Category: FUCKING DAY

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Make Your Own Sex Toys 🌭

There’s no gentle way to break this to you. It’s time to:

Make Your Own Sex Toys was written and illustrated by a middle-aged British man in 2007. But before we get into that, let’s slow down here and try something. Knowing only what you know, I want you to really search your soul for your Make Your Own Sex Toys expectations. This book has 50 “quick and easy do-it-yourself projects” inside. What could they be?

Take as long as you need before you scroll down.

Did you guess “daycare administrator offering you the gaping asshole of his pumpkin”? Because that’s real. That’s how the book starts. The vibe of Make Your Own Sex Toys is dark and gross, and it has no idea. It thinks it’s being adorable. It is greeting card jokes stapled onto the sex life of someone squatting in a junkyard. It is a book about dangerous masturbation traps where women seem to only be an afterthought– nuisances made up of confounding parts and motives who have no place in the world of sex. Make Your Own Sex Toys is the work of a pumpkin fucker trying to walk among us and failing.

Every pen stroke of those illustrations burned a tiny bit of innocence from our universe. “The creatures shall blind themselves in the yarn of filth and fuck the unfucked,” this author’s art supplies hissed. And while the title could not have been more clear about what this is, the author still feels it necessary to go over some things before we start.

Surprisingly enough, the things he wanted to go over were not liability and safety. I was expecting at least three pages explaining how no homemade anal beads stuck inside you are the author, or the author’s publisher’s fault. There are homemade anal beads in this book, by the way, and they seem perilous. The first reader to take Make Your Own Sex Toys seriously is going to die asshole-first, filled with poorly fastened ceramic balls. But instead of these concerns, the author is more excited to tell you about the history of sex toys. From prehistoric fertility statues to cock rings made of ancient Chinese goats, they present us with the least interesting facts a 2007 Wikipedia search had to offer. There are also a lot of tips for measuring your dick.

It’s a simple eight step process where you take down measurements over the course of three days of maintaining a full capacity erection. But there are no crafting projects in the book that would require this type of precision. If you’re knitting a dong cozy tailored to the millimeter, you’ve made a tourniquet, you maniac. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Anyone who needs seven tiny suits perfectly tailored for each stage of their boner already knows to get them made professionally. The important thing to note here is how the author chose to illustrate this with rotten bananas. Every artistic choice says something and I think it’s meaningful that the author chose to represent his penis with a mushy piece of forgotten trash. Let’s get started with crafts! First up, obviously, are the For Him projects. And we lead off with…

It’s a dick hole in a bar of soap. I’d argue none of us knew what to expect going in, but sincere, detailed blueprints on how to fuck a bar of soap was not it. This is nothing. This is a failed techbro trying to reinvent the Handful of Bubbles. But assuming you and your soapy urethra simply preferred this authentic recreation of the human pelvic floor, this is a sex toy exclusively for people who are and will always be alone. Guests and roommates cannot catch you with this. Everyone who uses your bathroom will see this and know exactly what you’ve done. If you make a Soapy Suds, you need to take a three hour shower and fuck your Irish Spring to completion to hide the evidence.

Or, “Fancy That,” the author says, after you’ve worn out the vagina on your soap, you can still use its shameful remains as soap. Oh, really? Is soap still soap after you fuck it, you fucking soap fucker? This is only the first project and I feel like he’s mentally and creatively exhausted. He is explaining what soap is to someone in a literal sexual relationship with it. It’s so goddamn sad. It is a shower masturbation hack that leaves you with a prop that would make even the kindest person say, “Monster, you are no longer welcome at this YMCA.” Oh, good. The next project is “Fuck a Pumpkin.”

I wasn’t kidding! The author tells you how to fuck a pumpkin! It’s simple, and sorry if this sentence is too alluring, but refer to the mushy banana statistics you took earlier to scoop out the right amount of pumpkin slime for your girth and then pound off into your food. When you’re done, sit quietly and listen as the wet hole whispers of the love you’ll never know.

This is horrible. This is how you get a garbage man to write a note he doesn’t know how to start. And look at all the cuteness sprinkled through this surgical explanation of how to inseminate the flesh of melon. This is written like a horror movie. The author sounds like a wise-cracking melon fucker who turns out to be the murderer. What’s next, jerk off into a sock?

Oh my god, the third sex toy is putting on a condom and jerking off into a sock. I get that self-pleasure is not a shared experience and none of us have any idea what the rest of us get up to when we’re alone, but I don’t think any reader is hearing about jerking off into a sock for the first time here. We are lubricating things from around the house and fucking them like a boy whose parents think he’s old enough to not need a babysitter. And like he did with soap, the author added several hundred dogshit stupid words about socks, as understood by an ordinary foot owner. “Use your lubricant and semen filled sock to mop up your mess,” is not a tip! That’s something you tell a prisoner if they ask for a napkin.

So we’ve made love to soap, pumpkins, and socks. It’s time to move on to actual trash. Fill some bubble wrap with toothpaste. You can also fuck a shirt or a towel, the author says. So, again, you are grabbing the nearest garbage, the nearest lubricant, and porking it. And again, there is no advice worse than this. This isn’t how you explore any kind of healthy sexuality. This is how to masturbate when you’re on the run from the cops. This is how to die less horny in a trash compactor. And he has some follow up advice to “fuck a wet tube of something, anything”:

Rinse it off and do it again! Build a real relationship with that wad of packing material. Or relax by crushing your new lover’s blisters with your fingers. It’s all super helpful, thanks.

So we’ve had sex with most of our debris and food, now what? Maybe… m-maybe dick sweater?

The author acknowledges knitting a tiny sweater for a human penis is a big step up in production from stroking yourself with a moist t-shirt, so he suggests visiting your local library. Which sounds crazy at first, but I bet “help free things I can fuck help” is the top Internet search at every local library. I genuinely don’t know what this is for or who it could be for. It’s a condom designed by a madman to keep his couch cushions from getting pregnant. Is it for someone who wants to add a little naughty fun into their job scrubbing out the vulvas of livestock? If you came into the bedroom with this on your dick your lover would think you had been cursed by some kind of yarn imp. Even the author of this stupid book is like, I don’t know, maybe it’s for warmth?

Wrap your crotch in this jeweled “posing pouch,” made of felt scraps by the pumpkin patch’s loneliest masturbator. The intended reader of this book is absolutely a mole man. These are the plans for homemade underwear. There’s a caption that says See My Thong and it’s about how hard it is to not expose yourself to your realm’s intruders. He called it a “beautifully crafted posing pouch.” Do you know who has sex with people who build their own underwear and call it a posing pouch? Loose socks, abandoned pumpkins and nothing else.

This is something Batman would have to escape after being Caught in the Clutches of… the Crafter! These are homemade handcuffs. And stunningly unerotic ones. It’s worth looking back on what we’ve seen so far to try to paint a picture of the author. He has collected trash to have sex with and construct panties out of, and now he’s built at least one pair of restraints. And he describes these restraints by saying, “Ronald Reagan was wrong! Let me tie you up, let me penetrate you like a warm watermelon, behold my pouch, my pouch, I can hide it no longer.” This is a mole man book!

The author suggests building your own cock ring out of elastic. “You’re a real man now,” the author tells you under the word “Bingo!” I think we all knew this book adaptation of a failed clickbait article wasn’t going to be good, but could anyone have expected this madness? The author is claiming the treatment for Moleman insecurity is wrapping an old underwear band around your dick, and I’m barely kidding. If you’re not a feral teen living in a garbage truck, every bit of this advice is crazy.

