Category: FUCKING DAY

Categories
FUCKING DAY

The Several Opportunities For Sex Of Black Scorpion

When the internet was still in its early days, we had not perfected the fine art of masturbating to nerd shit. The will was always there, but the technology simply hadn’t caught up yet. While you waited twenty minutes for a low resolution screenshot of topless Teri Hatcher to download, you might just lose patience and settle for cranking one out to the spandex asses of shows like Black Scorpion. 

Black Scorpion aired on the Sci-fi Channel, and IMDB describes it as… “A female “BATMAN” with a strong story, intriguing characters, good action pacing… and several opportunities for sex.”

Several opportunities! 

It doesn’t promise sex, but there are definitely moments sex could have been had if characters were so inclined! 

Look, I’ve got another three hours before this zip file of Gillian Anderson BEST Sexy Shots (36) finishes downloading, so let us study… 

We are zero seconds in and already I can see I’ve fucked up. You might not know who Roger Corman is, and that’s difficult to explain. He makes sexy movies, but so badly that you’re always too distracted by his inept framing choices to get off to them. By the time you notice tits are out and get ready, Roger Corman has already moved on to shooting mismatched coverage of a cardboard robot and a man with too much mustache. Roger Corman movies are how Christians imagined pornography in the 1960s. Roger Corman is like a talentless Stephen Sommers if Stephen Sommers liked tits about 87% more than he already does. And Stephen Sommers likes tits! Roger Corman is like if Michael Bay got exactly the amount of respect his talent warranted. Plus this is Roger Corman PRESENTS. This show just has his endorsement. It’s like Carl’s Jr. recommending a specific racoon to eat. You’re getting the garbage that garbage likes. 

Black Scorpion isn’t based on a comic — it’s not actually based on anything but wild misunderstandings. Here’s Black Scorpion’s origin story as told by the pre-credit roll:

This is why you always explain the moral to children after the story. Kids are stupid and impressionable and if you don’t carefully deconstruct the metaphor you’ll wind up with a daughter dressed like a Scorpion, firing Scorpion themed machine guns from her modified Corvette Stingray, which she calls the Scorpion-mobile.

Damn it, you see what I mean? We came here to ogle ‘90s asses like it’s Tae Bo day at Bally Total Fitness, but Roger Corman’s influence sucks so much that I haven’t even mentioned the protagonist of this show makes her very first appearance dressed as a hooker.

I guess that’s pretty sexy. I mean, hookers do not typically wear two belts as a shirt — that’s more of a professional wrestler thing — but we’re not here to nitpick. I will point out that it’s not typically the goal of a sex worker to keep her boobs as tightly bound and far apart as possible, but I have to give Black Scorpion points: This is technically an opportunity for sex. It’s not a good one, and nobody takes it, but fucking was briefly on the table here.

Black Scorpion’s real name is Darcy Walker, and she’s supposed to be a serious police officer, but even on duty she only wears the kind of tamely sexy pencil dresses that shoot for femme fatale but wind up more “date night at a steakhouse.” Although look, there is something to the careful deliberateness of her transformation sequence that speaks of sex work. It’s like watching a dominatrix clock in for her shift. Her professional disinterest in doing it is definitely doing it for me:

Hold up, let’s pause to explain her powers: There are none. Let’s resume. 

That transformation sequence is so clearly magical it’s actually strange that she’s not spinning and yelling broken english while she does it, but no — the show insists Black Scorpion just has cool technology like Batman. But while Batman uses his tech companies and billions of dollars to create his gadgets, Darcy Walker uses Argyle:

Argyle would be the best if he didn’t suck so hard. He owns a run-down mechanic shop, has no money or educational background, and is very casual about inventing Black Scorpion’s technology which “rearranges atoms” to do “whatever the fuck.”  

Here’s the exposition for that Black Scorpion transformation sequence above: 

Argyle: “Hey if I can rearrange the atoms in your car, why not your clothes?” 

Darcy: “How much do I owe you?” 

She actually gets out her checkbook to write a personal check for magic. 

And his very next line after establishing he’s the single greatest scientist in human history?

Argyle: “Hey, no charge, if it wasn’t for you busting me I’d still be in jail with the rest of my gang.” 

His gang. 

Of 47-year-old eccentric scientists? 

Of middle-aged fabric lovers who can twist spacetime to their whims? 

What the fucking fuck is that, show? I know this was the ‘90s and there were two roles for black male actors — ‘Gang Member’ or ‘Magic Negro’ — but somehow it’s worse that you chose ‘both.’

Black Scorpion has the worst origin story ever written, and a superhero named Black Condor was just “raised by birds.” Black Scorpion did not suffer a curse from a scorpion god, no sting from a radioactive scorpion, no getting struck by lightning while drinking Scorpion brand malt liquor — she’s just a cop that busted a really smart black guy who could rearrange reality and then forced him to make her a space-warping thong. 

Aw man, it happened again. I forgot we were here to smack it like it’s 2001 — which is to say we spend a long time looking for wank material and then give up and settle for an episode of Charmed. Let’s get back to business with another of Darcy Walker’s sexy outfits:

Every time we see Darcy in her off-time, she’s dressed in workout gear. But her workout gear consists of baggy trunks and a generous tanktop, complete with sweat towel. And she’s doing a move I know all too well: The “this bar stool is an awkward height for leaning, I wish I would have pulled it out from under the counter before cramming myself in this weird gap and just kind of hovering around the conversation looking for safe landing spots for my feet and hands.” 

