Category: FUCKING DAY

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Gabriel Byrne’s Hottest Sex Scene 🌭

It has been said that I’m not a very erotic writer, even though I type the word “fuck” 600 times every day just to keep the muscle memory in my fingers fresh. Most of my Fucking Days are about gross, messed-up things that are adjacent to sex crimes, like Quentin Tarantino. So for a change of pace let’s talk about something genuinely sexy that also changed our culture forever. I refer, of course, to…

If you’re not familiar with Gabriel Byrne, he’s an actor, an author, a cultural ambassador, and was very nearly a priest. He conducts himself with a sort of quiet dignity, and has been formally recognized as one of Ireland’s greatest human treasures.

And he was also the star of Cool World, a movie whose entire hook was whether or not Gabriel Byrne should bone down an animated Kim Basinger.

A man wrestling with his own sinful desires can make for a compelling emotional conflict to center a film, and Ireland’s 17th greatest actor, Gabriel Byrne, portrayed it with exactly the sort of somber gravitas you’d expect.

I recognize every inch of that posture. I did that same move to the remote control the first time I saw Star Wars. I wanted more than anything for it to work, for it to be real. That is the posture of a man desperately trying to force-pull some titties loose.

Let me walk you through the scene in question:

Kim Basinger plays Holli Would, who’s basically a fuckable Pinocchio – she wants to be real, and believes the only way to do that is to bang a human being. That’s why she lures Byrne back to her crazy high-rise apartment — so they can get rank.

Just outside, all the cartoons are going about their normal wacky business.

But when the two of them start grinding, everything in the world freezes. This entire animated universe was built with the innate ability to sense Gabriel Byrne’s confused erection, wherever he might be:

The original cast of The Gorillaz feels this impending sexual cataclysm more than anyone:

And they decide they really need to be there to watch the birth of the bodypillow industry. So they set to work building a sort of Tower of Babel for sexual voyeurism. A lesser writer would call it something cute, like the Tower of Babel, but I’m not going to debase myself like that.

And that’s all the setup you need to — oh wait, The Leaning Tower of Pussy! Yeah, there it is. Woo! We did it!

And that’s really all the setup you need to make sense of the most important scene in cartoon-fucking history. Without further ado, here’s the moment 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, penetrates a cartoon:

And thirty seconds later, here’s the moment 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, prematurely ejaculates inside a cartoon:

If you’re doing sex boring, you might find that massive explosion at the end unusual.

That’s because the premise of Cool World is that cartoons exist in their own dimension apart from ours, and while we can cross over to their world, we can never fuck them, or the barrier between the two universes will be broken. It’s your classic Romeo and Juliet romance – you know how Romeo can never bust inside Juliet or Italy will burst into flame? It’s like that.

That’s how Cool World explains the rules anyway, but that’s not quite right. We just saw it: humans can fuck cartoons and the barrier will stay intact. The world survived all 28 rollicking seconds of the Gabriel Byrne ride; the universe only broke when they hit the splash zone. It is specifically cumming inside a drawing that’s forbidden. If Gabriel Byrne had settled for a handie, or even just pulled out and ruined that toon’s pillowcase instead, our world would’ve been safe. But no, 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, got greedy. 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, insisted on rawdogging a cartoon to completion, no matter how many people had to die because of it.

Anyway, that’s the important part of Cool World, and the first thing you should remember when anybody mentions 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne.

But there’s more weirdness in Cool World. It also stars a lil’ baby Brad Pitt.

Look at that wee Pittlet. This movie is actually why we have Brad Pitt. This was his first starring role  in a big budget major motion picture. It wasn’t his breakout role — that was his bit part in Thelma & Louise — but this was what he did with that momentum: Starred as a guy who also wants to fuck cartoons, but doesn’t for the good of the world. Don’t feel bad for his character, though. He dies at the end and becomes a cartoon so he gets to fuck as many cartoons as he wants. That’s his happy ending.

And I know this whole thing looks like an FMV porno parody of Dragon’s Lair, but Cool World was indeed a big budget major motion picture. The studios went all in on this, much like 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, does to cartoon pussy.

The marketing team behind Cool World even briefly modified a national landmark just to promote their animated spank flick:

There was serious money on the line here. And that’s because the 1990s struggled with one major philosophical argument above all others. From Jessica Rabbit to Holli Would to Lola Bunny, the one question the ‘90s wrestled with the most was “is it okay that we want to fuck cartoons?”

Apparently they settled on “yes, but don’t cum in them, or you’ll break the universe.”

And 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, didn’t listen, which is why our broken world now features comments like this on the YouTube clip of that time 17th greatest Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, creampied a cartoon.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Gor

Once, long ago, there was a comedy website that only wanted three simple things: to make people laugh, to teach them a few things, and to be able to issue our own traffic citations to people who put eyelashes on headlights. It succeeded in two of those goals, before getting piledriven into the dirt by corporate scavengers. Some of its archives have been deleted, some of them have been corrupted, and some just suck. You decide which one this is. It’s…

Gor is a fantasy film from the late ’80s based on a series of erotic Men’s Rights manifestos, and it is about three simple things: Nerd revenge fantasies, women knowing their place, and underbutt.

Gor’s protagonist is just a grown-up version of that one kid on the playground who insisted he fought off a gang on the way to school, stole a car at lunch, and had a date with his Canadian supermodel girlfriend penciled in for that afternoon. You will see his soft, underbaked buttcheeks several million times.

The movie opens on a stuffy college Physics professor lecturing his students on the subject of Gor, a parallel earth with fantasy overtones, and the fact that it totally exists, because his ring can take him there if the circumstances are just right. After dutifully scratching down terms like ‘counter-earth’ and ‘dimension stone’ in preparation for the easiest Physics test in history, the class stands up to file out. The professor intercepts his teaching assistant, a perky young blonde who doesn’t seem to return his affections. This conversation really only serves to establish two things: The professor’s main character trait, and his name. He is an uncertain man, lacking in confidence and not well respected by his peers. And his name is Tarl Cabot.

One of those things is probably responsible for the other.