It is the 9th entry, and he’s officially out of ideas. This is just a Chewbacca version of the author’s underwear band cock ring idea. And am I crazy, or is this a lot of length to give up? Like, don’t worry about me, ladies, but when you have three inches of carpet around your junk, is there enough shaft left to reach your pumpkin’s g-spot? Or are you supposed to thrust the whole thing into your partner, cock belt and all, and hope physics isn’t paying attention? I don’t know, I feel like when they heard this pitch the publisher should have asked, “You have had sex with human holes before, right?”

I can’t fucking believe he made a Star Wars version of the dick sweater too.

Okay, hear me out, sex-havers. What if there was an anime girl titty mousepad YOU COULD EAT? This shit is off the rails. The author is making Jell-O boobs and suggesting you feed them to your wife’s parents? We have to assume it’s a joke, but it’s definitely a “ha ha I’m kidding… unless you think your mother and father might WANT to fuck this Jell-O with us” joke. This copy is a nightmare. Read this out loud and every word will feel like a spider in your mouth. “Nevertheless, the fleshy sensation is similar, as the jelly wobbles into glorious submission.” This was probably his second draft after his publisher had some notes on “Butt of a Frozen Dead Body.”

Sure, add some pornographic needlepoint to your pillowcase. That should improve your sex life. Everything in this book is an off putting, deal-breaking warning sign to a potential lover. If you walked into a man’s home who has carved dick holes into every object and has cleaned them all with used jizz socks, nothing would be more important to you than fighting your way back out. But let’s say you stayed, waded through the wet garbage to the bedroom, and saw this: a “stunning erotic” pillowcase embroidered in “2 hours” by an amateur junkyard masturbator. You’d finally know you fucked up, right? Well, this virgin necromancer and sex book author thinks your makeshift porn pillows will be a hit! “It’s sure to impress any bedfellows,” he says, probably wrongly.

Oh, good. This again. I guess in the world of homemade sex toys, adding earbuds or jingle bells to the dirty sleeve already turning your balls purple counts as a whole new project.

This book finally has an idea I can use. With only a curtain ring, five minutes, and the trash from a child’s birthday party, I can make my genitals look like one of Mr. T’s ears!? I’m glad we found a good one, because now it’s time to move on to the “For Her” section, which is not the author’s area of expertise. First off, we have…

Put a condom on your phone and slide the whole thing inside you. Now, and this is the complicated part: call it using a different phone. There’s a picture to help you girls if you’re confused. This entire plan is incredible. It’s like a Little Rascals scheme adapted for dildo. If you told me this plan, I’d expect the next words out of your mouth to be a crab hunting for a larger human shell. This is advice you only take when you’re a wonderful mother and your life insurance pays triple if you die from a cervical obstruction.

Here’s the author’s second idea for the ladies: fuck something electric. Whether it’s covered in old mouth bacteria or spinning blades, it doesn’t matter. Rub it on your vagina, bye, that’s the whole thing. Time to Create: 1 minute. Skill Level: Beginner. You Will Need: Debris, Carefree crotch.

“I don’t know, sit on a water balloon, you lonely cow.” – Author of Make Your Own Sex Toys, no Seriously

The author’s fourth crafty idea, For Her, is to have sex with fruits and vegetables. You can wrap it in a condom if it’s too rotten to hold together, or carve canals into it to add a fun risk of leaving most of it inside you. And look, I know how to party. I’ve lost a salad or two inside a lady. Still, I can’t believe how cavalier this book is about hole safety. He’s dressing it up a bit, but at no point is the author’s advice anything more complicated than to emerge from the shadows and put your genitals on or around a precious piece of Moleman treasure.

I sort of implied the author hates women a couple times, but I don’t think you’d suggest carving a full size totem to a Gnomish god and tell someone to sit on it if you liked them. Look at the scale of Wooden Woody. This is no dildo. The text even says it “doubles as a personal safety device.” This author, this beast who thinks filling up a water balloon counts as Making Your Own Sex Toy, knows this is closer to a deadly weapon than a marital aid. This is like being fisted by a Shaquille O’Neil golem, the highest of honors in Moleman society, but a tough funeral to plan in ours.

I don’t think there’s a fun way to spin this one. The fucking idiot glued a second layer of padding to a ping pong paddle and really thinks he did something profound. He says, and I quote, “your world may never be the same again.” I never thought I’d have to say this a fourth time in my life, but: you stupid, trash-fucking piece of shit, you have made a ping pong paddle out of a ping pong paddle.

The author knows what you ladies want out of a sex toy. Take your tits out a-and cover them in gold? I guess between this and the ping pong paddle you have the starting gear for a character about to embark on the worst sex adventure anyone has ever seen. And when they are defeated and looted, someone will say, “Whoa, I found six cellphones and thirteen half-eaten carrots on this level 1 pervert.”

Exhausting all his ideas For Her, the author moves on to ideas For Couples. Because couples, like women, are a thing this virgin wearing only a homemade dick sweater understands completely.

You could, with your partner, make a quilt out of beaver closeups and squirting dicks? That’s a reasonable thing a human couple might enjoy. “It’s cold, honey. Can you get the one thousand pictures of genitals? Oh, who’s at the door? We have guests, like all owners of crotch quilts! Saquille O’Neil golem! I’ll moisten my holes with the nearest fluid, hiss.”

Another thing couples love is to back their assholes together around a cudgel. This is absurd, and of no use to anyone. If Johnny Knoxville married Grace Jones and they were playing Truth or Dare on their anniversary, no one would have sex with this. If you wrote “sex toy” on this, archeologists would decide you came from a race of giants that gave silly names to their boat anchors.

I’m not wired for leather humiliation play, so I can’t be sure, but I don’t think that fetish translates to crochet. Again, I’m not 100%, but this makes the whole thing go from “kinky sex slave” to “I found an old muppet in the swamp.” And the author knows. See how he’s trying to shield himself in cute? But look at his idea of a gag– telling you to give the knitted sex mask to your grandparents? It is such try-hard zany perversion that overshoots funny and hits elder sexual abuse. It’s a joke pitch the producers of America Pie 11: The Last of This Fuckable Debris would call “a big yes,” and Eugene Levy, age 98, will somehow make it work.

This is called the Strap-On Salami, but it’s not a clever name. The author’s plan is to take an actual salami and attach it to a shoulder pad with a curtain ring so your Moleman wife can peg you with meat. This is the safest of all the book’s sex toys because if it breaks off, there’s no masking the smell. The next time you sleep, the vermin in your trash nest will crawl in and remove it from you whether you like it or not.

This is a Moleman altar of powerful perversion. It’s a pipe organ of toilet paper tubes filled with fucked waste. If you came upon this, you would frantically radio dispatch to say, “John Doe has the upper hand!” Anyone with this in their home does not care if they live or die. All they know is a sad erection scratching against a smear of the same brown, seeping garbage arranged into different shapes like Taco Bell menu items.

Fellow mole people! Keep your treasures in this box adorned in dicks, titties, and bush! Honor our Shaq protector by entering the code dick, inverted dick, pubic hair, tits, inverted pubic ha– Hark! Is that an unfucked old shampoo bottle I CLAIM IT! I CLAIM IT BY RIGHT OF WOODEN WOODY COMBAT!

