Category: FUCKING DAY

Fucking Month continues.

Is your semen jacked? Wait, that’s idiotic. No adult wastes a first thought on cumlifts. Even MacFadden skipped to infant gains. Fretting over semen hypertrophy makes the guards waste two tranquilizers on one patient. Rude.

Is your semen fast? Agile? Cardio’d up? Does it inject hard work until cars look slow? Motility’s big in male fertility and SAT vocabulary, and one is in troubling decline. Let’s read about Sperm Racing to lock the word in.

Cool. That’s BeastChild, the Gorilla Monsoon of Sperm Racing.

I just dig wrestling. It achieves the carnival vibe Sperm Racing covets, with better hosts, smarter viewers, healthier ties to reality, and less empty machismo. Better graphics too: despite the barrage of puns, Sperm Racing’s logo features neither tail nor testicle.

The creators’ jokes peaked with the title, leaving me a two-hour cadaver.

Don’t expect sleight of hand today. Sperm racing exists, and pits two cups against each other. The jizz that wanders a set distance first wins. Or rather, the proud father wins solvency. Not bad, with bootstraps replacing scholarships.

That’s the champ, in a league of two. He won ten large for quality jizz. We’re not covering his match. The opening failure demands attention.

Sperm Racing’s buildup went bronze viral, and drew coverage from networks bored in Spring 2025. Reporting’s hard on Mars, you take what’s on your desk. The Sperm Race stream proudly touts press clips from TMZ, Breitbart, a local Chicago station, and bathroom puddles. Odd, since those non-sources aren’t exhaustive. Plenty of non-punchline outlets shared my bile fascination. I’d call the list sabotage, but it’s just screened for tone. Sneers look bad to sponsors, and objectivity looks worse.

Note: it’s called “Sperm Racing” not “The Great Sperm Race” or “The One-Time Embarrassment.” The name implies a league. Fandoms, player strikes, and cum-enhancing drugs. There’s only been one event, but the site has ambition. Fair, since DraftKings is days away from bets on surgery.

The copy’s flow and improv punctuation feel familiar, if you’re into documentaries about scams. Venture capital bait has its own language. To the untrained ear, it sounds like keys jangling before infants. Untrained ears work fine.

Grab a free kit, and you can send your sperm stats to strangers for the chance to be humiliated on Twitch. Sweet, sweet attention. Sorry, that’s unfair. The first race is archived on Kick (another day) and YouTube. Where, despite the initial hype, the launch race sits at 100k views. Great for a person, but far behind backer’s hopes.

Why? Because your cum’s no good. From the Sperm Racing manifesto:

An insult to other cranks. Testosterone panic fuels entire empires. To become Real Men, kids that look like Goku inject their way to Broly. Before my next anime joke, Alex Jones will buy two cars and zero medication.

I hear typing. Here, there’s a fork in the road. I waste my sperm-given life trading studies of studies. Or I say that typing kills your sperm. Phones, laptops, desktops, typewriters: all state-sponsored jizz famine. Every word in my inbox is spermicide. Can you carry that guilt? Rivers of seminal fluid on your hands, while history watches? Or will you piss off?

Cumpower is the 283rd dumbest ongoing panic, and that’s a tough bracket. Breaking the Top 500’s hard when your cousin thinks red dye causes sin. To be clear: fertility problems suck, and a hundred crises are imploding in unison. Liars and/or lunatics add fantasy to the pile. It’s the Renaissance of fraud.

Wait, forget that gag. There’s already a podcast. Instead, I’ll simplify things with a little education. Here’s a documentary on the birth of the hoax industry. We joke around here, but history matters.

See? History’s fun. You barely have to tell jokes.

With VC backing and a pet cause, Sperm Racing’s only half ironic. Adding significant pain. Synthetic mania’s perfectly doable—just ask Sacha Baron Cohen or Sarah Palin. But failure eats joy. Recall the ass vortex Sharknado profits opened. The vast landfills of fake Birdemics. Watching someone piss themselves and stutter “Get it?” sucks. Artists piss themselves stone-faced or screaming. My point: don’t wear nice sneakers to open mics.

But one talent’s special. None of the revenants onscreen, they’re a gallery of Twitch p-zombies. Eric Zhu, the early face of this dumbfuckery, may be the Mozart of dick fear. We get to watch this young nightmare grow.

A high schooler invented Sperm Racing, and I’m so fucking proud of him. I hate Eric’s viewers, sponsors, comment section, adult collaborators, parents, history/science/english teachers, friends close enough to tell him otherwise, and YouTube recommendations. But defend this child. He grifts at a postgrad level. I know he’ll be back, many times. This car crash evokes a clown in a pimp suit robbing his first bank.