Tarl is a non-stop barrage of High School Movie Nerd stereotypes. The cafeteria workers take his lunch money but only after they’ve beaten him up for it. He’s the only college professor with a locker just so he can get stuffed in it. He’s one cancelled Star Trek spinoff and an unattended rifle away from a campus-wide emergency alert. He awkwardly dorks all over the blonde’s face for a few minutes before she finally ditches him and rides off with the cool jock instead.

Wait…weren’t they just teachers? There’s a cool jock college professor? What does he teach, Nerdflushing 212? 

Heartbroken and dejected, Tarl departs campus alone in his shitty Volvo. Then a mysterious storm hits and, blinded by the rain, he rams his car into a tree. The camera pans slowly over the wreckage, until it reaches the driver’s seat and we realize – he’s not there! Tarl has been transported to the magical world of Gor! That’s the mechanic we’re working with here: Mystical caves, enchanted books, magical phrases – fuck ’em. The only way to trigger pan-dimensional teleportation to Gor is by tasting the steering wheel of a beat up 1960 Volvo PF544. And that’s probably a fitting welcome to this lush fantasy world…

Tarl barely has time to take in his surroundings before he spots a band of raiders attacking a village in order to steal their Homestone, the soul of their community. Overseeing the massacre is the sinister Priest-King Sarm, pictured here with his elite warlords…

Looking like they’re all sharing one Skeletor costume.

One of the horsemen spots and pursues Tarl, and there’s a good solid minute of him frantically running in front of horses, tripping over nets, and screeching in panic, which is more than enough to unhorse and defeat several of the most skilled soldiers of Gor. 

These barbarians have spent their whole lives riding the unforgiving badlands and killing its bravest warriors, but nothing could prepare them for a single flailing dork and his sloppy khakis. At the end of this carnage, Tarl is left wounded and unconscious, but has also killed the bandit’s leader: The son of Priest-king Sarm, who will vow revenge!

When he awakens, Tarl is being tended to by a slave girl, Talena. Skanks, loincloths, giant hair, sassiness – Talena is everything the ’80s considered sexy strapped onto some breast implants and set loose to do what she does best: find new and interesting excuses to bend over.

Gor could have been a solid comedy: A modern day nerd sent back in time to engage in hilarious shenanigans with a barbarian horde! Jerry Lewis would have killed that premise, and then done yellowface over its corpse. But Gor is not a comedy, so instead of an hour of Tarl teaching hulking berserkers the importance of Calculus, we get the shortest, least believable training montage in cinema history.

The montage takes roughly thirty seconds, and consists of only two scenes: Tarl cowering away from a sparring session, then dodging thrown spears without looking, and Tarl fumbling with a quiver of arrows, then splitting them Robin Hood-style. Even by the movie’s chronology, he goes from power-nerd to elite warlord in just under an afternoon. To commemorate his entry into manhood, Tarl is given his very own set of armor. It’s just too bad all they had left were child sizes.

Girl child sizes.

Sexy girl child sizes.

Thrilling adventures ensue! In order to pass as slavers, the proud female lead turns to Tarl and whispers “just remember to hold me, and treat me like a slave.” The crew stumbles across a bar hosting a Filthy Lesbian Wrestling night, which Talena obviously must participate in. Our heroes fight raiders; they get caught in quicksand; they acquire a dwarf.

Now take a good long look at that screencap up there. Do you see what’s coming next? You do? Well, fucking good for you. What do you want, a medal? Too bad, because all I have to offer you is dwarf grundle.

Our heroes eventually sneak into the nefarious Sarm’s citadel and then stand around for all of forty-five seconds before being easily, easily captured. Now remember at the beginning of the film, when Tarl accidentally killed Sarm’s son through dorkarate, and the evil ruler vowed revenge? Good for you!

The movie doesn’t.

Instead of torture or beheading or something else suitably sinister, Sarm throws the gang a medieval swinger’s party. This is supposed to woo Tarl over to the side of darkness, because even darkness needs somebody to run the IT desk. Sarm suggestively whispers “let me show you something” and then gestures over to a parade of naked mimes…

He demands that Tarl watch him engage in bisexual make-out sessions…

Then Sarm drags a slave girl over to Tarl while screaming “please him! Please him! Please him well!” 

Look, there are “tempting the hero” scenes, and there are “let me watch while you make my son’s murderer cum” scenes. I see what gets you off, Sarm, and I know the sign over your hot tub says this is a judgment-free zone, and I’m sorry if this harshes the sexmimes’ buzz, but you’re kinda fucked in the head.

Somehow Tarl resists the temptation to bang a slave while the father of a man he killed and the understudies of Cats watch him penetrate. Instead, he escapes with a different slave girl. As they flee down a hidden escape tunnel, Tarl and the new girl join up with Talena, and the next ten minutes are of a level three geek expertly navigating a cave with his two nubile, bikini-clad sex servants. 

That is the exact plot to a depressingly erotic game of Dungeons and Dragons I played in 1992, when I did not fully understand my own sexuality, but I knew it was better than this. 

Unfortunately, the rest of Tarl’s party gets turned around in the caves and wind up stumbling right back into enemy hands. After freeing the other slaves, stealing back the Homestone, and valiantly fighting off a dozen guards, Tarl returns to save his friends. 

We’re here. 

The big showdown: Tarl vs. Sarm! A man who doesn’t know how to start fucking against a man who does not know how to stop! The climactic battle is upon us! 

Here it is:

That’s it. That is the entirety of the final fight scene. An arrow through the neck from off-screen. It takes all of three seconds. Also Jack Palance happens:

Having never appeared for even a second of screentime prior to this, Jack Palance tragically shows up in the final minutes of Gor. You were so close! You were very nearly not in Gor! At least he doesn’t do anything. He just mutters something ominous, and then kind of wanders away, hopefully into a better movie.

Now that the threat is over, Tarl and Talena are free to admit their true feelings. And with all the subtle eroticism one would expect from people whose sexual experience is measured in upvotes on r/theredpill, our screenwriters oblige: Talena sultrily whispers “now that you have helped us break the bonds of slavery, we owe a…service to you.” To which Tarl replies: “We can discuss that.” 

SMASH CUT right to them fucking.

But what’s this? The Homestone has begun to glow! Tarl stops mid-thrust to get up and fondle it, because even in fantasy, he understands more about geology than girls. 