I would laud the show for its realism here — that is exactly how a human would dress for exercise and then behave if you unexpectedly barged in their house while they were exercising — but the way the camera lingers and frames her body in these shots it’s clear we’re supposed to be ogling this. Ogling what, Roger Corman-endorsed director Gwyneth Gibby, whose most notable other works include “Black Scorpion Returns” and “Sting of the Black Scorpion”? That uncomfortably bent knee? That weird wrist position? She doesn’t look like she wants to fuck; she looks like she regrets inviting the Cutco salesman in.

Dammit! Somebody set this masturbation to Nightmare Difficulty and here I am trying to solo it flawless. I’m in over my head. Let’s stop looking for Black Scorpion’s “several opportunities for sex” and throw it all the way back to oldschool Xena rules: Pause the tape during fight scenes hoping for an ass shot that doesn’t look like abstract pottery.

Nope. 

That ain’t it.

Those lines are a stunning example of the Chilean late Art Nouveau movement, but it’s barely a butt.

Pausing is the wrong move. Let’s look at a fight in action: 

It’s clear this is in the neighborhood of sexy. It once let sexy house-sit and now it can’t get the smell out of the drapes. Like I recognize the attempt here: lots of needless shots of buns-up climbing, a weird double-clothesline only there to highlight cleavage, followed by an ass somersaulting away, but it’s all too clumsy and disorienting. This isn’t Black Widow leg-grappling Scarlet Witch so that for a second it looks like they’re scissoring — this is like trying to ogle an introductory ballet class: It’s mostly just people discovering they can’t move like that and then falling over.

I give up on Black Scorpion. Maybe she isn’t even supposed to be the sexy focal point. It’s always the villains, right? Who’s our Harley Quinn?

Great. 

That’s Firearm. He looks like a cybergoth making fun of football. He looks like a drunk mother forgot about the costume contest so a sad child had to tape a Predator costume together out of hockey gear and lingerie. He stands like he’s been pushed into the frame after saying “no way in shit am I ‘just hitting my mark,’ Sharon; you promised I could sign off on the costume first.”

Although, I’ve got to say, he moves well.

I’m not going to pretend this is my first time masturbating to a haphazard Borg cosplayer learning to breakdance. But god damn it, I was hoping I’d already had my last.

Here, you all need to go now. I’ll let General Stryker see you out. 

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Let’s Read: Crazy Love

For centuries, romantic couples knew only eight “insanely creative ways to show love.” Finally, decades after fuck scholars had given up, Grace Edwards published CRAZY LOVE which promised “More Than 200 Insanely Creative Ways to Show Love!” There was only one problem. Grace Edwards was a liar– a stupid, corny liar with seemingly unlimited wealth and cobwebs where her genitals once were. We are about to wade through her landfill of bad, but very expensive ideas together.

Like all books promising X number of things, the real number of things is far less. About half of Crazy Love‘s ideas are a variation of “hire a servant.” Grace suggests hiring waiters, personal assistants, drivers, personal chefs, house cleaners, videographers, or sculptors as a romantic gesture for your lover. The other half are variations of “take a vacation” or “rent out a public place.” Expressing love the Grace Edwards way usually costs in the middle four figures and involves at least five strangers watching you. The few others, like this one, are just early signs of dementia.

So let me understand this correctly. I leave a bow out and my wife says, “What’s this bow doing here?” And then I act suspicious? I want to be absolutely clear I’m understanding this: I need my wife to be curious enough to enjoy the “Mystery Of The Gift Not For Her,” but trusting enough to think it doesn’t involve “Some Other Whore I’m Fucking?” And then, two days of strange behavior later, I give her a present and hope she believes this was all some backwards, ill-defined cuteness? This plan is fucking crazy. It’s something Timecop’s teenage son would do to outsmart his high school principal. It’s something Hitler would do to a prisoner to see if it was possible to erase birthdays.

Crazy Love was written in 2013, about ten years after the bottom dropped out of the “Dumbshit Little Tidbits For Dumbshits” non-fiction market. So this was probably a vanity project by a woman with nothing pressing to do after screaming at her decorator. I was expecting there to be some comical misunderstandings with how the real world works, but bitch, have you never blown your nose with a tissue? Unless you’re a manufacturing robot built by a scientist studying the nature of pointlessness, you can’t disassemble a box of tissues and put it back together. Have you tried this, Grace? Did you take a pen and have a fun time very carefully not poking through 1000 tissues while you drew little hearts? Did you clumsily mash up and stuff, at best, 15% of them back into the box so your sick husband could see the ink of your dumb hearts get smeared by his snot after he rubbed your hand germs all over his immuno-compromised mucous membrane? Have I made myself clear how bad this idea is, Grace?

Grace, find a fucking hobby. Anyone who told you this psychotic bullshit was romantic was obviously worried about what you were capable of if they hurt you.

That’s a fun idea!

There are many slight variations of this love tip, which is to identify something very ordinary your partner likes like coffee, beer, or flowers and then planning a theme vacation around it. “Behold, my love! We’re in Kyrgyzstan! Where they make the tube socks you get! And check the itinerary– we’re going on a tour of the plant where they process the beaver anal glands for the root beer float you said you liked on our 17th date! I! Know! It’s like a dream! You haven’t heard the best part: we’re visiting the graves of the kids who made that phone you’re always playing on! I love you too! You’re worth it!”