April 25, Hell Year 5. Two warlords clash for the first time.

The ritual begins at the commentary desk. BeastChild stands between two student announcers–one from USC, one from UCLA. BeastChild’s a living warning for the path they walk. The path of Attention. We’re in LA, where better announcers make up the full adult population and most children. But we have BeastChild.

BeastChild says this is all about health, before cutting to confused spectators. They have the energy of a nightclub line in the rain. Sperm Race models wander around our second commentary team: Nina Lin and Rhino. Nina’s a TikTok comic that does better than that implies. She’s loud and can finish stupid thoughts. Rhino is…present. He may think this is UFC. When he pushes himself, Rhino can *start* stupid thoughts, which Nina staples dick jokes to.

Two races fill two hours, because they didn’t think this through. It’s long. Sperm Racing would be more focused, dynamic, and dignified if you watched the subjects make the sample. No one called Rhino can shit talk for two hours.

The Wildcard–that’s liar for undercard–stars Jimmy Zhang and Noah Boat.

A celebrity match adjusted for Sperm Racing LA’s budget and audience. There are investors, and I’m sure Eric’s hot tub is thankful. We’re running on favors and fumes.

Jimmy Zhang’s a longtime YouTuber. The Truman Show type one knows too much or nothing about. If I describe him, the data will simply flow around you like water. His morons wear white.

Noah Boat’s a less prominent YouTuber. He makes sketches you shouldn’t give a fuck about. Sperm Racing’s a slick career move: it’s his first video that I’d watch without a hostage. His morons are black.

In normal black clothes, which look dull next to cum ninjas. Commitment is all Sperm Races have, yet only one team gets to rep sperm. Shame. Maybe each jelqer could use white as a base color, with different highlights? Watching both men pose, you see why Joji quit while he was ahead.

Fuck that. I’m here for scalps, and the main eventers needed fakes to get in. I’ve watched geniuses their age snort Splenda for free. Junior victims are for our noble allies—I’ll focus on the two dumbfucks in their thirties. Especially the non-dumbfuck.

See, I can’t read people. So when a bit of behavior hits me, I assume it’s extra obvious. Jimmy knows this blows. That Sperm Racing never had a chance. All three brain cells are in revolt. But there’s a full cum marathon ahead, and a vlogger always shows up.

Every word tonight will haunt him at random. Flubs in classrooms or trendy bars can linger, but they aren’t a Sperm Race. You didn’t hand-write Nut King on a paintball vest. Sperm Racing is a failure you sign twice for and watch approach at gamete speed.

Uh-huh.

Noah Boat, conversely, goes by Noah Boat. We’ve found his home. It comes up that they’re off-camera friends (to the extent such things exist), and Noah pitched this to Jimmy four days ago. You now have streamer knowledge. After all the Nazi coloring books and dark magic, that’s the worst thing I’ll dump on your brain.

Both chess teams have rap walkouts. The kind Nas named an album after. But Noah’s walkout includes a *live* rapper. If you’ve watched suplexes, you know he’s fucked. His sperm will be powerbombed into retirement. Live themes are funeral dirges. I’m not calling Sperm Racing rigged: then it’d be watchable. Two hours engaging, pre-planned drifting. Live downfall soundtracks are closer to a law of nature.

Honestly? The guy has a lot of energy. It’s some kind of superpower. He and Nina might outlive us all.

He’s tonight’s best performance, sprinting through standard dick jokes. Hold that thought for later.

The face off begins, and the audience dies. This could be a Sperm Spelling Bee. Nina and Rhino, but really just Nina, grill the Racers about their prep for the Sperm Races. Fast times. Here’s the tale of the tape:

Stirring. If it helps, imagine Noah as the jizz heel. He debates the cum doctor (there’s a cum doctor, let’s keep it moving) over cold plunges, which seems like a debate the racers should have with each other. Once again: I’m not calling this rigged. I’m saying it should be.

Then the weigh-in drama peaks.

A water gun! You know, with white stuff. Maybe even a semisolid!

Once you’re done laughing, we’ll start the sperm race.

Just kidding, there’s impossible sums of filler. Sperm Racing makes baseball look dense. Interviews, hype trailers, and dead banter bury the crowd in sloth. The hosts wither. Less through incompetence, more through mandatory talking. There’s no material. They essentially commentate air.

I’m skipping it, save three points.