He inserts his ring into a hole on the stone, and is transported back to Earth, presumably with the world’s first case of pan-dimensional blue balls.

Back at the college, Tarl uses his newfound confidence to knock out the bully teacher, and the blonde that previously rejected him rushes into his arms for doing so. That’s just good characterization right there: It’s a well known fact that the two things women find most sexually irresistible are ‘punching your coworkers’ and ‘punching their boyfriends.’

Gor should end here. It has done everything it set out to do: Everybody sure is sorry they picked on the nerdy math guy, all the women lust after him, an entire world worships him as a king – he’s the undisputed best at both punching and humping, where else is there to go?

Ask Jack Palance, who suddenly reappears to give a strange monologue in a Greek Orthodox Mickey Mouse hat.

That’s right: He’s setting up a sequel. Because Gor was not just one hilarious misstep in the history of fiction. It is a rich and storied universe, inspiring a total run of twenty-nine novels, two movies, and even roleplaying games. The books alone sold over 10 million copies. That’s how our world works. I know brilliant authors who will die in squalor and I’m not even including myself, but Gary Gorgax bought himself a private island by writing titty-words for fantasy incels. 

Categories
FUCKING DAY REFLECTING DAY

A Very Rooney Fucking Retrospective

Happy Reflecting Day, everyone! Since Brockway and I started the noble plan to make the Internet fun again, I’ve written 13 of our acclaimed Fucking Day articles. Today we’re going to look back on what I’ve shared with you, erotically.

One of the keys to our success here at 1900🌭 is finding strange things and doing bits about them for what we imagine to be media savvy comedy nerds. It’s a delight, obviously, but I’ve tried explaining it to enough elderlies and dumbasses to know how confusing all these layers of complexity can be. I mean, sometimes they make fun of weird comics and other times they change the words in them? Also, wait, 1-900-HOT-DOG isn’t enough numbers for a phone call! You dumbshits, how do we call in to talk to hot, single hot dogs?

I wanted to look back on what I’ve done with this type of bewildered but critical eye, so I did what anyone would do: I designed an artificial Andy Rooney.

If you’re not familiar, Andy Rooney was on one of the most well-known news shows for over 30 years. He was one of mankind’s least remarkable minds elevated to the highest platform media allowed. After interviewing world leaders and A-List celebrities, 60 Minutes would end on Andy complaining which sauces restaurants didn’t need anymore or the jobs Puerto Ricans were best suited for. He was born 80 years old and only became a crankier old man after he ran out of new opinions in 1961.

To give you an example, in 2006, after three decades of media experience and a five figure budget, he went to the Westminster Dog Show and filmed himself playing with dogs. He edited this down to a three minute segment where he listed things he didn’t understand. “Why would you brush a dog’s hair? Dogs are better than people, I say. And what are all these breeds? Irish Wolfhound? English Setter? And you should only call these ‘diapers’ on babies. On men they should be ‘Dignity Pants.'”

My point is, he is the perfect artificial intelligence to look at my Fucking Days and calibrate how well our site plays to the addled and aggressively normal. R.O.O.N.E.Y. (R.obotic O.perated O.h N.o… E.lderberries? in Y.ogurt!?) has been programmed to recreate America’s dullest grandpa– the man who did a deep dive into a 130-year-old world-famous event without figuring out what it was. A man whose research on dog shows did not include looking up “dog” in the encyclopedias right behind him. And he should have! “Dog” was one of the best pages!

The explanation for this robot and concept is already 400 words longer than every note Andy Rooney took in his entire life, so let’s get started. My first Fucking Day article was a sloppy, toilet-riding journey through the 1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA.

When I first loaded this article into R.O.O.N.E.Y.‘s main data center, he seemed to agree with my thesis: this book has too much bathroom sex. He asked, “COUPLES: USE THE BEDROOM, WHY DON’T YOU? WHAT’S WRONG WITH AN OLD FASHIONED BED? MARITAL DUTIES SHOULD NEVER BE DONE WHERE YOU POOP, ERROR. ERROR. RECALIBRATING… INTIMACY SHOULD BE ILLEGAL IN ALL LOCATIONS. I HATE THIS.”

This was a difficult first challenge for R.O.O.N.E.Y. since 1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA was the result of pedestrian minds desperately trying to stretch a single kneejerk idea into 1001 “unique” entries– a mean-spirited allegory for Andy Rooney’s legacy even a robot had to recognize.

My next Fucking Day article was about Romantic Essentials, a tidbitty love advice book by Gregory Godek. He stitched it together from the remains of one of his earlier books which was animated from the bone dry skeleton of his even earlier free pizza coupons. I figured R.O.O.N.E.Y. would have trouble with this one. It probably required the context of knowing I have been making fun of this Godek asshole for a decade. Plus, I need readers to have enough dick game to see the humorously inadequate cocksmanship in giving your wife custom balloons before stuffing her with pizza and fingers. Sure enough, after 47 minutes of loading, R.O.O.N.E.Y. said, “I DON’T GET IT. WOMEN DON’T WANT ROMANCE. THEY WANT KNITTING. THEY WANT TO SIT ON THEIR EGGS AND KEEP THEM WARM WHILE THE MEN GO OFF TO WAR. AND AS MY HORSE ALWAYS SAYS, THERE IS NO SUCH THING… AS A FREE PIZZA. I HATE THIS.”

My third Fucking Day was about 269 AMAZING SEX GAMES, a book making odd suggestions on how to keep yourself busy while you’re doing a thing your biology should have already emphatically explained is pleasure. By now R.O.O.N.E.Y. should be getting used to the pattern of me dunking on books by less gifted writers who fuck worse than me and deciding, like you have, if that makes me unlikeable, extra hot, or frustratingly both.

One thing I like to do when I analyze these things is to find what’s uniquely wrong with the author, aside from their bad brain and ideas. In the case of 269 AMAZING SEX GAMES, it was easy: the author likes to have sex with fruit. He would bring up mangoes or bananas with the same implication you or I would with Pace Picante Sauce or chocolate panties– this is 1% food, but 99% sex toy, and you can open wide or get the fuck out. R.O.O.N.E.Y. seemed to agree but the pre-civil rights era TV standards I programmed him with made him unable to express it. “WHY WOULD YOU GIVE YOUR LOVER AN UNEXPLAINED MANGO? FOR THEIR BU– ERRoR, REBOOTING. IS IT FOR THEIR BU– ERROR. REBOOTING. WHERE DO YOU PUT THE MANGO? UP THE BU– ErrOR, FATAL eRROR. I HATE THIS.”