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jim Salter, who has to double his pledge to get his name removed from this article.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Running Delilah 🌭

We all remember Running Delilah, the 1993 direct-to-video science fiction masterpiece starring Kim Cattrall and Billy Zane. Often we start these articles by recapping a work of art before delving into our authoritative critique of it, just in case the reader isn’t familiar with the subject matter. But this is Billy Zane we’re talking about here. Of course you’ve seen it. I know he’s not the star of Running Delilah, but much like Bill Paxton, everything Billy Zane is in is a Billy Zane vehicle.

Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve seen it though. A little primer: Running Delilah features Kim Cattrall as a fuckable RoboCop-

A slightly more fuckable RoboCop.

She’s a secret agent who dies in service of her country, so just like in reality, the American military parades her corpse around for political purposes.

Delilah is rebuilt using almost entirely robotic parts, yet she looks exactly like Kim Cattrall with no changes. I guess she has a new shirt. Why didn’t RoboCop think of that? Peter Weller sweated out six years of his life stomping around in that suit – what if he just wore a cardigan that said “RoboCop”? It would’ve saved him a lot of hassle and today I would own a kickass cardigan.

Billy Zane plays Paul, no last name, because Running Delilah knew we’d just call him Billy Zane. Why would we call him anything else, when he’s already called the best thing? Billy “Paul” Zane is Delilah’s lover, who forces scientists to bring her back from the dead and give her superpowers. It’s RoboCop if Dick Jones and RoboCop were married. It’s Frankenstein if Dr. Frankenstein and his monster fucked it out at the end.

Plus the movie is directed by Richard Franklin, the guy who made Link. So you know it’s gonna be sexy.

Delilah uses her cool new cyber-powers to execute a bitchin’ gymnastics routine-

And to execute a plane.

But you know this! You heard this movie had Billy Zane playing a slightly more fuckable Billy Zane, and you wore tracking errors into the VHS wherever he smirked. We’re not here to talk about that. We’re here to talk about one of the hottest sex scenes ever put to film. Of course I mean the ending. The final moments of Running Delilah, where Kim Cattrall coquettishly slinks out of the bathroom with 1.25 times the sensuality of a RoboCop.

Billy Zane knows what this is. This happens to Billy Zane on the set of every movie and the self checkout lane of every grocery store. Billy Zane’s dick is the 2nd most popular holiday destination of recently divorced women ages 32-75. The 1st is Billy Zane’s face.

Delilah mounts him, and Billy Zane is so jaded by a lifetime of being a prowling sexbeast that he decides to get a little loose with this one. Here’s the line he lays on her.

Throughout this entire scene he giggles like a 6th grader in a Sex Ed class. He snickers and titters and trills like a little bird. He’s like a Dickensian orphan who found a goose. Kim Cattrall, now a robo-charged Zane polisher, hikes up her robe to straddle Billy and he responds like a puppy is licking his toes.

Obviously she’s not deterred by this. She came here to get Zaned and it doesn’t matter that Billy thinks penetrating a cyborg is like riding the teacups at Disneyland. If he doesn’t want to play right, she’ll take the controller away.

She demands he sit still and shut up, which Billy Zane responds to by giggling like his BFF just passed Kyle a note asking if he likes her.

She reiterates her instructions, firmly. The implication here is that she has a cybernetically enhanced pussy and will chomp it off like a cigar if he doesn’t get his shit together.

…

Billy Zane makes chipmunk noises.

Delilah begins to vibrate at a dangerous frequency.

Inside Billy Zane’s head, baby rabbits are snuggling in a laundry basket.

The room shakes, shatters. This is how Billy Zane is going to die. He must know it, and yet he faces it with the quiet dignity of a four year old saying “butt” for the first time.

Kim Cattrall proves it is impossible not to orgasm on top of Billy Zane, as he wiggles and snickers like she’s poking the Pillsbury Doughboy.

She cums the way all RoboCops do: Destructively. It explodes every single window of this high-rise downtown hotel in a major city, sending huge panes of glass ripping into the street below. They shred awnings, embed in cars, surely eviscerate dozens of pedestrians. You can actually see the shards heading right for the upturned faces of the gawkers below.

That’s the end of the movie. I’m not fucking with you, it’s the very last scene. It fades to black on this. This was supposed to be the pilot for a TV series, and that’s the moment they really thought sold the idea to the suits. Why am I telling you this? You remember it: That time Billy Zane made a RoboCop cum so hard it killed 17 people.

I guess I’m only bringing it up now to ask: why wasn’t this picked up? Who turned down the opportunity to greenlight a series where Kim Cattrall, literal fuckmachine, nukes a terrorist cell and then every week – at the end of every single episode – she mounts up on Billy Zane and orgasms a massacre?


What son of a bitch said no to that?

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Leesa: East Side Philadelphia’s Most Trusted Billy Zane’s Face Travel Agent.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: A Lover’s Guide to Self Pleasuring 🌭

At the risk of getting too sexy too quickly, have you ever looked down at the flopping, moistening parts of your pubic mound and thought, “what?” Good! Then you’re the perfect audience for the Sinclair Intimacy Institute’s Forbidden Pleasures “A Better Sex Video Series” 2003 DVD, A LOVER’S GUIDE TO SELF PLEASURING.

Your memory and perineum may recognize the Sinclair Intimacy Institute as the same organization that brought us The Better Sex Guide to Anal Pleasure. They sound like some kind of academic research center, but they’re more of a dildo store. Which is fine. If you want to market your lubricant like it’s anthropology class, this is America. And nothing is more American than dressing up your sex stuff in a weird disguise.

So here’s the problem with marketing your sex toys as a 60 minute masturbation educational video: jerking off isn’t that hard. Once you’re done with all your advice, you have fifty nine and a half minutes to kill. And the Sinclair Intimacy Institute kills every second of it.

Like he did in the video about anal pleasure, the “Director of Sex Education,” Mark Schoen, emerges to cautiously burp his catch phrase, “It’s hArd to t-talk abOUT sex.” And then he proves it by reading a teleprompter like he’s trying to blink the location of his kidnappers. It’s unclear why he’s here or why he would put himself through this. He’s explaining what we already know from the DVD’s name, he’s terrible, and he hates every second of it. We are about to watch several fully nude couples jerk off, so maybe they wanted to add something so unsexy it could never be mistaken for pornography. And if that is his job, Mark is the best.

They quickly introduce the couples we’ll be watching masturbate because this video isn’t for single people. Those people know how to jerk off. These are self pleasuring tips for loving couples only. And since not a lot of married people say, “Will you fuck in front of two cameras for $300? I have a masters in wet holes,” they are mostly the same performers from other Sinclair Institute videos. Wendy is one of my favorites because she will comfortably go to town on herself with something called the Industrial Colondectomy Only For Use with Sriracha Mayonnaise Experimental Buttplug and then give a cute interview about how she thought masturbation was against God’s law before this very morning.

Mark tries to explain how what we’re seeing is “award winning,” but doesn’t list what those awards are, nor what kind of madmen are out there forming academies to judge and award The Best Jerk Off Instructional Video. There would be no good place in the home or office to display that honor, and when I tried to Google it I got very distracted. It might not be a real award. Anyway, we meet Tony and Tania who are playing moon checkers in their underwear. Tania is a limber woman who seems suspiciously experienced pleasuring herself in front of a camera crew, and Tony is the first boy grown from lab bologna.