This is a nightmare. A subway ad about your love? Grace will spare no expense to make sure the maximum number of strangers are sickened by her and her husband’s relationship. She probably follows him to work, one car behind him on the same subway line to listen to the passengers complain. “Jesus, is this an ad for someone’s fucking husband? Who would do this? If you were writing a stalker movie, this is how you would show the audience she’s about to murder. What a creepy, obnoxious gesture by a desperate kept woman. I hope no monster ever thinks to do this ever again.”

She listens to the mockery… the complaints… the confusion… furiously moistening. This is her fetish. Knowing we hate them is the only way Grace and her husband can fuck. When he rides the subway home hearing strangers say, “I’m glad this nutbag isn’t my wife,” he grinds his teeth. God damn it, he can’t wait to get home and enter the disgusting, unwanted hole of his loving wife.

What I’m about to ask you to do may seem like an unthinkable torture, but try to imagine riding the subway and seeing paid advertisements for a specific husband. Not for a product he’s selling; only to let commuters know his disgusting love is precious to his wife. You hate it, it sucks. Then you get off, mind your own business up the stairs, and the crowd in front of you bursts into dance. Their leader, a beast bursting with unlikeability, looks right at you as she mechanically jerks. Long after your adrenaline gland has told you you’re about to die, a man behind you says, “Honey! Oh my god, no way, WHAT IS THIIIS!?” Oh god, oh fuck, it’s the husband from the subway ad.

Now, take a step back from this outstanding, delightful Internet article you’re reading and realize something: this story had to have really happened to someone. There’s at least one poor person out there who lived this.

Fucking why? Am I dating my twin sister in a POW camp?

Great idea! Go to a local sandwich shop with a list of strange ingredients and nag them to change their menu in honor of the devotion you have for your husband! And won’t he be surprised when you go there together and he orders a “Guy Whose Deranged Harpy Wife Won’t Shut The Fuck Up and Leave,” with light mayo and fries.

I wasn’t joking earlier. I am 100% certain watching people hate them is Grace and her husband’s sexual fetish. I mean, what makes more sense? That she wrote this book for couples to improve their relationship!? Ridiculous. Dog fuckingly ridiculous.

“Honey, I, uh, have a question. Well, more of a two part comment. The first part is: you went through my phone without asking. And the second part is this: I’m so happy for it and how much you must love me to do it! You even remembered the ringtone that holds a special meaning to both of us!” Grace, you nauseating ape, you write romance books like the closest you’ve ever come to fucking is getting a pelvic cast removed after a Black Friday injury at Build-a-Bear.

Hi, I’m the person who has already made it clear I think you’re getting sexual gratification from bothering others and when I read this I still screamed, “CRASH A WEDDING AND PRETEND IT’S YOURS!?” Grace, you unspeakable bitch, take the yearning you’re feeling from my hate and wrap yourself around a wild dog. Let it struggle and die slowly inside you. Take out a full page ad in a magazine with a picture of your husband sniffing its decaying remains on your panties under the words, “I love the rotting things inside my horrible wife! Happy 11th anniversary to Grace and to all the readers of Obnoxious Karen Monthly!”

Whoa, this one is great! Sorry about earlier, Grace. This idea of watching a TV show, one I’m a big fan of you say?, is a pretty amazing idea! It turns out you are a real expert on romance!

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Classic Remaster – Way of the Barbarian

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 make enough money to become immune to human laws. 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…

There’s a Russian religious text called The Way of The Pilgrim that suggests one can achieve a state of grace by incessantly reciting the Jesus Prayer until it becomes automatic. I thought this was a beautiful idea: It’s like brainwashing your own soul into goodness. I decided to give the concept a shot myself, but I don’t really want to be filled with grace. So instead of the Jesus Prayer, I am incessantly repeating an exchange from Conan the Barbarian. With every heartbeat, I am going to pray: 

“Conan, what is best in life?”

“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women.” 

***

I woke up as usual: sticky, frustrated, and unconsciously suckling at a bottle of Beefeaters like it was the sour teat of Bessundra, Sumerian cow-goddess of both fertility and brewing.

I remembered my goal: 

“CONAN!” I bellowed. “WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?” 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” came an answer from the living room. 

“To crush your enemies, see them driven before you,” I continued softly, padding across the blood-stained hallway (ain’t a thing; I just do my bleeding in the hallway).

I made the living room, and couldn’t help but notice that Bill Pullman was suspended from my ceiling.

Pretty sure that I didn’t have a Bill Pullman chandelier before. I closed my eyes and counted to 10, because I’m no Freshman to waking nightmares. 

Still there. He hung from an elaborate contraption that looked like equal parts examination table and torture rack. He was strapped into it with a pair of Darth Vader’s ski-boots. His face was purple and flushed. A single bead of sweat rolled down his neck and traced the contours of his jawline. 

“Bill Pullman?” I ventured.

His eyes snapped open. They were so bloodshot you could actually see the bulge of veins in there.

“PAX. TON.” He screeched, heaving himself to the ceiling. “I’m motherfucking Bill Paxton, you greenish shitsmear.” 

He undid the snaps on his boots and flipped to the ground. The blood quickly drained from his head, filtering down through his torso. I could see every single artery filling up, like an intricate network of tiny snakes digesting.