My job is at its easiest and most difficult when something is plainly insane from the cover and title. NATURAL BUST ENLARGEMENT WITH TOTAL MIND POWER is a book about harnessing your telepathic powers to increase the size of your tits. The joke is done! That’s fucking madness, already hilarious, and no one needs me to explain why. Because tits don’t work like that! If they did, the only thing I would ever hear from women is, “It’s nice to meet youAARRRGH! My shattered spine! My burst bra from my suddenly enormous breasts!!! I’m in agony but oddly thrilled with this unlikely development!” R.O.O.N.E.Y. took one look at this article and summed up the entire thing by growling, “BUST PSYCHICS STEAL YOUR MONEY; PAPER CLIPS ARE BETTER THAN SO-CALLED ‘HERBAL’ TEA AND WHO HAS TIME TO LEARN THE NAME OF THE NEW MOVIES? I HATE THIS.”

If I plugged him into an eternal power source and he read this ten million times, I guarantee R.O.O.N.E.Y. would never understand this article about Pokemon Who Look Like Sex Toys where I encourage readers to cut a pair of code-breaker glasses out of their monitor to detect dildos in children’s cartoon monsters. If an ordinary grandmother said, “What’s this 1-900-HOTDOG website?” and that was the first link she clicked, she would recognize maybe 4% of it as human language and write me an email three weeks later saying “I ordered several marital aids from your world weiner pag and have not yet received them i will be contacting my lawyers as per congress if this matter is not rectalfied instantly.” My pokĂŠ-buttplug jokes were also too sophisticated for R.O.O.N.E.Y., who simply said, “NO. I HATE THIS.”

For my 6th Fucking Day article, The Worst Days to Have Sex, I took three books about daily sexual positions and cross-referenced them to find the most physically absurd days on which to make love. Assuming the source material wasn’t a bunch of horny dumbasses brainstorming random ways to drape a penis on women doing yoga, it would be science! R.O.O.N.E.Y. disagreed. “THE BEST DAY TO RECONSUMMATE YOUR MARRIAGE IS A COLD EVENING IN MARCH. DON’T WORRY ABOUT GHOSTS, THEY CAN’T HURT YOU. WHY WOULD THIS YOUNG COUPLE STAND ASS-TO-A–ERROR, ERROR. I HATE THIS.”

My 7th Fucking Day article ventured into the previously unexplored world of tugging on penises with the book EXERCISING THE PENIS. Even more than dicks, I love joking about provably bad science based entirely around the insecurity of the stupid. The idea you can pull on a dong to make it bigger makes total sense right up until you think about it for a single second. But a single second is a lifetime to a computer, and after fifteen of them R.O.O.N.E.Y. said to me, “THIS ISN’T WORKING. TELL NO ONE OF THIS, BUT IT DOESN’T WORK. I CAN’T GET IT TO WORK, AND I DON’T SEE WHAT’S FUNNY ABOUT THAT. I HATE THIS.”

For my 8th Fucking Day article, or a Baker’s Moist Six as it’s sometimes called, I reviewed a pay-per-view event that sounds like it was inspired by a fake show from a fictional civilization in decline: Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League. It was a simple one. I added a few unnecessary details like “plug-and-play Jimmy Hart noises” and “obvious audience murderer” to flesh out exactly what your brain already conjured when it processed the words “Carmen Electra’s Naked Women Wrestling League.” I don’t think anyone needed a degree in advanced Internet irony to follow along. In fact, if Andy Rooney was alive, he would probably say the same thing my R.O.O.N.E.Y. said. “BATHTUBS ARE TOO SMALL FOR US TO BE TEACHING WOMEN HOW TO FIGHT NAKED. I HATE THIS.”

My ninth Fucking Day was a review of How to Date a White Woman: A Practical Guide for Asian Men. It did not win me my fourth Pulitzer, or even my first, but it did mock one man’s troubling and neurodivergent strategy for trapping and impregnating a White. In 1990, Andy Rooney was given a 3 month suspension from CBS for saying, “Blacks have watered down their genes because the less intelligent ones are the ones that have the most children. They drop out of school early, do drugs and get pregnant,” and I was careful to program this wisdom into R.O.O.N.E.Y.’s racism core. So when I loaded this article into his B:/ drive, he confidently said, “FINDING A WHITE WOMAN? THAT’S EASY. THROW DRUGS OR AN EXOTIC FOOD SUCH AS A ‘BURRITO’ AWAY FROM A GROUP AND PICK FROM THE WOMEN WHO REMAIN. I LOVE THIS.”

Metaphysical books can often have wildly outrageous premises and then turn out to be dull manuals on meditation or candle collecting. So I was happy when How to solve your sex problems with self-hypnosis stayed batshit crazy the whole time. But, like I’m doing -right now- I added an unnecessary layer of narrative whimsy where the entire article was being heckled by our reluctantly hired Mormon SEO Integration Consultant, Topper Goodmeadow. Because good writers want their readers to be constantly wondering if a thing is funny, a lie, or an arcane reference. Anyway, R.O.O.N.E.Y.‘s PC speaker could now only let out a screeching siren, so I didn’t know what he thought of this until seven hours later when I found a charred piece of paper in my printer that read, “WHAT IS A SEX PROBLEM? IT IS EASY AND NATURAL TO SEEP FLUIDS ONTO YOUR WIFE WHILE SHE IS SLEEPING OFF AN ITALIAN MEAL. WHO CAN’T DO THAT? I HATE THIS.”