Joelean and Kristian make out over another checkers variant. I think the production designer knew everything on this set was going to have to be burned and they were trying to get rid of some old parlor games. Or this video was actually produced by sincere health educators and they think everyone incorporates backgammon into their lovemaking.

Chris has the sexual energy of someone whose religion requires him to stay one backgammon board away from his wife and the body of a loaf of bread learning to swim. But I remember him from the other video and I know he has the flexible anal muscles Lisa’s hand, forearm, and elbow crave. Let’s get to the real education, though.

I can’t blame them for this being insane since there’s no right way to do it, but the video is still explaining itself and the basic concept of jerking off. They say, “You’ll learn about expanding eroticism, variety, and communication through the self-knowledge that masturbation can help achieve,” which should give you some idea of the tone. The producers think this is a postgraduate course, but for people who have had sex with their faithful partner so many times they are bored, yet got to this place in their life without ever trying to jerk off. It’s like producing a DVD called How to Disable and Dispose of a Malfunctioning Bologna Boy, A Video Manual for Tony-Growing Scientists. They know! This is their specific area of expertise!

The video’s real host, Jane Monreal, walks in and sits down to tell us we’re about to hear the troubled history of masturbation. She professionally enunciates every word like jerking off was declared dead after a police-involved shooting. She is absolutely committed to the bit of this being education, and not a XXX marketing campaign for fuckable silicon tubes. The producers knew some viewers would be getting excited to watch nine couples expand their eroticism through self pleasure, so this is how they cooled things down– a person in a literal beige pantsuit to give a history lesson on masturbator civil rights. But this is also a fakeout, because they’re doing “OLD MYTHS” first.

They cut to some street interviews with a few pedestrians saying masturbation isn’t “sex.” Which means put that boner away, 2003 DVD masturbators, because we have a semantic argument to litigate. Does masturbation count as sex? It obviously didn’t before anyone asked, but now the very dumb question is a way for pedantic nerds to be difficult. And here’s one now.

“Um, technically,” whines Beverly Whipple, Ph.D., RN, FANN. She is a doctor, a registered nurse, and a FANN of masturbation (the extra N is for extra No Actually It Counts). I don’t know why the video is wasting its time on this. It sounds like a talking point the world’s dumbest person would give to the world’s most bullied 9th grader, and they never go anywhere with it. They insist again and again that masturbation is a useful tool! Taking notes on the best sections of your penis to touch will help your partner! I can’t believe they’re still trying to give the owner of A LOVER’S GUIDE TO SELF PLEASURING permission to touch themselves. Again: they know! Again: it’s their area of expertise! And she’s not the only very educated masturbator to say stupid shit about it. Meet masturbation author Eli Coleman, Ph.D.:

Dr. Eli talks about the waxing and waning of masturbation acceptance. Um, actually, “many” cultures “celebrated” it, he claims, backing it up with a montage of historical art. It’s not very convincing. I didn’t even know a montage of masturbation tapestries could seem “too short,” but it’s how I would describe Dr. Eli’s. Honestly, I don’t trust anyone who looks like Eli Coleman, Ph.D. and willingly declares himself a masturbation expert. This guy chose a life where he relives his saddest moment from middle school every day. And look at his sources:

This is a sculpture from the year 700 of a skeleton father jerking off. Was restraint not invented until 701? This looks like someone trying to invent the first Hustler cartoon before his hands fell off from leprosy. I mean, I don’t have a Ph.D. in pulling on myself, but if a culture is capable of making this, I say don’t use them as an example of good masturbation judgment. This thing must have taken so long to carve with Middle Age tools. At any point during the many days that went into it, the artist could have thought, “When a skeleton has a baby in one hand, he probably shouldn’t have a rock hard cock in the other.” If this was charcoal, sure, I could understand a sudden and uncontrollable surge of horniness while you’re sketching one side of a sex lich. But a stone sculpture!? Ridiculous. Fucking caveman pervert shit. Let’s see another.

Again, I’m not sure this is the best art to show when you’re trying to sell us on how history used to be so cool with masturbation. This might be a servant in the 1800s being very bad at his job as toilet paper. The point I’m making is this video is worse than all over the place. It’s functionally insane. This is the cheapest copywriter the sex toy industry had to offer listing every masturbation fact they remember in random order. And they repeat. For example Beverly comes back in around here to declare Medieval people knew masturbation was real sex. And that it was wasting the seed. And that it wasn’t real sex? I know this sounds crazy, but they might be going too quickly through the entire history of self pleasure.

Beverly Whipple, FANN, brings up famous enemies of touching yourself like Sylvester Graham and John Harvey Kellogg. It has been over 100 years and people are still talking about how hard the guys fucked for thinking they could stop masturbation (which we now know as a vital tool) with ordinary snack foods. I wasn’t kidding when I said this video contained all human masturbation knowledge, as recalled by a vibrator distributor using 2003’s Internet. We cut back to Jane who visibly can’t believe the cue card says this:

Jane is normally much more polished than this, so if you were wondering what it takes to rattle an anal pleasures host, it’s a random list of groin tortures dropped without a warning or happy ending. And now that you appreciate living in a society which allows extreme masturbators to keep their genitals, they cut to my favorite guy who looks right into the camera and says:

Eli and Beverly tell you to just ignore this ass crushing adult sex haver. Grown ups are allowed to masturbate! “It’s real sex,” reminds Beverly. And if you’re thinking, “Jesus Christ, when are they going to get to anything close to a point, I agree 100%.” And they’re nowhere close. Jane starts listing situations where you might use masturbation, and every single one of them is something an embarrassed person would say to hide their shame. Like when your actual erotic lover is out of town, or when their real human holes simply can’t take any more of your insatiable lust… maybe they’re at the Cool Dude Semen Collecting Championships, you don’t know. It’s such a mess, and then suddenly, my next favorite guy:

It’s a stunning panel of experts, but I worry these wet-dicked gentlemen might be plants to set up strawman arguments for Eli and Beverly to counter. And counter they do. Did you know you can do stuff to yourself even when someone else is in the room? Checkmate, sepia-toned sex machine and toy train fucker. And now we’re about to prove it with all these nude, masturbating babes. Oh, but first…

You’re not going to believe this, but there are areas of the genitals you can touch that feel good. Which, again, is a useful tool! I’m not sure you’re getting it, nerd, so let me explain it like it was a Zelda boss:

These are your targets. At many points during masturbation, you’re going to be lost inside a maze of sloppy guts, and these glowing areas can be found at any exit. Once you identify one, go ahead and rub the affordable and dishwasher safe devices available on the Sinclair Intimacy Institute’s easy-to-use world web landing page on it. This counts as real sex, and historically it would have gotten you either applause or a ritual degroining.

Despite already telling you each of these things several times, Dr. Beverly presents her list of the Four Major Benefits of Masturbation. Number one, she says “It feels good. This is the most important part.” I don’t have a joke, I think she might be right. Number two, it’s a great release when your partner’s not available. Or your toy train, whatever. By the way, this 15 second list of obvious things had its own title card.