One: in 2025, you can’t use “Gotta Fly Now” or “Dreams & Nightmares” in a hype trailer. Or anything. I know the effect you wanted. If you asked me to define positive masculinity, I’d say “Dreams & Nightmares at 4 AM.” But it’s old news. The depth of cliche sinks beyond anti-humor. Dig deeper, angel investors expect more. If you can’t find the motivation, try “Dreams & Nightmares” at 4 AM.

Two: Nina and Rhino have a great segfault discussing the ring girls. Each expects the other to land the commentary ship. Neither does. They drift near respect, leering, chiding the cameramen, and nothing. A journey from the words “Don’t look too hard,” to mock-horny “Shit, I’m so confused.”

Three: in the pre-walkout nothing, the Static Duo ask how much people have bet. The highest number I caught was fifteen thousand. Likely bullshit. But I don’t know, and that makes this year special.

Then the sperm race begins.

Then the sperm race ends.

Noah’s sperm have the motility of mud. This sport may inspire a new condom protest: “We don’t need that. I’m a Sperm Race jobber. I carry the Brooklyn Brawler of sperm. My sperm trash-talks successful zygotes from burner accounts. You’re more likely to get pregnant from the wind.”

The crowd roars into silence, again. And this event looks pricey. They could’ve paid to watch people fight, fuck, or run on a life-sized track. Or a triathlon, with the right connections. Instead, they watched 16-bit semen shuffle along a monochrome diagram.

The starting gate sort of resembles a dick, which is something. Though not enough to convince the masses an animated jizz-off was worth an LA Saturday. We’re close to the first sperm riot. The dead crowd is, far and away, my favorite character.

The disgraced exile, Noah Boat, enters the punishment chamber. Nickelodeon jokes are competitive, but there’s really no other comparison. He gets slimed, and everyone tries their best cum jokes. It’s a mess. If you start the Sperm Olympics with an impregnation kink, you’ll leave vanilla.

Thus, the fertility crisis ends. Every spring, a new sacrifice will enter the Bukkake Man. Thank you, Sperm Racing, for preserving the human harvest.

Commentary struggles before, during, and after the race. This event is vapor. The track’s an unfinished screensaver. Even alchemists need lead to make gold. But there’s one ray of light.

I’ve come this far by staying honest. So I’ll tell you when I laughed with, not at, a Sperm Racing host. As Jimmy Zhang pulls ahead, Nina Lin belts “CCP! CCP!” with all the power in her blaccent. It works. I laugh. For a moment, I imagine my tone today changing.

Then it’s back to the trash talk. I die with the audience.

Noah hints at a rematch. He won a test race that may or may not exist, and tries to book the division from the stage. No reaction, though Noah does a fine job proving cum races mean nothing. Nina asks if we’d like a rematch. Echoes. She shouts the same idea, and some kind souls murmur. Not “yes,” just sound.

You couldn’t ask for better sabotage. Until the halftime show.

They got Ty Dolla $ign.

Somehow.

“This should be fun,” I thought. “Ty’s got enough collabs to match any mood, even the Cumite.”

Thus far, I think I’ve been fair. Nina shouts well. Rhino simply exists, like a leaf in the wind. BeastChild hurts less than death. Know that I’m not reaching for laughs here: Ty shits the bed. At an event an inch short of public ejaculation, he is the most embarrassing figure. I’m baffled. It shouldn’t be fucking possible. Noah Boat looks better. BeastChild looks better, simply by trying.

I can ramble about panics, online fitness, and offline graft all day. The most provable lesson here is “don’t hire Ty Dolla $ign.” He came to the Cum Olympics broken. There’s an ED joke here, but that implies desire. There’s a premature ejaculation joke here, but that implies effort. There’s a lip-syncing joke here, but that implies his mouth moved. The man dies. This is the saddest performance I’ve seen, and I’ve waited for Lauryn Hill twice.

I don’t blame him.

Thus ends the undercard. Come to think of it, the opener really robs the main event of history. If/when this succeeds, the first Sperm Champion has an asterisk.

In fact, unease might eat away at the Sperm Champion. *He’s* still out there, undermining each victory. The uncrowned prince of Kleenex. Each defense gets a little messier. Until, finally, at the edge of sanity, the champ takes a needless risk against an unranked, aging underdog. To decide the first, truest, Unified Cum Champion. Also, it’s a three-way race with The Masked Jelqer, who won a title shot at Sperm in the Bank. The enigma has Noah’s height, voice, and sperm scent.

See how much better fake races would be?

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Koumoutsas, who pitched the idea of a five man ejaculation chamber, WWE style, but was quickly outvoted.