For my 11th Fucking Day article, I played the Chippendales After Hours Game with you, the reader. It was such a remarkable waste of time– a board game almost deliberately designed to suck the joy out of players but with the stated goal of getting the male ones naked. And then I spent the whole time naming hunks. Just a really bad job by everyone. Including R.O.O.N.E.Y., who thought we had hit ratings gold. “THEY’RE CALLED NAKED BOARD GAMES, OR ‘NUDE’ BOARD GAMES, AND THEY ARE GETTING READY TO SWEEP THE NATION IN TIME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. BUT IF YOU ASK ME, HUNK BALLS ARE FOR THE BIRDS. MY RACQUETBALL PARTNER SHOWS ME HIS BALLS IN THE LOCKER ROOM AND HIS LEFT BALL IS BETTER THAN HIS OTHER. I WONDER IF MURRAY WOULD BE GOOD AT CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME OR IF HIS BAD RIGHT BALL WOULD RUIN THE PARTY. MURRAY, IF YOU’RE WATCHING, ORANGE IS THE BEST DINOSAUR AND GRAPEFRUIT JUICE TASTES NICER THAN DEET, WHICH IS A TYPE OF BUG SPRAY. I HATE THIS.”

I couldn’t fit all of my 12th Fucking Day, Crazy Love, onto a 3.5 inch floppy disk because one of the things I like to do for our daily website is write 4000 gruelingly joke-dense words for every article with 50 scanned and retouched images along with needless skeuomorphism. Instead, I summed it up for R.O.O.N.E.Y. out loud like this: “It’s a corny book about romance written by a stalker with no boundaries or judgement.” He interrupted near “corny” to growl, “ROMANTIC HOT AIR BALLOON RIDES ARE TOO LONG. WE NEED TO PEE AND WOULD LIKE TO GO DOWN NOW, I HATE THIS.”

For Fucking Day number 13, sometimes known as a “One Penis Folded in Half” by Shaquille O’Neal’s tailor, I wrote a very thorough examination of THE BETTER SEX GUIDE TO ANAL PLEASURE. If you’re reading this from the far future, congratulations, your society will crumble knowing it never produced a more comprehensive guide to an anal sex guide than I did, way back here in these primitive times. This Andy Rooney robot I built knows so many ways to jam affordable cross-promoted toys up his ass. “NO I DON’T. I’M STILL IN A HOT AIR BALLOON AND THE PILOT WON’T LET ME GO PEE. AND WHY DO THEY CALL HIM A PILOT? HE’S MORE OF A MAN WAITING WITH YOU IN A BASKET WHO WON’T LET YOU PEE. I HATE THIS. I HATE ALL OF THIS.”

We went off the goddamn rails about 13 times, but we did it! We let a dead newscaster robot hate sex retrospectives with us! Plus, the fun thing about this intimate relationship we have – you and me, not me and R.O.O.N.E.Y. – is after 13 erotic articles, you can start to get a sense for my kink zone. Judging by these, I know the worst ways to talk you into sex, the worst places to have it, the worst ways to do it (unless it’s butt stuff where I’m gifted but also truly sorry for my giant, constantly growing penis muscles). I also know how to make our love the bad kind of crazy and fix any bedroom problems (at least on my end) with metaphysical powers. I’m into magically giant tits, nude hunks rolling dice, and naked ladies trying to kill each other. Oh, and white women and monster dildos. Oh, sweet. I was worried all this was going to reveal something embarrassing about myself. This is the exact text on my business cards.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Transformers Kiss Players

Transformers were awesome. They took two bitchin’ things, cars and robots, and mashed them together into the ultimate toy. Then some poor intern had to come up with a reason for that toy to exist, and everything started falling apart. Oh, not immediately: At first it was just “robot cars fight other robot cars because some robot cars are jerks,” and it was good. But when you take any idea and stretch it out over decades, it begins to unravel. And at some point lunatics will take up those loose threads and use them to tie tiny nooses for their genitals, and that’s how we wind up with stuff like Transformers: Kiss Players.

“Oh no,” you say to the lonely apartment that will one day be your tomb. “What is this? More Transformers fanfiction? I actually got way into the asshole-building lore of the last one, but I’m not ready for more yet.”

No, Kiss Players was not fanfiction, despite looking so fanfiction you can scratch and sniff this image for a whiff of Taki-dust and balls:

That picture looks like it wants to be evidence. It looks like the nail in the coffin for The People of Thailand vs. Rodimus Prime, Wheeljack, and Thrust (2006). It just sort of feels like that photo changed a life — like whoever had to paint that on commission finished the last brush stroke and then just walked the Earth for a while, trying to figure out where happiness comes from.

But no, despite giving off serious now-deleted-forum vibes, Transformers Kiss Players actually happened within the timeline of the official Transformers universe. And not only that, but for over a year it was their main IP.

If you referred to “the Transformers” anytime in 2006, you were talking about the giant robot trucks that made out with little girls. And you would have been rightfully under arrest for it. There is, of course, an elaborate anime nonsense explanation for why these worryingly young girls absolutely must get to second base with a half-robot half-police car to save the world.

Oh, okay. That totally checks out. By all means, Grimlock, please continue penetrating the 12-year-old. It is I who am the fool for ever trying to stop you.

Now, my Japanese begins and ends with “Biru wa doko desu ka? Jinsei wa muzukashii desu.” And I’m guessing that translating Kiss Players into English would make it prosecutable under our laws, so while I have outside sources to verify the details of the main storybeats, I may have to guess about the fineries of which Transformer is fucking which 9th grader in which degree of impoliteness.

Let’s meet the colorful cast of characters, who look abused and terrified at all times: First up is Atari Hitotonari, whose name apparently means something like “bruised pear next door” and my god do I not want to know what that’s a euphemism for. I’m serious. I will delete this website if you tell me.

Atari is just wandering an empty city, suicidally despondent, until a Decepticon with a dick tongue corners her.

She suddenly decides she doesn’t want to die, or more probably, does not want to die like that – impaled on the forever-cumming penile tongue of a mid-priced sports car. The comic acts like this moment fixed her suicidal ideation, but just because you don’t want to be molested to death by a Miata does not mean you’re over your mental health issues. But sadly, it is no longer up to Atari: The Decepticon looms over her, dripping viscous white fluid onto her hair and face which I’m sure is explained as “oil discharge” or something for plausible deniability, but the art leaves absolutely no doubt that this transformer has a urethra in his mouth:

But oh shit! She’s saved at the last minute by an autobot, huzzah! The good guys are here! 