Number three, it’s a great tool to learn about your body. She and Eli have made this point at least 7 times already which supports my theory that this is not a deep field of science. You can get a doctorate in masturbation by walking past a chimpanzee cage at an unlucky time. And finally, number four, “in the age of AIDS, it’s a safe sex practice.” This sounds like a mood killer, but while she’s saying it, a guy named Lee is furiously pounding one out and Jane suggests “let’s explore the nature of self pleasure.” The editor of A LOVER’S GUIDE TO SELF PLEASURING should be awarded the Nobel Prize in Chaos. But to be fair, I’m its first owner to not immediately fast forward to the naked people jerking off. Speaking of:

Charles shows the viewer how to do it. First you get a loose reverse grip on your flopping monster hog and then you fail to wrangle it like an undermanned firehose. Charles absolutely loses a wrestling match against his own absurd penis. There is nothing within a seven foot radius of Charles that goes unfucked, and there’s nothing he can do. He seems sorry about it, but it’s violent. It looks like he was bit on the dick by a radioactive horse and he’s still testing the limits of his new abilities. Chris does a demonstration too, but his is less impressive.

Chris gently rests his human-sized dong in a thermos called “The Slipper” in what has to be the least effective commercial ever filmed. What I mean is, if you sold a product that erased “The Slipper” from my brain I would buy it at any price. Chris self pleasures like a Play-Doh Fun Factory Playset. I will never watch someone carve gyro meat with an erection again. Julie, on the other hand, lights up the screen. She places her crotch against the couch, lifts both feet of the ground, and vulva-levitates for three straight minutes.

Her lover Billy comes in to try to put his appreciation for this move into words and can’t. She’s handlessly bringing herself to climax with a pommel horse routine. The situation calls for a poet, and Billy is, at best, a bookstore creep. But great point, Billy, about how seeing a naked woman bang an invisible astronaut makes you think, “Oh, right, now that you mention it… sex!” I’m not arguing with him, but is it conceivable to say less? Dumber? This video has somehow assembled the twenty people on Earth most eager to discuss masturbation and not a single one of them has anything to say about it.

Even A LOVER’S GUIDE TO SELF PLEASURING has figured out they’ve said all there is to say about the subject, so at this point of the video the wives lay down some towels and silently test sex toys to completion. I’m not learning much, but it’s getting really good. Then Jane ruins it by explaining the penis, like as a basic concept.

This is the problem with declaring yourself an expert on something everybody already knows. You end up halfway into your penis stroking guide and think, “These beginner masturbators need my take on penises existing!” Even assuming you’re some cave fish who has only ever seen someone fuck by ejecting ovum from their beak, at this point in the video you have already been shown the full functionality of 13 different penises. I don’t want to explain a penis mistake with a penis analogy, but this is like Charles explaining what cheeseburgers are after you’ve already watched him prepare and feed 13 of them to his penis.

It’s a testament to how easy this course is that you can go from “WHO IS PENIS” to “ANAL & PROSTATE PLEASURES” in five seconds. What a gross way to put it, by the way. It sounds like something Willy Wonka would say if you asked him what the fuck he wants at 3am.

This section is mostly Chris demonstrating the versatility and storage capacity of the human butthole. Because of the strange choices I’ve made with my life, I’ve already seen him do this, so I’ll go ahead and skip this part.

Despite insisting this entire time that masturbation is for couples, it’s time for the section on couples masturbation. Or as most people call it, “hand stuff.”

Once the hand stuff starts, things get completely out of hand. Things start going in mouths and holes and Jane has to improvise, “These couples use more than genital stimulation to enhance each other’s self pleasure.” Creatively speaking I wouldn’t change anything, it’s great, but I presumably bought a video on how to masturbate and got a terrible, insane video essay on the half-remembered history of pervert torture followed by nine married couples doing normal sex. I counted 16 times they told me “Masturbation is a tool your partner can use to learn what you like,” which is the exact quantity of “Cyberskin Realistic Dong” I ordered.

I wasn’t making that up: Cyberskin Realistic Dong.

Everything Jane Monreal says is magical. It’s like they wrote her an entire script of opening lines and each one was so good they used them all. “In the excitement phase, engorgement causes the erection,” she explains. I found myself transcribing every line she punctuated in her practiced newscaster voice. “Butt plugs: a dildo made especially for anal use are one way to explore anal eroticism. It’s designed to not get lost inside you.” She talks about sex like a U.N. committee passed a resolution to work your naughty balls. “The anal muscles are a source of bacteria, going slowly is the key to success,” she says as if there were a failure condition to shoving things up your butt. And Jane leaves us with the perfect sign off:

It started rough and no one learned anything. Between the shy Christians, professional sex workers, doughy self-fisters, and python cock grapplers they never landed on a tone, but maybe the proper tone for this will never exist. They ran their two talking points into the ground harder than Chris’s torso after the clone scientists removed his bones. It’s hardcore pornography stapled to a coloring book about the miracles of your body. You could describe it all of these ways, but mostly it’s nothing for nobody and I will thank Jane Monreal every day for the gift of A LOVER’S GUIDE TO SELF PLEASURING.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gareth Powell, Freelance Hog Wrangler.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Labor of Love 🌭

Sometimes I think there aren’t enough reality TV shows about people so desperate to mate they make you a bit worried they might be aliens trying to trick someone into letting their offspring explode from their chest. Luckily, in the magical year of 2020, Fox took a former bachelor contestant and put her into a horror movie scenario for my entertainment. Not many reality TV shows are willing to say, “Welcome to television, gentleman, please jerk off immediately,” but Labor of Love did, and I respect it.

Labor of Love stars former Bachelor contestant Kristy Katzmann who is 41 and wants to have a baby within the same year the show is being filmed. They pair her up with a terrifying series of older bachelors who are desperate to impregnate a human woman. It has to be a mortal human woman. They are very specific about that. Most of them also repeatedly mention they would prefer the offspring to be male. Kristy, for her part, is also seeking the most genetically perfect human man to reproduce with, which is why they made the first challenge of the show delivering a sperm sample, and they have a trophy to the man with the highest sperm count. It is all very normal for she is human, like you Earth monsters, now fill her with the sperm we have counted.

It’s a little too real that this show has doctors and lawyers on it, but the man with the most sperm was an unemployed actor whose biggest role was a guest spot on a single episode of Franklin and Bash. There are a few contestants on this show who’ve found fun new ways to spell unemployed, my favorite of which is “former professional wrestler,” no current job listed.

I can’t blame the show’s producers for not picking the best potential fathers. It must have been hard to find a group of successful adult men who were willing to immediately dive into the medical grade bang bus with paper-thin walls where all of the men they will be living with for the next month are also masturbating.

Labor Of Love feels like it was made as revenge for the Bachelor. Its only goal seems to be humiliating the men willing to compete to impregnate Kristy. I love it. Before they ask the men to submit their sperm samples in the first episode, the host, Kristin Davis, asks them to raise their hand if they’ve masturbated in the last five days because that can affect your sperm count. Some of them did, and the rest were liars.

Instead of the extravagant dates and over-the-top romance of The Bachelor, Labor Of Love maintains a very clinical vibe. Kristy is referred to as “The Mother To Be,” and the men are called Dadchelors. The men chosen to stay each week get to go to the “Fatherhood Room,” which is not a metaphor; it’s a room with an enormous lit sign that says FATHER HOOD on it. That’s the level of metaphor this show is working with.

I don’t understand why romance is a factor at all in this show. Goal one is humiliating the Dadchelors; goal two is for Kristy to achieve sperm. If they had ditched any implication of romance and had Kristy fully on the hunt for that genetically perfect white gold, it would have been so much better. They should have simply given the men sharp sticks and let them battle to the death, is what I’m saying. This whole thing could have been a one episode kumite.

