Category: FUCKING DAY

Ready for virgin conversion therapy?

No, not that one.

While comics are God’s only gift to his stepchildren, TV’s from his competition. Especially, reality TV, which broadly exists on this grid:

Somehow, freeform comfort’s generated the most evil. Look that up if Virgin Island feels too uplifting.

Season One just wrapped up. Design’s just ahead of dignity in Channel 4’s priorities. While I’ve never written a style guide for anything but [REMOVED BY REQUEST OF NABISCO CORPORATION], Channel 4’s first rule should be “don’t imply three more seasons of this crime.” Or for Naked Attraction, eight less.

Enjoy the chart, it took far too long to make. Are there infinite exceptions? Sure. The genre’s at war with mankind, and conflict drives invention. But this frame helps me understand Virgin Island. It’s unstructured cruelty. Instigation-Torture. The bottom right of an alignment grid. Chaotic Evil.

Then again, I’m as biased as the rest of the sanity lobby. Let’s check that joke against the opening voiceover:

Ah! For the fiftieth time since starting here, I’m wrong. Not about Channel 4 serving hell. On that point, I’m like a fucking laser. But about what this isn’t.

Embarrassing oversight, really. This is clearly Virgin Extinction Island. Channel 4 made a real Virgin Extinction Island. Legal just trimmed down the title.

How? Who? Why?

If Shinso taught us anything, it’s that some jokes feel less evil before you start typing. If he taught us a second thing, it’s the power of fuck panic. Too much might be well-worn, but too little’s a thriving new industry.

Our cast’s tired of shame. To fix this, the Secret Eaters channel won’t. The process of not helping involves an isolated compound, identical uniforms, and fucking what?

The edit highlights nervous jokes about cults, which tracks. Not for liability or PR cover, but audience sympathy. I’d judge an easy Virgin Island mark far more harshly than any romantic washout. Cult detection should’ve joined Sex Ed a decade ago.

Our virgins are between 22 and bullshit, pause. Maybe 22 doesn’t make you Casanova, but half the cast can’t rent a boat to Virgin Island. Which is a Croatian resort, in case you thought Channel 4 cared enough to commit to the pun. Bemoaning your virginity at 22 makes you a boring oversharer instead of a sad one. Half the cast could stumble into Otakon and leave with herpes. The other half bleeds trauma that cameras won’t help. Spoilers.

And the oldest player’s thirty, barely brushing wizard years. Anyone following the issue or arguing online knows isolation has far more range. On Hinge, I’ve met two separate [REMOVED BY REQUEST OF MATCH GROUP]. There should be contestants old enough to hire, harass, and pay damages to this cast. But pending lawsuits are our hosts’ domain. Meet the founders of The Somatica Institute:

Danielle and Celeste. They’re going to jail. Not for this, but for whatever comes next. The trajectory from self-help books to Virgin Island ends in prison. The Somatica Institute trains dating coaches, a pastime that fuels more state failure than the CIA.

They’re both sex doctors. Well, Danielle’s a sex doctor. Celeste has a master’s and glasses. Both picked Channel 4 after Sex Box, so they’re either idiots or demons. With three advanced degrees between them, I lean toward horns.

Danielle’s dissertation adds some flavor: she studied orgasmic birth, a non-euphemism for easing childbirth through orgasms. Which have the extra-euphemism birthgasms. Sure. Then her webpage (shared with Celeste’s thirst traps) inches toward natural birth without diving in, and backs away from orgasms inducing labor. There are books to sell, and skeptic money’s green. My point is less the maternity ward foreplay, and more that Danielle’s views drift towards wealth. A doctor for sale. Or, as we called them in ads, a doctor.

Though that doesn’t matter here.

See? That’s Celeste. She’s therapizing him. Viral dry humping will save this patient’s dates off the compound. Assuming he survives the meteor, you know how flexible prophecies are. And not everything’s about money. Some are about fame. That slander’s from ruthless satirist Celeste Hirschman:

Brutal. Per the new Juvenal, Celeste shares her patients’ penchant for wanting so badly it becomes unnerving. As a kinder soul, I’d just say she’s been in Hollywood for five minutes and gone native.