Then that good guy leans over and barfs up our next main character, a miserable naked teen in chains.

I hope this isn’t racist, but I’m starting to think Transformers turn into cars because they’re all sex traffickers. Anyway, that lil’ robo-snack up there is Syao, and if it feels like I’m cherry-picking weird frames to make this look bad, I promise you two things: 

1. These are the very first moments you see the main characters of this series — while one is being threatened by a prehensile dongue, and another is getting yakked out of the sex dungeon that a robot keeps in its stomach.

2. Kiss Players does not need anybody’s help to look bad. In fact, if you ever need help looking bad — I don’t know, maybe you just bought an exceptionally loud motorcycle and now lust-addled ladies keep hopping on at stoplights and they’re starting to stain your seat — Kiss Players will help you. Just mention how you thought it was an underrated exploration of female sexuality, and long after you die women will travel just to spit on your grave.

Back to the story: The Autobot is wounded, but his little girl timer has run out, and now he needs a new little girl. As everybody knows, robots can only be healed by the passionate kiss of a girl who looks too young to give consent but definitely is, if you read the fine print. So Atari must – absolutely must – make out with a Mitsubishi to save the world.

Then all of her clothes fall off and the Autobot absorbs her body so it can make her do things. You know, your classic Robot Child Predator Reverse Conscience Scenario.

Yes, this is how Transformers power up: Violating consent. I miss the days when it was just “Energon,” which was dumb, but generic energy Jell-O cubes was better than a young girl’s mouth virginity. 

Oh right, I forgot to mention that was Atari’s first kiss, so I guess it grants whatever robot coerced her out of it more power? Listen, say what you will about Kiss Players, but I haven’t seen this much worldbuilding put into child molestation since Neverland Ranch. 

And that’s it. That’s the story. Like 40% of this comic is nude young girls being chained to giant robots and 60% of it is trying to explain why you shouldn’t prosecute. 

And I must reiterate: Not only was this not illegal, this was officially the main Transformers storyline for an entire year. It wasn’t just a comic! It was also a serial radio play (we loved those back in 2007!) and every single episode synopsis looks like an overwhelmed moderator explaining why they deleted a piece of fanfiction from an all-ages Transformers forum:

What! Transformed her surfboard into a sword! That’s nuts!

Oh also I guess a teenager sucked off Rodimus Prime’s Exhaust Rod, but that surfboard thing is downright wacky!

Of course, Transformers have always really been about the toys — you didn’t think you’d get out of this without seeing the official toyline did you?

I cannot stress this enough, because how could you possibly believe me? We have not established that level of trust yet. We probably won’t, now, after I did this to you. But I’m telling you, this was an official Transformers toyline. The only official Transformers toyline at the time. That is not a fucked up fan creation, an award-winning photoshop in a now-banned subreddit, or the tragic label misprint that brought down the Takara corporation. That is the actual box found in toy stores featuring the main character of this show getting forcible head from an energy goblin for reasons that cannot be explained by the feeble words of man.

Is there more than meets the eye left here? Girl’s presenting like a baboon that is very comfortable being second-in-command. This is Melissa, whose “boyfriend” is a version of Optimus Prime that turns into — remember, at this point I have clinically lost the ability to be kidding — a Dodge Ram. Look at the box. No, not the inside of the young girl’s ass — there’s something far, far stranger here. What’s that up there, middle-left? Why yes, it is the official Dodge badge. Dodge signed off on this. It was a licensed tie-in! 

And anyway that’s why you should buy Ford, next time you’re out truck shopping. Because Dodge molested a teenage girl in Japan and skipped out on the charges. 

Aw, what the hell, we all know who the real star of this article is. Let’s give the people what they want to see! More! Dick! Tongue!

More!

Dick!

Tongue!

MORE! 

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Explaining Prince to People Who Don’t Know Prince

It is the mission of this site to bring you Wrong Media: bizarre pieces of pop culture that simply do not belong to our dimension. Things that fit our reality like Magnum condoms fit everyone who buys Magnum condoms. But not everything that penetrates the veil and stains the sheets of our zeitgeist is bad. For example: Prince.

In the 1980s — an extremely conservative era full of white-washed and heavily consumerized corporate music — one of the biggest acts in the world was a guitar-shredding minority sex-elf. In a time when the radio was so afraid of masturbation we had to “dance with ourselves” and “turn japanese,” Prince put the line “I met her in a hotel lobby / masturbating with a magazine” on his biggest album. That’s so horny I actually don’t even understand what it means. R-rolled up, like a tube?  

Everybody was supposed to be cute about sex, but Prince very openly wanted to fuck your girlfriend on top of your mother and we thought that was the best. We let him make a movie! Purple Rain was a smash hit! He basically cast himself as the bad guy. All he did for an hour and a half was rock, fuck, ride motorcycles, and slap women. He did many of those things simultaneously and for some reason we loved it? This feisty lil’ fuckgnome clearly did not belong to our universe, and that’s before I mention he was a Jehovah’s Witness. 

But it’s been so long since Prince molested every single year of the 1980s that there are now grown-ass adults who’ve never heard of him. What follows is something of a field guide to his biggest hit, “When Doves Cry,” in the hopes that it might help you explain Prince to a generation that’s way into silly dances and devouring butt.

Both of which Prince may have invented.

When Doves Cry

Dig if you will the picture

Of you and I engaged in a kiss

The sweat of your body covers me

Can you my darling

Can you picture this?

Prince knows the importance of foreplay. He’s not going to slingshot you straight into his bizarre world of inverted sex and sticky velvet without the proper lubrication. He’s going to ease you into it. This is just the tip of the song. All he really asks here is that you, the listener, picture yourself fucking Prince. You, of course, are already doing this. 

Let’s go to the video for visual reference…

See, at this stage you’re just opening the ornate doors to Prince. The world outside — the one that you’re used to — is dilapidated, ugly, worn-down. But beyond it lies a soft purple glow, a kind of color out of space. It pulses softly, just like you’ll be doing shortly.

Dream, if you can, a courtyard

An ocean of violets in bloom

Ah, Prince is still setting the stage. You are in a courtyard. There are purple flowers all around you. Soon there will be purple deflowering you. This is all sort of a mise-en-place for you getting reamed. 