“Why are you on my ceiling, Bill Paxton?” I asked what I thought to be a reasonable question. 

“This is how I sleep, dick ooze! The single greatest flaw in the human experience is the horizontal sleeping position. It reduces bloodflow to the brain and starves the cells of oxygen. Every single night that I sleep like this, I get smarter. When last measured, I had an IQ of 735. I fuckin’ invented yogurt, you bag of distended testicles.” 

I shrank back, but remembered my new mantra. 

“Conan!” I told him matter-of-factly, “what is best in life? To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.” 

“What are you, some of kind of fuckin’ silica pack eater?” He edged toward the kitchen. “Why do you keep saying that?” 

Easily the best thing in my life was finding Bill Paxton inverted in my living room. I couldn’t lose this. I had to internalize my prayer.

‘Conanwhatisbestinlife,’ I thought to myself, even as I reassured Bill Paxton that I was not, in fact, “the dippest shit in fucktown” as he kept insisting. 

I needed a cool lie. I explained that I was part of an experimental prog-rock band that covered movie dialogue instead of songs. 

“What’s this merry band of butthole enthusiasts called?” he inquired, seemingly set at ease. 

“The… SoundtraXXX?” I regretted it immediately. 

“That’s a name stupider than two shits on a single fuck,” he laughed. 

Damn, but the man could swear. He saw what I was thinking:

“It’s the inverted sleeping, cockfart. It stimulates the intellect, but also inflames the part of the brain responsible for aggression. I’m so fuckin’ smart I’m like Einstein gaping Tesla’s asshole, but I swear like a syphilitic sailor and I fuckin’ kill dudes like you slap your limp little dick around.” 

As if to drive his point home, he suddenly karate-kicked my refrigerator. It rocked gently. The soft jingle of glass bottles clanking together. We stood in silence for a long moment. 

“Fucknuckles,” he whispered. 

***

I still had to work, and the last time I left Bill Paxton alone in my house he replaced my ceiling fan with a profane genius-swing. We hopped in my weather-beaten Kia and he sung along to Kansas’s Carry on Wayward Son, replacing every single word with some variation of “fuck.” 

“Fuckin’ fuck my fucko fuu-uuuck” sang Bill Paxton. “Fuck you fuck fuck motherfuu-uuuck.” 

I was oddly serene. I should have been nervous. I should have been confused. But I was having difficulty parsing emotions while repeating my mantra. 

LamentationoftheirwomenConanwhatisbest. 

The office. Bill Paxton rabbit punched my glove-box as I talked to the security guard. 

“He needs no visi-tor pass,” I informed the guard, puffing my chest out. “This is the Paxton and he goes where he will.” 

My speech patterns were getting bizarre. I made a mental note to research potential side-effects of brainwashing, and was surprised to find myself clutching the guard’s necktie and kneeling on his back. I’m not sure when I brought him to the ground, but I remember exactly when I got the erection.

A little fieldmouse of a man refused to hold the elevator for us, so Bill Paxton and I raced up the stairs instead. We were waiting for him when the doors opened on the 7th floor. Bill Paxton took him high with a clothesline, I went low and slide-kicked his knees out. His briefcase exploded. A sheaf of papers, a laptop, a saran-wrapped croissant. Shrapnel from a Business Grenade. 

Bill Paxton instantly regretted it. He offered the man a hand up while I held my arms in the air and roared. 

“What some call misfortune, others call adventure,” Paxton consoled the mouse. “The Chinese have a word that means both tragedy and opportunity. Suckfuckers fuck sucks.”

The meek one sprinted toward the fire exit, triggering my chase reflex. He survived that day. The hunt is not always successful.

“Come, Paxton. Let us take the office,” I suggested. The edges of my vision were going red, dimmed by a curtain of blood. 

Crushyourenemiesandseethemdriven. 

“Why do you ride with me, Paxton?” I said.

“Are you asking how we met, shitclot?” He asked. “Saw you last night at the bar — you got so drunk you ate an entire fake plant. Not a small one. Like a fern. I fuckin’ had to follow up on that. For science.”

I pushed open the double glass doors leading to my office. They shattered as they rebounded off the walls. 

“Lament, women! Rejoice, men! We ride. WE RIDE!” I roared.

 “Ffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-” Paxton hummed under his breath. 

***

I was having a hard time concentrating on the PowerPoint Presentation, so I decided to pinch and hiss at the man beside me. I glowered at him, daring him to cry out. He was quietly sobbing when the lights came up.

At some point during the presentation, I had stripped to the waist and drawn primitive runes across my torso with a highlighter. Somewhere along the line I had also lost Bill Paxton. That would probably have repercussions later. 

A man I once recognized as my superior was summoning me forward. It seemed that I had some sort of responsibility here — a report to give, an argument to proffer — I had no idea what these petty business concerns entailed, nor did I care. I stood and began tearing at my chair. My coworkers gabbled in confusion. Somewhere, the sound of glass breaking. Somewhere, a muffled shout. The slap of footsteps, growing louder. A distant alarm. 

Bestinlifetocrush.

One final wrench and I pulled the steel spine of my chair free. I wrapped the base of it in the shredded cloth of my discarded shirt. I wielded it in both hands, my makeshift broadsword, and charged my boss with a barbaric yawp. We would find out, together, which man was truly superior. Blood asks a question. Blood gives an answer.