That’s Danielle. Edging virgins is her business, and business films in a tax haven. After four books and thirteen years of practice, The Somatica Institute has sex down to fondling patients until they feel confident or come out. It’s a bit of horseshoe theory with how pastors see modern life.

Granted, this is TV, and it’s not my field. So I’ll hedge this: the presentation makes Danielle and Celeste look like hacks mining fame by milking the desperate, repressed, and traumatized for viewers that find the pain and failure in Saw too artful, spawning six episodes grimmer than an LAPD GoPro.

Wait, comedy! Do-over! You know how fat camp owners have normal relationships with people and food? Celeste and Danielle are like that.

Somatica’s big on workshops. Like watching Danielle grind with a surrogate.

Handy, right? That game’s called “Up Against the Wall,” and prepares you to get thrown out of a nightclub. The inmates fucking hate it, and it goes on.

Well, that might not be your question. A surrogate partner’s a sex therapist that fucks. Or rather, can fuck. Based on Virgin Island, half the job is knowing when to ease up, bail, or find a weapon. The rest is crunches. It’s all very Delany, and would have potential without eighteen reality tv cameramen in the room before, during, and after sessions. Danielle and Celeste keep three or four minions behind them during speeches, to keep ratings on track.

More on that later. I think these games are pretty helpful. Like the one where Celeste and Danielle grind.

Wait, that’s useless. It’s a pasty Sexxy Red video. How about the body positivity drill, where everyone takes turns stripping? Starting with Steve Rogers?

Wait, that’s useless. Let’s spread that insecurity out.

Wait, that’s useless. My memory’s clearly against us. I do remember some Crossfit. That probably cures social anxiety.

Fun, a decent burn, and useless. Lord knows I’m cutting after the confidence exercise, but chopping wood doesn’t help you fuck any more than fucking helps you chop wood.

One detail I’d have explored above, if joke structure wasn’t our One True God: during the stripping game, inmates keep full mic kits on. Lest production lose material. It’s easy to miss while Steve explains bigrexia naked. Only it’s a huge black box on this very uncensored show. A subtle hint that therapy might not come first on Virgin Island.

There’s some value here: I learned not to rush things. Spamming fighting game jokes the day I got WordPress left me unarmed today, as 12 caricatures fight to survive a lunatic’s island. Calling Celeste Shag Tsung trips on my lines from three other Channel 4 products. Maybe the nuns had a point, and I should’ve saved my Goro jokes for a special sex crime. Ah well.

The Zen Den is the four-armed dragon prince of motherfucker! Have a comic while I think.

That’s a black-hearted lie–I’m an unreliable narrator. A surrogate (I’ll explain) dry-humps him to in-pants completion halfway through the episode. Virgin Island had hotter plots to highlight. It all happens in The Zen Den.

Solid name, since Budda dug earthly desire. While I’ve never asked a Buddhist, machines think for people now and suck at it. I can freestyle. Horizontal dancing‘s a top five attachment for extra enlightenment. Thus, the hottest virgin edging goes down in The Zen Den.

That’s Zac. He’s fond of the Zen Den. The Zen Den’s less fond of him. Episode 5 tells a “Goofus and Gallant” story on how to treat your therapist/escort/partner. Dave, who you might remember from one of my thousand screencap comics, plays Gallant.

The producers need someone to fuck or fail, as the voiceover shamelessly reminds you. My fault, really. I complained too much about Naked Attraction lying. Now Virgin Island constantly whispers “Wouldn’t it be great if they fucked on the island?” I guess. As long as they find a broom closet without a hard cam. Which eliminates every broom closet and bathroom stall in The Zen Den.

Surrogate partners bond with inmates, exploring every act and memory you don’t want on Channel 4. Other networks could handle it. Whatever’s on Channel 5 can handle it. Channel 4 isn’t allowed within 200 feet of anyone.

Let’s check back in with Zac.

Zac is certain Kat (a surrogate) will let him fuck today. He’s done all his dry humping homework, and gotten stickers every episode. There’s just one snag: it’s episode five of six. That’s finale material. You know Zac’s dead before he leaves the hump hut, the only question is how.

In the Zen Den, Kat finds his eagerness…unbecoming.