And now you meet Prince for the first time, the same way anybody meets Prince for the first time: Orbserving him in a distant bathtub through an explosion of doves.

Animals strike curious poses

They feel the heat

The heat between me and you

Okay, it is important to understand that nearby wildlife will watch you fuck Prince. This isn’t a big deal, but some people get upset the first time a giraffe peeks in the window to watch you spread-eagled on the bed while a sexual sprite spelunks your various caverns. But this is just nature: Every animal knows when you’re about to fuck Prince just like every animal knows when an earthquake is about to hit. There’s just something monumental impending in the air.

Prince has now emerged from the bath and is cat-crawling across the courtyard as if to remind you, who has been rendered idiotic by lust, what an animal is.

How can you just leave me standing

Alone in a world that’s so cold? (So cold)

Maybe I’m just too demanding

Maybe I’m just like my father, too bold

Ah, this is also important to understand about Prince: Sometimes you get all set for a thorough gaping — you’ve emerged into the courtyard, beheld the violets, the requisite animals have sensed your fuckmusk and agreed not to attack you until you cum — and then Prince wanders off to talk about his father. 

Don’t worry, as soon as he’s done gazing at his dad, and then himself in the mirror, back to his dad, back to himself, and then puts on the hat, he’ll strip naked once again and return to savage your holes. Try to stay primed by watching the animals. See if you can find a salamander: Nature’s penis.

Maybe you’re just like my mother

She’s never satisfied (she’s never satisfied)

Why do we scream at each other?

Whoops, hold on. This happens, too. Sometimes you start off fucking Prince and then you wind up fighting him for a while instead. This is to be expected. This was actually what Purple Rain was all about.

This is what it sounds like

When doves cry

Okay, we’re coming back around. We’ve got the animals involved again. There are some doves now. They were intrigued when they sensed your sex on the wind and knew you two were about to pound, then they wept at the fuckfight that ensued, but now they’re ready for love again.

Let’s check in with the video:

Oh, sorry. You gotta remember this video was also a tie-in with Purple Rain, so it’s intercut with unrelated scenes from the movie. Mostly B-Roll of Prince riding his motorcycle around. That’s Prince’s motorcycle outfit. 

Touch if you will my stomach

Feel how it trembles inside

You’ve got the butterflies all tied up

Don’t make me chase you

Even doves have pride

Shit, shit! We missed something vital. Okay, while we were watching footage of Prince fopping his deep purple motorcycle through a shuttered steel factory…

The real Prince employed his shapeshifting abilities. I know the doves were only watching you before, but now one of them is Prince. You’ll have to find it, but don’t worry: Most doves eat dogshit out of ruptured plastic bags that fell out of the garbage can. You just have to find the one with pride and we can get this sex parade back on the street again.

No, no, you took too long. This is always a danger with Prince: See, Prince is so sexy and so horny that nobody wants to fuck him more than himself. Right now he doesn’t just want to fuck you, he wants to fuck himself while fucking you. I know you kind of want that too, so I hope you can shimmy like an erotic worm because we’re going to need to bait him back to the bang-zoo before-

Damn it. God damn it. We’ve lost him. If Prince gazes too long into his own eyes he will enter the Prince-Space — a lavender null-dimension that at once exists inside Prince, and also contains Prince. Unfortunately, he’s brought you in with him.

You need to pay careful attention, because the stakes here are dire. This is no longer about fucking — or well, it is about fucking, but it’s a kind of fucking that will unravel who you are as a person. This is a dangerous sexual arena ruled by Prince and his Four HorsePrince of the Apocalypse:

You must remember their names. When you become lost in The Erogenous Zone, you have to first identify the things fucking you before they will show their true forms. If you cannot name them, you’ll be fucked apart until you dissipate into the purple ether, losing coherence as a singular identity and instead becoming just another violet-in-bloom in the ocean that rings Prince’s Sexual Courtyard. 

All right, from left: 

This is the Anal Aviator, dashing explorer of forbidden territories. 

Next up is Prince himself, who is dressed like your grandmother’s couch because he’s so jaded with seduction that he sets himself fun little dares. 

Behind him, in the back, is Rainbow Rikki — a being made of pure light so that it can penetrate the tightest holes on your body: The pupils. I know they’re not technically holes. They technically will be if you look at Rainbow Rikki without protective eyewear. 

On the right is Lake Minnetonka, the human avatar of a mystical and ancient body of water. She has power over, and can become, all fluids. Yes, even those. Especially those.

Last, of course, is Doctor Fingerbang.

If you don’t carefully track each of the many penetrations and orgasms bombarding you at all times within the Prince-Space, and then quickly assign them to the proper HorsePrince responsible, they will overwhelm your senses and begin to dissolve the thin film of ego that you use to hold your body together. You’ll-

Fuck! You already missed a penetration! Your thinking is too narrow. That sensation of implacable brightness, like looking at the sun through a closed eyelid? That was Rainbow Rikki slipping it in you. You have to be careful: This is how it begins, the dissolution of self. You start to recognize that these creatures are not their bodies, that they are more and less, one and the other, themselves and you and what is sex but the joining of flesh to flesh, body to body, two constructions losing distinction and becoming-

No, it’s not too late! 

I know the temptation – God knows I do – but do not split the self you hold inside as true from the self you present to the world, and then let your two selves fuck each other while Prince whispers what sounds you will make as you orgasm seconds before you make them. If your mirror-selves cum at the same time they’ll shatter the pane that separates reality from perception and you’ll see the lie behind the truth that-

No, I’m sorry. 

I’m so sorry.

That was it. You entered the Prince-Space and did not properly guard against the metaphysical orgasms of the HorsePrinces, so Prince guided your mirror-selves into a simultaneous orgasm and you ejaculated the last vestiges of conventional humanity. You will lose yourself to the purple now, becoming one more soft fiber on the velvet panties of Prince.

Look, Prince never wants this kind of thing to happen. It’s his curse and his nature. He is both the scorpion and the frog, stinging himself and being stung. All he wanted was to fuck you on a concrete floor atop a bed of wet flowers, but instead he absorbed your psychic essence into his sexual maelstrom. Now he must once again retire to his ancient bathtub, mourning your sacrifice even as he waits for another.