The window facing the main room bubbled up like a blistering pustule, and burst in a shower of flames and glass. Looking through the shattered pane, I saw hell.

“BILL PULLMAN JUST BUILT A FLAMETHROWER OUT OF THE COPY MACHINE AND HE’S BURNING EVERYTHING!” Screamed a disheveled woman. 

“PAX. FUCKING. TON.” Bill screamed after the woman, as she fled from a burst of fresh flame. “CHRIST ON AN ASS I AM SO BILL PAXTON AS FUCK!” 

There was frenzy in The Paxton’s eyes. Sweat poured down his neck as he called with his trigger, and the inferno answered. A manic laugh percolated in my gut, overflowed my chest, poured out from my lips. I mounted the conference table, held my Ikeablade aloft, and rejoiced in the heat of the flames. I roared, because it felt good to roar.

LAMENTATIONOFTHEIRWOMEN.

***

I woke to the comfortingly pedestrian sounds of the morning news. It was all a fever dream, probably brought on by two bottles of Aftershock poured into a vaporizer and inhaled from an embossed foil balloon with the words “Happy Retirement, Martin” written in gold leaf across the front. It just felt like that kind of dream.

I reached for my face and came up short. Pain in my wrist. I was not in my own bed, nor was I alone. My coworkers — bruised, beaten, and burned — were standing over me.

“I just had the weirdest dream,” I laughed, “and you were there! And you were there! And you were there! And hey why am I chained to this radiator?” 

“Is he out of it now?” One asked.

“Bill Paxton’s agent said there was some sort of gas leak that caused temporary madness.” 

“I guess it’s worn off.”

“Should we let him go?” 

“I suppose. Jeremy, get the chains off, would you?” 

A little fieldmouse of a man reached down to undo my bindings. I smiled at him benignly.

The lock tumbled to the floor. He leaned close to shake the chains loose.

“Conan,” I whispered in his ear as my blood began to burn. “What is best in life?”

Categories
FUCKING DAY

The Chippendales Board Game

Hi, readers of 1900HOTDOG! It’s Fucking Day, so let’s share the most erotic of activities: the board game. “What a sarcastic fellow,” you’re thinking, but no, warm those genitals up and look at what we’re playing:

The CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME is a captivating adult experience for “ANY NUMBER CAN PLAY.” It was published in 1983 when men who looked like unrepentant sex criminal mugshots were not only considered handsome, but professionally handsome. It was also a time when board games had all the tactical depth of hoping you rolled a six and nothing else.

I haven’t read all the rules yet, but we’ll figure it out as we go. We both start on the CLUB square, the farthest corner from the sexy crotch which is functionally where a person exists already if they’re playing a board game about strippers.

I’ll let you go first, but before you roll, let me tell you the object of the game. We are racing to collect enough money, through acts of humiliation and nudity, to buy a set of paper cuffs and become the saddest cosplay stripper. This board game was designed to get all the men in the room naked and please take a moment to think back on all the rooms you’ve been inside and picture how many of them would have been more fun if every man was nude. What I’m saying is everyone in a group agreeing to spend their night playing board games and having a camera-ready asshole is a desperate longshot.

So to be clear, this is for square people to spawn an orgy. If you’re in a room of close friends and everyone gets naked for sexual dares and nobody starts boning, you unfuckable losers should have to introduce each other for the rest of your lives as, “These are my celibate friends, Dusty Gonads, Pointless Vulva, Sexless Urinetube, and Flaccid Tony.” You and I aren’t like that– our love will definitely be intertwined by the end of this article. Anyway, that’s a later problem. The bottom of the box says we each start with $25.

For your first turn you roll a 4 and land on CHARADE, which means…

Okay, it’s just Charades, but you get to decide what to act out and since your opponents are the ones who get money for guessing it, you’re incentivized to make sure no one can do that. In game design we call this “Fucking Stupid.” But let’s assume you’re a sportsman and act out something guessable. You’re… okay, you’re shitting your pants? Farting your pants. Farting off a boat! The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps? Let’s see… it’s not shitting your pants, so… wait, it was “shitting your pants?” THAT’S THE FIRST THING I SAID! Goddamnit, anyway, thanks for winning me ten dollars.

My turn. I roll a 3 and get GO DIRECTLY TO DANCE FLOOR. At the dance floor, the rules say…

Okay, so I stand up and dance and I have 20 seconds to convince you to buy $2 kisses from me. Hello, eight easy dollars and one piece of very chewed gum. So with my charades guess and those four kisses you bought from me I now have $43 and your fucking gum. You have $17, and to put that into perspective, the bottom of the box says the first male player to be naked down to their underpants and also have $175 is the winner. But let’s not be the first people to actually finish the CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME. You roll a 2.

You’ve landed on PICK A MEMBERSHIP CARD, so here you go:

I believe in honest work for an honest dollar, so I’m still giving you the kisses you paid for during my turn making this card pointless. I’ll let you draw again.

This is a weird game. We’ve spent quite some time now waiting for you to define penetration with a handsome tongue in your mouth and you didn’t get a single bill of Chippendales Play Money for your troubles. You know how a game of Monopoly drags out dull game mechanics until someone loses their temper? This game does the same thing but until someone has a dick in every hole. Speaking of, to keep things moving, I think it’d be okay if you drew another MEMBERSHIP CARD.