Sorry, I forgot it’s Fucking Month. Subtlety dies on the wheel. Here, Zac sprints into presidential ass-entitlement. You can smell resentment through the screen. The staredown’s a full origin story for the island’s loudest, most outgoing, and least traumatized virgin. It’s a pleasant viewing experience, like driving an old screw into your kneecap. Everyone likes that, right? To appease the gods?

Zac won’t make it on the outside, and I don’t mean sex. This footage is a Vodou curse. Wherever he works next, it’ll be with a new name and a chip on his shoulder. Good luck, Blake.

Success gets cleaner presentation. Consider this screensaver shot of The Zen Den.

That’s the visual to Dave’s first handjob. Letting us focus on the audiobook.

I’ve been laughing for two weeks.

In defense of the Zen Den: people also talk, sometimes, before virgin edging. Some of it’s almost productive!

Still, karma frowns on Virgin Island’s intentions. For the first five episodes, the show bats 0-12. For all the discomfort and theater of dry-humping and virgin edging, no one loses anything but time. Danielle and Celeste actively fuck up trapping twelve horny, desperate young singles in paradise. It’s all very Snidely Whiplash Stops to Cheat. If Jerry hosted this, we’d be watching paternity tests.

I know this network. If someone doesn’t fuck soon, Channel 4’s taking a host’s pinky. Yakuza-style. Considering Channel 4’s relationship with details, they both might lose hands.

Mercifully, Dave paces himself. He finishes Kat’s dry-humping course without quoting anyone bald or elected. Unlocking normal humping. A moving tale of hovering near someone until they sleep with you.

The editors learn too—after the cartoon indignity of Dave’s first handjob, they add dignity to who am I fucking kidding?

To quote my live notes: “Please. You can’t.”

And yet it moans. What the fuck is wrong with this network? And this species? Why is Earth like this? You hear everything. Everything. I think there’s a fly in the room. I can’t tell you how much worse than a straight shot this is. Whatever empathic link lends this dignity must be visual, the radio’s hell.

The prestige: that backdrop’s another lie. They use a shot of the ocean, and a wave crashes when he busts.

We share this knowledge now. This peak in bullying history binds us. As crybullies drew slings and arrows, the hugbullies trained, built, and planned. The future is theirs, and Channel 4 is their herald.

Graduation time!

One inmate has fucked, which Zac’s live sex worker haggling negates. Still, three have come out despite Celeste’s focus on her reel. To celebrate the trio’s progress, and whatever the fuck the other nine got, it’s time for another fun game. A graduation game!

They write letters to future lovers. And read them on camera. I’m glad this isn’t a trap.

Clearly, everyone he knows needs to hear these. Especially future employers and partners. Virgin Island bleeds love for organics and their meat feelings. It’s mastered the empathy and growth equations. When steel replaces the weak, mourning will last entire seconds.

The sentiment’s fine. It’s just one final overshare. Another stab at growth that gets nothing from my involvement. Or the twin voiceovers, who sound like they’ve stolen each others’ tranquilizers.

Zac might sue.

No human’s letter should be seen, even in war. If you write to a future lover before a Predator, you’re fair game. They’ll use the shoulder launcher, just to make sure you don’t get past the comma.

Let’s try it.

After the poetry jam, the inmates take turns thanking Danielle and Celeste. Footage bound for a future filing. The editor backstabs Dave by cutting to Kat during his speech, right after “I want to thank you for the most unforgettable experience of my entire life.” The ocean spray was worse, but your brain buries that. This meanness lingers.

Zac thanks the hosts too! As footage of him terrifying Kat heads to The Daily Mail. It won’t go well. For now, Somatica’s fixed him. He’d say I’m being negative about the whole deal. Maybe. But I suspect two mentors trying to help twelve virgins on a vacation island would leave.

At least I appreciate my luck a little more. My enemies don’t get to record, edit, and televise my first handjob.

Can I get art school on you for a second? Cool. Now that we’re both drunk and in debt: half of media’s like, existing signs and expectations right? Drink nerd, this isn’t some lightweight frat or London pub. Anyway, each genre has its own little language of cues. So wouldn’t it be fucked if the sonic, visual, and branding language of a show about virgins felt like Animal Planet?

You know, in theory.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Sam Koepnick, who was too busy to read this because he was busting ocean waves all over your mom, OH SHIT.