Instead, we get these challenges loosely based on the theme of fatherhood, which are also sort of pranks on the men. In the second episode, they all go camping. The production facility puts up a bunch of bear warning signs and has a fake park ranger give them a talk about how to be safe in the event of a bear attack. Then they put a terrible bear costume on a PA and faked a bear attack during each man’s one on one time with Kristy to see if he would protect her. One guy curled up into a ball around her. His response to a bear was to make himself snack-sized with a gooey lady center.

Another dadchelor threatened to quit the show when he heard they were camping. Most of these men were not only not ready to father a human child, they weren’t prepared to survive on their own without Kristy’s protection. The dates the winner of these challenges got varied widely in quality. Sometimes they have Kristy straddle Kyle during an aerial yoga class. Sometimes they pump twenty kids full of monster energy drinks and unleash them on Gary and Kristy at a pretend birthday party to very predictable results.

The men who endured the first two challenges, which were again, jerk off, and avoid a bear, had to undergo a birth simulator, which is basically an actual torture device, and those fake babies they give to high schoolers to annoy them into using condoms. Then at the end of each episode was the weirdly impersonal elimination process where Kristy used an iPad to move them into one of two columns in a PowerPoint presentation– either “Let’s keep dating” or “We need to talk.”

She made her decision in the house right across the street from the men while they watched her deliberate, which meant a bunch of shots of them pacing while Kristy stared at an iPad. There was an overly ambitious contestant who tried to intimidate Kristy into picking him by perching on the window sill like a puppet that wants to become a real boy.

Other strategies men employed to capture Kristy’s attention included being 6’8. Kyle introduced himself to the show by saying, “Hi, I’m Kyle; I’m six foot eight,” and honestly, they should have shut down production then and there because Kyle won. Kristy’s lizard brain simply measured all of the men and chose the largest. Tall was Kyle’s only personality trait, and it was all he needed to dominate this show.

To be fair to Kristy, it was pretty difficult to narrow down the men based on the information she was given. No reality show has ever made it harder to pick out the weirdos because agreeing to participate in the challenges was the most freakish thing anyone on this show could possibly do.

When it was time for Kristy to visit the homes of the final three men, she learned that Marcus, a doctor and former Survivor cast member, had what he called a “house mother.” He was an adult man with a full-time nanny, and he made it to the final three. The Bachelorette would have rung that information out of him by episode three and kicked his ass to the curb. Not that it mattered because Kristy immediately chose Kyle anyway, the longest human, so she was never in any danger of becoming Marcus’s new house mom.

So, you’re probably wondering how things worked out for Kristy and her tall impregnator. Sadly, like most stories where you win a person, they broke up three months after the show ended. Kristy said that when she really thought about it, they only got to go on two real dates, and she didn’t actually know him very well, which is true. The show was never date-focused, and even when things started to get remotely romantic, the producers would send in a child with a wiffle ball bat to remind everyone this is not supposed to be sexy; this is serious!

I would love to see Kyle return from Labor Of Love season 2. This time it’s all ladies competing to be impregnated by the large man. How will America like it when it’s the women going into the jerk off bus? What? I’m being told they would love that? Oh no, I’m now the showrunner of Labor Of Love Season 2: Compete To Pork Tall Kyle!

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This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: KNM, who has never cranked it in a medical cranking bus for the purposes of American reality television released in the summer of 2020.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Come On A My House 🌭

Polly Adler was a famous brothel owner, and three years after she died, the great comedy writer Phil Hirsch compiled a book of jokes about her. As the editor of 101 Hamburger Jokes, Vampire Jokes and Cartoons, and more than one joke book about tits, he was the perfect voice to tell the hilarious story of sex workers in 1960s New York.

The cover might be a little confusing. It’s a prostitute reading what seems to be an unironic, non-silly choice of books and a title taken from a 1951 song about feeding holiday party guests. Also, it contains zero cartoons about Polly Adler. To make sense of it, we have to flip it over and check out the back cover.

I’ve tricked you. This is no help. These are nothing. Most brains instantly classify these cartoons the same way they do a distant car horn or a wife’s voice in a 1965 joke book– unimportant nonsense you’re not meant to understand or notice. So these are… unfinished prostitute jokes not about recently deceased Polly Adler? For fucking whom? And to what fucking end? Maybe there’s an intro that can help us?

Oh, I see. We are meant to hate every micron of this. Got it! Let’s do it!

Phil Hirsch is not a good joke book editor, and this is not his best effort. It seems like he hasn’t done anything more than tell a dozen cartoonists, “gimme your… I don’t know… 38th through 49th best hooker gags.” As such, there’s a lot of overlap in material. So I’ve broken the book up into six parts, the first of which is about how crazy it would be if, get this, prostitutes actually existed.

I mean, can you imagine? In a world where you could buy sex, women would wear price tags! Like a coat, only much, much cheaper. This is the very first cartoon of the book and it’s barely even a gesture toward a joke. This is more like how you’d explain prostitution to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

This is a great example of a bit the book revisits about thirty times. If sex workers were real, wouldn’t they have things like coupons and punch clocks and complaint departments? “Ha ha what if a guy at a brothel had a gift certificate,” this cartoonist thought. “Oh, shit, that’s already the perfect caption,” this cartoonist also thought.

Sometimes instead of a joke, the characters are just going about the ordinary business of buying sex. “Mind if I browse?” is a creepy way of putting it, but he probably can, right? Is it meant to be a scheme? The only way this could be anything would be if his plan was to wander around looking at the ladies without paying and then go home and masturbate, and I’d argue that’s not a joke either. The caption might as well be “Blessed be the flesh of your neck, for I am the Whore House Strangler.”

This joke is about how hard it is to understand modern art. Unlike Polly Adler jokes! For example, the curator for this art museum hung a naked picture of a prostitute named her phone number. “That’s precisely the zany situation which has happened,” explains the caption.

If this wasn’t in a book specifically about hooker jokes, it would make no sense. It takes place in a world where prostitution is so ordinary that scientific aptitude tests might suggest it as a career, but it’s still so taboo that a man administering those tests has to be delicate about how to break it to you. Is this the first time the test decided someone should be a hooker? Is this simply an unprofessional decision made by a man with a desperate boner? Maybe they should have expected this after adding a full strength handjob to the testing procedure?

This contributor wisely obscured their signature, but it’s from the same hooker cartoonist who brought you “Woman Has a Price Tag and no Second Thing.” This time, his outrageous take on sex work is how a prostitute’s main features would be her body and price, and oh no… no second thing again. Unlike the now-classic “Career Aptitude Test Says You’re a Natural Whore,” this cartoon might suffer from being in a book about only prostitution jokes. Like, if this happened in a Family Circus comic it might catch you off guard, but here it’s as if the author has decided we still don’t get it. “No, listen! Idiots! He’s renting the lady! For fucking! Gah, how do I put this? Okay, look: it’s like if you were in a bar and instead of buying a lady a drink you bought her.”

“Yes! Exactly! Thank you!“

To be fair to Come On ‘A My House, I wanted to include a good one. This is a foreign royal telling the American Department of State that instead of going to Disneyland, he and a drunk prostitute are going to tear apart an Anaheim motel room. It’s definitely not what you or I would call a joke, but think of how much had to happen to bring it to us. Someone asked this person for a one panel prostitution cartoon and they wrote an entire screenplay about a sex addict Arabian prince dodging Henry Kissinger at Disneyland, drew this one insignificant moment from it, and threw the rest away. I would watch three documentaries about the making of this cartoon.