Well, this really killed the mood, but at least you got $2 for it. You’re up to $19 and we all know a little bit more about limpness. My turn! I roll a 1 and land on TAKE IT OFF. I’m assuming that’s what it sounds like? Let’s flip over the box and look…

Way ahead of you, bottom of the box, but these are some pretty draconian stripping rules. If you don’t count things like rings and watches, every time I take an article of clothing off, I’m 50% done being naked. I admire the rush to get things going, but at the rate we’re collecting money we’re going to be balls naked five or six hours before anyone’s near a win condition. I get that’s the kind of thing that would get the designer of the CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME to shriek, “That’s the point, THAT’S THE POINT!” Still, this game sucks and I feel like the people at this orgy are going to refer to it as “that boring orgy.”

You roll a 4 and land on KISS A PERSON OF YOUR CHOICE. Hello again, this is quite a lucky spot to land, but you still only have $19. On my turn I roll another 1 and get PICK AN AUDITION CARD. AUDITION CARDS are exactly the same thing as MEMBERSHIP CARDS, usually down to the exact wording because this game is dumb as shit, and I get…

What? “Describe ultimate experience?” I get we’re only here to be led into a fuck by a trail of poorly disguised sexual escalations, but I’m not going to dignify this with a response. “Describe ultimate experience” is something I’d expect the subtitles say in a Japanese bidet commercial starring Kevin Spacey. I’m drawing again.

This isn’t even close to what I charge for five sensual knee bends. I’m taking this as an insult and drawing again!

So it’s a dare, but it’s not clear if I dare you to do something or if you dare me to do something. The bottom of the box says…

It’s still not super clear, but I think I select a person, dare them to do anything I want, and then give them $5 if they do it. Which means this is another gameplay element incentivizing players to make the game impossible. The smart move is to dare you to give me $6 or one of your hands, but I think it’s more in the spirit of the game if I dare you “anal” and call you coward. You know what? I think I’m going to dare you to draw three hunks from the unrelated deck of Chippendales playing cards included with this board game and stare at them for 30 minutes. Here’s $5 for doing so, bringing you up to $24 and me down to $38.

As per the conditions of the dare, stare now for 30 minutes:

Something you love about me is how I love to name hunks, and the five of spades is Bunless “Star” War-Skid, who models potato recipes for vegetable photographers. The two and seven of spades are twin hunks Rash and Rosacea Rightstuff shown here obviously after they kissed so long their beards started growing in. You still have 28 minutes left to stare at them or you have to give me my $5 back.

Great work! It’s your turn, and you roll a 4 to land on the crotch space.

This does nothing, so nice crotch roll, dumbass.

It’s my turn again; I roll a 5 and land on GO DIRECTLY TO BAR. This means…

Great. I’m stuck at the bar drinking until I roll doubles. That has a 17% chance of happening, so I should be just doing that for about 6 more turns. In game design terms this is what we call “very good game design.” It’s your turn, like it probably will be for awhile, and you roll a 2 to land on PICK A MEMBERSHIP CARD. Here you go:

This is a lot of pressure on you to say anything other than “GIANT DICK GIANT DICK GIANT DICK!!!“ to polite chuckles, plus it awards you no money. At this point I’m not sure if the lack of rewards is a design decision or a mistake, but I didn’t roll doubles so it’s your turn again anyway. Let me know when you’re done, I stopped paying attention to thumb through the deck of Chippendales playing cards which, once again, have nothing to do with the game they were included with.

Bonch Groin, Five Inches for Hire.

“The man who fucked this watermelon is 7% Uzbek,” says Beef Ancestry, performing his famous party trick.

Bonch Groin scoffs. “He’s just using mirrors or something. Nobody can taste Uzbek,” he informs you. “Plus he’s wrong. This dick is 100% American.” Hi, this is the kind of thing that goes through my head while we each take turns rolling dice and getting absolutely nowhere.

“I’m just here to do the roofing, but sure I could use fifty bucks,” says Gino ‘Sex Datsun’ Giuessepe. I think this to myself while you roll something that makes you curse and then shrug, shyly taking off your shirt, pants, and socks.

I assume this one is some kind of amazing prank by an employee at the playing card manufacturer. There’s simply no way a man with two square inches of un-haired flesh whose stripper persona is “indecent exposure at a children’s birthday party,” would be included in a deck of cards aimed at female masturbators. And I know it was the ’80s and this is what 25-year-olds looked like back then, but if you told me this man was a grandfather of nine, I’d believe you. I’m completely lost in the details of the world that allowed this man, Uncle Laffs the Pussy Barber, to exist. “It’s your turn,” you keep saying, fully naked at this point.

“I’m going to hatch these fish eggs in your moistening birth canal,” says Hunk Zero, visitor from the stars.

“I hope you don’t mind, gorgeous. I borrowed a shirt,” coos bite-sized hunk, Testes Shrinkray.

“No grapes for you,” whispers Gerald Cock. “You fucking piece of shit.”

“Are you sure I can’t talk you into changing that score to a D, Mr. Health Inspector?” I brainstorm while you continue to scream, “IT’S YOUR TURN!”

“Manjo Pubefood? No… Salad Jake, Penis Daredevil? Maybe just Slip Cucumber? Cobb Vulvasplash. Shit, none of these are working. Graham Circumcision?” I mouth silently while you grow more furious and nude.