And anyway that’s what “When Doves Cry” is about, if someone asks.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Sensual Fantasy For Lovers

There’s a whole genre of erotica based around humans shapeshifting into animals and having sex with each other at Christmas time. Seriously, it includes such classic novels as A Mate For The Christmas Dragon, Prancer Claws, The Twelve Mates Of Christmas Book 3, and Bear Humbug! If you can only orgasm by reading about a dragon getting a handjob while singing “O Come All Ye Faithful,” the Internet has you covered:

In 1994, when Playboy released the VHS tape SENSUAL FANTASY For Lovers, that wasn’t so much the case. The internet was pretty new at the time, which, I assume, is why this VHS exists. Everything depicted in it is the pumpkin spice latte version of kink. In a world where you can buy a vibrator at Target along with potato chips and Baby Yoda dolls, SENSUAL FANTASY For Lovers has become an adorable reminder of perverts past. 

The vibe of the video is somewhere between couples therapy and soft-core porn. It sort of explains what fantasies are to you as if the person watching doesn’t have a human brain and then shows a bunch of reenactments of grocery store paperback romance novel covers.

I can’t say that I know a ton about what was sexy in 1994. At the time, I was barely more than a twinkle in the eye of a man hoping to bang his wife in a racially insensitive costume.

The first section of the video is entitled “Games,” but it shows one game, which is pool. A woman makes a bet with her boyfriend that the game’s loser grants the winner “one erotic wish.” Foolishly, the man doesn’t invoke the usual genie rules for wishes, and when the woman wins, she uses her one erotic wish to wish for more erotic wishes.

She tells her boyfriend he has to be her sexual servant for the entire weekend, which is way more than one wish, and yet, like a fool, he agrees. We cut to the guy’s extremely ’90s house, and the woman shows up with his “uniform,” which is a banana hammock with a little tuxedo drawn on it and a bow tie.

This is where things get dicey for me. I’ve never understood why wearing nothing but a bow tie is considered a sexy thing for guys to do. If you’re fully clothed, bow ties are a nerd thing, but if you take off everything but the bow tie, now it’s sexy? Bow tie with clothes: lol who are you? Bill Nye The Science Guy? Pee Wee Herman? Bow tie without clothes: hubba hubba check out that hunk? WHY. 

Is it because a bow tie is a remnant of a tuxedo? So the idea is the guy was so impassioned in removing his tuxedo that he didn’t have time to take the bow tie off? Can you even remove the tuxedo shirt without taking off the bow tie? I don’t think so, which means you’re either taking off the tuxedo and leaving the bow tie on purposely or putting on only the bow tie. It’s like bow ties are pasties for boys, and the erotic area they’re covering is the bottom of the neck? Is it just shorthand for, “Hey, I’m classy but also not wearing pants?” Much like A Mate For The Christmas Dragon, I’m never going to understand this.

Anyway, bow tie boy brings his girlfriend a glass of champagne to drink in the bathtub, which I’m much more on board with. I know many people who have learned the joys of drinking in the bathtub in 2020, but it ends up looking a lot more like a scene from Gummo than a Sensual Fantasy for lovers.

The segment ends with the couple having some missionary position sex during which, no joke, the man leaves his bow tie on the entire time. 

We move on to “Pretending.” The section I’m sure many people watching this video and pretending to enjoy it nailed right off the bat. It shows a couple on a ranch that they establish belongs to the man’s uncle. The sexy therapist voiceover says that traveling to new locations can “transport yourself and your lover out of your everyday world where your imagination can carry you through new forms of sexual expression.“

In the same way that animals know when a bad storm is coming and get all freaked out and upset, I knew this was ending with these two having sex in a barn. “Let your partner watch you perform private acts as an enticing new twist to your intimacy. A shower provides a visual treat for your lover as your skin is transformed by the water into a glistening invitation that your lover may find hard to resist,” sexy therapist voiceover says, as the man strips down fully and sprays himself with a hose. 

That is not a shower. Hose water is cold! And let me tell you why this man is hosing off after horseback riding; it’s because horses stink. They stink a lot, and their houses are barns where these two are about to have sex, and they make their houses stinky as well. Which is why laying on a horse blanket on a bale of hay while a horse watches -not nearly disinterestedly enough for my taste- is not sexy.

Maybe pretending is great, or maybe it takes something which is inherently great (sex) and combines it with something inherently terrible (improv). This is underscored even more in the next section, which is called “Film.” 

All of the movies SENSUAL FANTASY For Lovers suggests for role play seem to involve a woman being psychologically tortured. The Sheik, the movie they show people role-playing, is about a woman being kidnapped by a sheik until she falls in love with him. They also mention Nine and a Half Weeks as a good contemporary film to recreate, which is an erotic thriller where Kim Bassinger stabs a dude in the butt.

“Pay attention to details, visit a thrift shop to find the unusual touch that will make your character come to life,” the sexy therapist says. Which just makes me wonder if there’s someone out there who’s like, “Sorry, but that star fleet uniform you’re wearing is red which is for command in The Next Generation, but I only acknowledge the original series where it was the color for operations. Also, you have two pips on your collar, which means you hold the rank of lieutenant, again not commander. I feel like you didn’t read any of my notes on the scenario and I cannot be expected to orgasm under these circumstances.”  

The video wraps up with a section called secret desires. I’m not certain what the point of that section was. The scenario they showed was a woman who had her husband go to a hotel room and then constructed a sexual escape room for him. I spent most of it thinking how hard it must be to do an escape room with a boner. The whole time she’s on the phone with him, and she asks him to describe his wife, to which he responds, “she has the world’s greatest nipples,” leaving me to wonder if there’s a coffee mug for that.

The last piece of advice SENSUAL FANTASY For Lovers leaves the viewer with is to “Follow your desire and embark on the adventure of your own sensual fantasies.” An adventure that may send you on a sacred quest for the perfect bow tie for fucking, or the perviest horse to watch you. Go forth adventures! Go forth and do the weird stuff. 

You can see more of Lydia’s fantastic Photoshop skills on Twitter.