Here is the same cartoonist, again doing something so hauntingly not a comedy bit. The man in the hat wants to start a sex worker’s union, only the woman isn’t very interested. He’s also clearly evil, but why? Is it an anti-labor political statement? Is it a trick? Maybe collecting fake union dues from prostitutes was a common grift in 1965, but that still wouldn’t make this a joke. Maybe Phil Hirsch’s publisher changed this from, “Act like you’re reading an ordinary petition. I work for Henry Kissinger and America needs your help to assassinate sex monster Prince Abdul Ahtamaziz. We’re being watched. Pull out a titty if you accept.”

Oh, weird. This is just a nice one about a couple who had a nice time on a date. Wait… continued on next page?

This is only getting weirder. It’s as if the cartoonist has never been on a date or talked to a woman who has heard of a date. You know who writes female characters who say things like, “HOW CAN A POOR, SIMPLE, LITTLE GIRL LIKE ME SHOW HER APPRECIATION?” Men who ask other bus passengers to pee on them. This isn’t the end, though! This cartoon goes on for a third page!

After five panels, it’s revealed this dork was on a date with an escort. Or maybe she spontaneously decided to charge her friend money for sex? If it’s the second one, it’s grotesque. If it’s the first one it’s nothing more than a child’s understanding of prostitution. This is a skit Alvin and the Chipmunks would perform to let everyone know they still don’t quite get it. Which brings us to…

You may have already figured this out, but don’t ask cartoonists if they have anything funny to say about hookers.

No, hold on. What started years ago, cartoonist Bob Tupper? Her sex worker career? Are you saying she’s been a prostitute since she was a child or that she started fucking teddy bears as an adult and thought, “With a few years of training, I could make a living with this!” Which one is the joke, cartoonist Bob Tupper? Because one is unimaginably not funny and the other is my delusional hope you meant something else.

Who is this for? This would be a below average joke in A Child’s First Roast Beef Riddle Book, but in a book on such an adult subject matter it’s an embarrassment. “I guess I’ll take a prostitute with both titties if that’s what you mean, ma’am. Or simply the one butt if that’s what you’re referring to. Because if that was only a pun, fuck you. I’m serious, I’ll walk right out of here and go to the cops if that was a pun.”

As I mentioned earlier, a lot of the gags are “What if sex workers were real?” Some of the ideas are reasonable, like how they might wear price tags or distract princes from Disneyland trips, but then there are some that didn’t quite translate. If you aren’t old enough to remember, lay-away plans were a type of credit system where a store would hold an item for you and you’d pay it off in installments until you could finally take it home. This system would extremely not work for prostitution, but in no kind of heightened, comedic way. How are we meant to picture this? Does her boss lock her in a bathroom after you make a down payment and release her when you come back with enough money to fuck? Laughing at this is what murder investigators call “evidence.”

Picture this: the elevators are actually bedrooms and they are operated by sexy babes with affordable holes. Congratulations, you’re getting off on floor 69 at The Nutbuster Grand.

Cartoonist Bob Tupper is the only man brave enough to ask, “What if a prostitute answered the phone and it was a call of no significance?” Take a moment to picture it. Congratulations, you’re getting your dick wet at Wrong Number Roadhouse.

I spoke too soon. Cartoonist Ted Trogdon was also brave enough to ask what would happen if sex workers had no idea how to screen calls. Congratulations, you’re watching The New Les Crane Show at Madame Allure’s Nielsen Media Research and Ball Draining Center.

Being generous, cartoonist James Lindensmith might be trying to say, “Wouldn’t it be outrageous to ask someone their name only after you’ve fucked them?” Except he’s doing it in maybe the one situation where it wouldn’t be since most prostitutes wouldn’t care or be using their real name. What James has done is made a comic about the first thing every creep asks a sex worker with no twist or punchline. “Lettuce wraps. Alopecia. The Cleveland Browns,” it could say with the same amount of literary skill.

This one is pretty funny because Mrs. Fromsett is buying four bags of groceries for her whore house, but the store clerk thinks she’s doing it for a different reason. “Why, I bet none of these carrots are going to go up a human butt, Mrs. Fromsett. Boy, your hungry husband must go through a lot of… Dr. Slapp’s Vaginal Repair Cream, Mrs. Fromsett.”

So in a normal cartoon, this would be a gag about a frugal pervert trying to trick hookers into thinking he’s an infant and breastfeeding him. Hilarious, yes, we would have all loved it. But in the broken world of Phil Hirsch, it’s about that plan sort of failing and the awkwardness of its aftermath. It’s an argument between two prostitutes. One of them is a prostitute who has somehow heard of deceitful sex creeps and another thinks a six foot man in a bonnet, in a brothel, must be the world’s largest but otherwise ordinary baby. Comedy relies on truth, and anyone can tell you this is not how you fuck in a diaper.

You know, this is the perfect time to move on to…

In 1965, the only birth control available was a bad haircut, honk honk, I don’t know what that was; let’s just see the terrible pregnancy cartoons Phil Hirsch took to full term.

If this cartoon was taking place in the same world as the rest of the book, one where prostitution is a fully legal, regulated industry, this would be a coherent gag. But it’s not. All these men know she doesn’t belong here… this expectant mother wanting a handout. The caption for this should say, “I guess I just kind of hate women under any circumstance?”

How would child custody work in a world with a mainstream sex industry? Would a group of sad prostitutes hand you your most recent baby in a shoebox every time you stopped in? Oh no, it’s that one? Oh no.

“I know! I’ll name him Lenny Sixfootbaby, after his father. Oh, look, he has his daddy’s diaper!”

Phil Hirsch, master joke book editor, figured the reader wouldn’t mind another version of this gag. See, the thing about unwanted pregnancies is how they’re funnier when no one cares about you, you whore. Speaking of, part four is called…

“Is my wife a prostitute!?” is both the concept and the punchline for a Bob Tupper comic.

There are no heroes in this one, but I do like how Sad Sack and Grumpy Prostitute are working on their marriage. Imagine the life the cartoonist must have led to create this. We have never seen these characters before, and they both took separate cars from the marriage counselor to the whore house to have an argument over midday sidecars. It’s so much to take in. It’s like they tried for awesome and hit depressing with every single decision.

Phil: “Dennis, pal, I hate to say this, but we already have 14 cartoons about how hookers answer the phone for any reason.”

Dennis: “What if the person calling had the wrong number?”

Phil: “We have two of those.”

Dennis: “I’ve got it. What if it was someone calling for a TV ratings survey?”

Phil: “We did that too.”

Dennis: “Okay, I’ve got it. What if it was her husband and she’s sick of it. He’s always fucking doing this. His lack of boundaries is putting a real strain on their marriage, and the stranger fucking her is all, grrr I’m going to kill you both.”

Phil: “Ha ha ha I love it. Try to keep that exact tone.”

This one is hot. A second later, Edwin and Clara definitely went at it like it was their honeymoon. Kink-wise, sneaking off to a whore house and running into your wife has got to be like dressing up like a baby at a whore house and running into your mommy.