“This one!” I shout. “I found a really good one! Ten out of ten hunk, no jokes– great hunk, outstanding hunk.” You agree without reservation and we get back to the game. Where were we? I think it’s my turn and I don’t roll doubles, so it’s your turn. You land on the MEMBERSHIP CARD one and get:

You just look naked and sad. Another setup for pedestrian wackiness with no reward. Let’s try another and see if it’s any better.

At least this one is worth fake money. You sigh and start listing things you might penetrate with a banana. “You can put it in your… butt. You could vaginally insert a banana… suck it like a, you know, penis.” The CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME has removed all joy from eroticism and whimsy. “You could eat it, I guess. You could eat the disgusting butt banana,” you say to earn your five imaginary dollars. I can barely look at you. You’re like a whore being told she can keep whatever she finds in the cup holders. You’re like a chimpanzee holding a funeral for a doll it thinks is a corpse. You’re like Carlos Mencia asking the waiter if he can pay for his meal with the sketch idea “Spider-Mang: Far From Homie.”

I don’t roll doubles so it’s your turn again. A tear crawls down your cheek when you see you’ve landed on PICK A MEMBERSHIP CARD again. You flip one over, dreading whatever forced silliness will be on the other side… 

You look at the card unable to believe it’s worse than you could have imagined. You look down at your naked body. “Banana. Banana float,” you decide. For zero Chippendale Play Money dollars. For nothing. We both look down at the board for what feels like an eternity but is actually only 17 hours.

“Ha, what if you really did say d. Anchovies,” I joke.

“I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done today,” your ghost says. “That’s right, I died. End your fucking article with that, asshole.”

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Aidan Mouat: the Patron brought to you by the new Arby’s Edible Six Cheese Sandwich Mask with Cheese.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Experience This Fighting Game Girl Fetish

Video games are just a normal thing people do now in between pornography and sleep, and it’s great. But Gamers, as a culture, are still pretty vile. They have a lot of problems with women. And minorities. And trans people. And other gamers. They basically absorbed all the worst parts of hate groups, but in a laughably ridiculous way, like Kirby devouring a bigot and then putting on his adorable little Klan hood. We’re here to focus on the misogyny today, specifically in the fetishization of girls in fighting games, because it is crazy that so many nerds want to pummel something every bit as much as they want to fuck it. 

Hi, I accidentally spilled Punching Day in my Fucking Day and now it looks very Upsetting Day, but I’m going to drink it anyway.

Haha Topper, I honestly forget you exist every single week. 

That is a great outlook, Topper! Could it be that you’re-

Guzzle dicks, Topper. 

Let’s get started. This is an actual ad for Tekken 6:

While this is oddly entrancing and definitely art, you may have noticed they forgot to even mention that it’s for a videogame. No seriously, they seem downright reluctant to mention their own product in this advertisement for that product:

Viral Girl Fight Spot is perhaps not the best way to phrase it. Or actually, you know what? Yes it is. Viral Girl Fight Spot is both my favorite bar and my patented sex move. It’s also just one full minute of damp women wrestling in underwear, which again, is not something I hate… but also is not something I would pay $60 to simulate a PG-rated version of. Not when I could pay $0 to watch the XXX version where two girls actually bang on top of two girls fighting and they incorporate the shoe. You need the internet to access this softcore pornography, which means you have the internet, and can just access hardcore pornography. Why is this a thing?

It’s true, we’ve all been so ruined by internet depravity that the fanbase for this kind of thing is almost cute.

That’s like an 11 year-old’s understanding of sexuality. An 11-year old from before the internet. From like, 1986. An 11-year old from 1986 who hadn’t found any hobo pornography in the woods yet. 

This guy’s cat can’t even conceive of people that don’t like watching virtual girls fight. “They must be girls themselves,” Mr. Twiddles muses. “They must be girls who are actively losing a fight? And are mad about it, so they log onto YouTube midfight to dislike videos of girls fighting?” 

He also calls women “females” while he blames them for online problems based on no evidence. It’s a good thing Mr. Twiddles is already a pussy, or I’d posit that he might die without ever touching one.

Here’s another video, this one devoted to cataloguing every possible iteration of one fighting game girl’s “Sexy Combos.” 

Listen, I get it: that’s 104 damage. That’s hot. I’m a ‘90s kid. We literally invented this fetish. I’ve paused a Spinning Bird Kick, I know what’s up. It’s two women in tight clothing doing stretches, of course I understand the appeal. Plus one of them is doing a full Captain Kirk-style two-footed dropkick, and that’s my exact fetish. Now, it does get a little weird when one of the women is replaced by a kangaroo…

But again, this is the internet. I consider it an average day when I stumble across something where the deep sexuality of kangaroo punishment is only implied.

And to be fair, fighting games don’t design asses in the dark. So far these fans are just documenting default moves — it’s the games themselves that put this stuff out there:

The little hearts that shoot out of her butt when she sits on her opponent’s face are not missing some key cultural context. That’s not how a Japanese opponent honors the effort you put into a fight. Lots of video games are still just very embarrassing, and they would like to, at all times, gently remind you of the fucking you’re not doing.

But as with literally everything, things get weird when we delve into the mod scene:

Somebody took weeks out of their life to lovingly craft bikinis for every single female character in this fighting game, just so you could peek at 14% more of their digital ass when they high kick. And the fans love it!

Every one of these comments sounds like it comes from a late-blooming tween that doesn’t understand sex yet, but feels compelled to pretend because all of a sudden his friends are talking about boobs at the slumber party instead of Pokemon.

