eight, my son forgets my birthday, I have a secret twin, and I’m a model with too many umbrellas (and counting!), and yet here, when they tell me about giant panties, they’re like, “We don’t want to make any assumptions about your underpants, senator ostrich-owning dentist recovering from rabies.”

Oh yeah, we need to be open to the possibility that when they say “thongs” they might mean the shoes, not the panties. After all, these are women who mark the eras of their life by achievements in panty hose history.

We should also try to keep in mind they are in one of the later stages of dementia.

“Guess how many! No, three! It took me three days to remember the name of Debby’s first husband! And it was Geoff! With two f’s! Can you believe it! He was named after another Geoff. Anyway, a lot of great cookie-cutters out there these days, right? And don’t get me started on all the tints of lip balm. Or better yet, do! Ha ha ha, you know, I’m actually glad Debby and her new husband whatshisname couldn’t make it! What a couple of bores! Oh, did I show you the umbrella I found in a taxi? I know, ‘you bet I wish it was a sapphire,’ right? Again, I want to say how glad I am that the boring couple couldn’t make it so it’s just us fun people.”

This is the Yiddish word for “prostrate” Patricia learned from a dildo instruction manual.

No one knows how her aunt died, but she was found with dozens of tiny hand marks on her neck and all she left behind was her antique china doll.
The debate is settled, sorbet lovers. Sherbet lovers, go buy 1,003 Canoe Gunnels For Fucks Who Are Wrong About Ice Cream to read more.

Maybe one of them has a twin who secretly knows what this means.

Jesus Christ, what? Do I remember watching a fucking cow pee!? Patricia, all you had to do was name a few hundred experiences more interesting than seeing a cow pee on a fourth grade field trip and you fucked it up.

I think this one is a fart joke Lisa couldn’t quite bring herself to tell. Which is weird since she seems okay talking about watching her uncle gator.

“Ann dear, do you remember when we were writing that smile book and I could barely tell the passing gas in church joke? What!? We’re still writing it!? Oh, well then we should put one in about how it’s nice to smile about remembering fart jokes you almost told. And that story Patricia tells about when the cow, you know, just blasted a bunch of kids with a stream of piss.”
I’m sort of worried the next entry is going to be, “The time you remembered remembering the memory of an aborted fart joke.”

I was not expecting this one. What did you do, Lisa?

Lisa, whatever the shit you did, it seems like you really dodged a bullet.

So I think I’ve figured them out. Lisa is a criminal maniac going through the trash for things she can sell. Ann is a basic bitch narcissist who peaked in high school, back when high school was called “communing with the Great Fire.” And Patricia has the mind of a 5-year-old girl in a fabric store.

I didn’t mean it as a compliment, you dingbat.

Sure, why not? Pick one. I love this entry because I honestly don’t think you can do less than this. If you were given the task of listing great things, vaguely referencing the planet’s most famous great things is the smallest amount of effort you could make toward that end. This is like gunneling a canoe and not even gatoring its Afikomen.

Every 72 hours Patricia and Lisa have to watch Ann “find” her old photo albums and “rediscover” how good she looked with bangs.

Right, and then she rediscovers Fresca.

If you want an idea of how long it took these women to put together a book where each of them had to list about 334 objects or concepts of any nature, this one about bangs finally growing out appeared 8 pages after the one where Ann rediscovered bangs. This lets us establish a timeline.
So over the course of an elderly woman getting a haircut and then letting it reclaim her bangs, Lisa, Ann, and Patricia got 32 entries done. Which means this book, this thoughtless piece of shit book, took them… oh no. 13 years and one month to complete.

Thirteen years well spent, I say. They really came up with a lot of fun, relatable human experiences. What’s next, an amniocentesis diagnosis?

Oh my god.

I’m not crazy about how much of this book has turned into a list of the Grim Reaper’s near-misses.

Lisa, what did you do to Walt Disney?

Hold on, let me look up Walt Disney’s height and width.

You know when your son is both not with you and stupid? 🙂

Well, Lisa, Ann, and Patricia, if my baby-sitter knows how to take care of kids and she tries when she writes a book, that’s two things she does better than you.

…
This article is brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gellaho, the pansy sapphire cow fart of our Idaho. That’s the nicest thing we ever said about anybody.