It’s a very old joke to say marriage is more expensive than prostitution, which means this cartoonist has a fundamental misunderstanding of prostitution, marriage, and comedy. And he’s not alone. There are a lot of comics about unfaithful husbands in this book and most of them are as impenetrable as Lulu after a marriage proposal. For instance:

How the fuck could calling a prostitute “George” help his lie? Is his wife listening? When she asks why his tuxedo smells like sex is he going to tell her he buried his dick in George’s pillowy breasts at the cigar lounge? There are a million details about this he can’t tell his wife. Is he going to go home and say, “I ate George’s ass in an elegant canopy bed! It cost $35 and her name was my friend George!” Ridiculous. This 1965 hooker joke book is stupidly improbable.

You don’t have to like it, but by the laws of wordplay, this is the lady’s own fault. “You said I could have a short one, wife. You didn’t say the ‘one’ had to be a non-prostitute! You also didn’t say which dinner. I can technically do this as many times as I want.” Look at this sad, frumpy idiot. She doesn’t even realize if she took off her shoes, she’d be about the same height as the hooker. Add it to the list of dumb mistakes she made to ruin her marriage. Which leads me into…

Everything you’ve seen so far was light-hearted. The bastard children, the infidelity… those were the cute ones. Let’s see what the worst cartoonists of 1965 really thought about women.

Cartoonist Bob Tupper shrugged and added a goddamn suitcase handle to a human woman. “I’m glad my mom is dead,” he probably said as he drew this.

“Okay, so the pimp stole the mindless sex object from some guy who didn’t fuck it enough,” cartoonist Bob Tupper thought to himself while drawing a pair of sweet tits. It was great, but not yet perfect. It still needed something. Bob shrieked out loud, “A weirdly tall man with a pipe and a big ‘S’ on his sweater, the ‘S’ stands for Some Random Guy With A Couple Too Many Things! See? My cartoons are deep, mother! You died wrong, mother!”

I might not get this exactly right, but there’s an old saying that goes, “Comedy equals whore house plus a child you know coming in right as you leave.”

Oh my god. A cartoonist finally gave one of the sex workers agency and she’s using it to refuse consent. Sorry, I figured these would be “objectifying women” dark, not “groping a woman on her way to a funeral” dark. I dare any cartoon to get darker than this, and oh no I think my hubris summoned this:

Cartoonist Art Lutner could have drawn anything. This book is trash assembled by a lazy psychopath with no sense of humor. Art Lutner could have drawn a hooker playing paddle ball with the caption “Stop playing paddle ball, Elaine” and no one except me 58 years later would have cared. But instead he thought, “I bet a sex slave would be really bad at her job on the first day of her kidnapping” and decided he was done with the joke. What a fucking nightmare. This is something a 5-year-old would say before growing up to be the devil. This is a Russian adaptation of The Bachelorette.

Shit, I think I summoned this one too.

Not all of the cartoons in COME ON ‘A MY HOUSE are as coherent as a half woman/half suitcase or some prostitute you’ve never met who plays too much paddle ball. I want to show you some of its rare misses:

This cartoonist tried to imagine all the absurd ways the world would look different if sex work actually exis– “OH MY GOD, YOU COULD BUY TINY WOMEN LIKE SANDWICHES!!!”

Let’s say for a minute a parking meter is the best way to keep track of how much time you have left with your prostitute. Fine. But look at the football stuff on the wall. This is his room. And they’re not even fucking! This man was paying so many women to nap next to him he installed a parking meter in his own home! That’s madness. That’s an idea you share with the anaesthesiologist accidentally killing you and no one else.

You might be thinking, “Huh?” Well, I looked this one up and there is an old, debunked urban legend about women of the night using candles to time their sessions. And even if it was a real thing, are these two meant to have sex for the entirety of that candle? I don’t think you need to be a birthday cake scientist to spot that as a “several dick” candle. So this is a non-joke about something the cartoonist is wrong about featuring characters who are vacant, confused, sad, smug, and sad about it in that order. This is the highest density of stupid mistakes I’ve ever seen, and I’m an American.There is no way I could be more frustrated by this book, and oh shit what have I once again summoned:

I don’t know what this means. I wouldn’t know how to begin the research process to discover what this means. You are out of your mind if you think I’m going to google “Michigan +prostitute +suitcase” and scroll through five pages of Grand Rapids cold cases to discover there was some 1930s song called “My Summertime Michigan Whore.” Not on the same day I read a “comedy” book about human trafficking. I asked everyone I know and nobody has any idea what this could be. I’m sure someone reading will get this reference, but listen: I don’t care. If you know, don’t put it in the comments! This lady bought luggage in Michigan and that’s already by far –by far– not the worst hooker suitcase joke I’ve seen today.

Not all of the crazy ones are bad. This cartoon is about a hooker who gives out fuck trophies! Adorable! I don’t have anything bad to say about it. Look at how happy he is! This must be what I looked like when I beat Resident Evil 4 using only the pistol, while inside a prostitute.

And this one is about a lady whose daughter is back from… from sex worker camp? Again, if you think you know what this means don’t tell me.

Prostitute: “…”

Man at Bar: “Me too! There’s no way this is a response to something you said, but I’m not quite sure how homonyms work or how to set them up!”

“I probably mean a ‘whodunme,’ or some kind of play on words! I… iiiice… creeeeaaam coooone…. haaaaat, help! Help!! Ice cream cone hat! Why!? Ice cream cone haaaat!!”

In order for this gag to work you have to imagine this prostitute had nothing left to lose but her soul. So she called on Satan to sell this last part of herself, and the comic starts right as Satan says, “No. But I will have sex with you.” It’s not “ha ha” funny, but it is “ha ha she has no further to fall and now she’s fucking the literal devil” funny.

This comic is a thousand dead ends in a maze with no minotaur. Your joke instincts might sense hypocrisy, like this woman is accusing men of being one-dimensional while she is guilty of the same thing, but these women are doing five different things. Unless… sitting? Is the joke that men only want sex but women only want ch-chair? No. No. I refuse this. Satan, I have nothing left; I summon thee to fuck me to death.

“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not a punchline relevant to this situation, Miss. Yes, you’re right. Candid Camera wouldn’t show something like this and it’s not a ‘practical joke’ to solicit prostitution. Look at you, so smart. Well, let’s see if you can answer this: I just ate six packs of cigarettes and the best thing you can do for me is put that pillow over my face and make sure I never wake up.”

“Sorry, I probably mean ‘lick.’ Which doesn’t really have a double meaning since it would be strange for a woman to walk into a bar and threaten to kick everyone’s ass. Let me start over. Hi, I sell full, condomless penetration for $10. If you want a six inch tall woman, there’s a tiny hooker automat in the back. I don’t know how!”

This is so goddamn dumb. By cartoon logic this whore house should have been obliterated by a truck long before the highway commissioner’s office could send a guy out. I don’t know why I’m bothering to analyze it. It’s two seconds of a Roadrunner cartoon glued to a hooker. Let’s do one more.

Cartoonist Bob Tupper doesn’t understand most things. He doesn’t know what’s funny about hookers or what teddy bears are used for, but he does understand the sacred oath taken by mailmen to never solicit a prostitute during work hours. “Neither snow, nor rain, nor moistness of vulva shall keep me from my duties! So swears this man of the United States Postal Servi–” oh goddamnit I’ve lost my mind again. Fuck you, Phil Hirsch.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Chase, who was NOT Made in Michigan. How DARE you.

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FUCKING DAY

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