“Oh geez man I sure do love the chest parts when you can see a lot of them and then the girls get mad at them and they jostle ‘em rudely.”

Not all bikini mods are made equal:

Every character in Street Fighter V has a crazy horse body that is barely recognizable as a human, much less a sexual one. But this dude still spent 60 hours of his life putting lumpy beasts in Borat bikinis so he could masturbate when their fists clipped through each other’s tits. 

Remember, this isn’t one of those janky Skyrim mods where you can maybe put them in erotic scenarios like bending over in front of a skeleton. This game is all about brutal hand to hand combat, so the bulk of the video is this:

Don’t forget that fighting is a huge part of this fetish, and all that wholesome enthusiasm in the comments is exclusively for strugglefucking.

Holy shit, yes! Topper, that is spot on. This is strugglefucking for Disney fans. It’s PG bondage. Snugglefudging is so good, man. It’s so soft that it’s almost vile. That word is like a rotten mushroom. Topper, thank you. And hey, good on you for writing out “fuck” for once.

Topper, god damn it. Can you at least suck consistently?

Anyway, let’s delve deeper into Snugglefudge culture.

Ah yes, we’ve dug down into the foot stratum. No woman is allowed to exist anywhere, even virtually, without some dude in a withered soul patch cataloguing the wrinkles on her soles. We laugh about foot fetishes a lot here, because jerking off to a toenail is inherently funny, but all things considered they’re pretty mild. Don’t get distracted though: this is not just a video about a barefoot mod on a fighting game girl. It’s specifically about her losing scenes. 

This is not solely about masturbating to pixelated feet, it’s about masturbating to the pixelated feet of a woman who’s just been beaten unconscious. 

These Snugglefudgers can’t even get off if there’s an intact female skull at the far end of them wiggling piggies.

There are lots of asses and feet in that gif, but it’s clear the intended climax here is when a woman’s face gets crushed between all of them. Once again, the comments read like somebody pretending to be into this because they walked into the wrong conference hall and haven’t come up with a good distraction yet.

“Gotta love that foot, am I right guys? Yes, I came here to discuss old socks on purpose. You know, I heard the front desk girl say she couldn’t find her toenail clippers. You bad dudes go on ahead, I’ll catch up!”

“Yes, one for feet, and feet for all! Let’s close our eyes and think of toes, fellas — hey is this there a trick to this door? Do you just pull or…?”

Topper! You don’t learn!

Haha save your “ohs” for when you got some “god nos” to put on them. It gets worse!

Look at that greasy hulk about to ruin some poor gal’s wedding dress. I’m not taking screengrabs out of context here, check that title:

That’s all this video is about. Oiled domestic abuse in exotic locales. Look at those views! Two million! There is an absolutely booming market for people who love nothing more than to watch Manderson Cooper hate-crime fake women through the floor:

Hey let’s scroll down to the comments here, see all the outrage:

All the folks calling this out as enabling the worst kind of misogyny…

Let’s find those heroes willing to stand up and say, “maybe you shouldn’t cum to this!”

Hey Topper, pay real close attention to those thumbs. See how all of them are pointing up?

No problem my man. Thank you for Snugglefudge!


…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Zachary Evans, who fills every room with his boisterous spirit, and also bees.
Categories
FUCKING DAY

Girls X Battle 2

You know those anime games about collecting and sort of phantom-banging schoolgirls? Th-

Hush now, wee Topper. You’ll find your place. Here, say something about RFPs.

More like Ready For Penetration, am I right?!

Topper? Am I right? Buddy? How explicit do you want the following screengrabs to be, Topper? Am I right?

Uh huh.

Cool. 

Anyway, you know those games about collecting and sort of phantom-banging schoolgirls? They’re already the most embarrassing thing to be caught playing this side of a ukulele. The only way they could be worse is if they adopted gacha mechanics and made the whole thing pay to win. Like some sort of schoolgirl store where you could spend real money to force fake girls to pretend to like you more. Just skipping past the whole ‘dating sim’ excuse and using actual in-game mechanics to simulate human trafficking. Hey, that sounds a lot like Girls X Battle 2! 

Mobile gaming is known for its god-awful ads, but usually that just means they promise you an ass when they have no intention of delivering one. Just judging by the commercials, Girls X Battle 2 seems to be downright evil. They’ve built a whole ad campaign on the kind of unabashed anime misogyny you’d normally only find in a Joestar. 

The girls come with body ratings and apparently butt specialties. They pose like they have both scoliosis and intestinal cramping. It seems like with enough prodding you can level them up into full bipedal locomotion though, much like teaching an ape to do human impressions through consistent tasering. 

This is pretty par for the course in anime, where every girl is mostly panty and they cum when you embarrass them. The whole concept of ‘leveling up’ a girl from classmate to girlfriend to wife is a little troubling — implying that any woman not currently found at the end of your dick just hasn’t realized their maximum potential yet — but mostly I’m worried about that baby. It is only being used to hoist those tits up and out like an infant push-up bra. Even if it survives the smothering, it’s now a prop in a mommy fetish that I would pay actual money to never understand. 

Hey, you’re really getting it, Topper! 

One running theme of Girls X Battle 2 ads is that troubled young women come to you for help…

Which you can use for sexual revenge. 

That’s the most incel mentality I can imagine: Even in your fantasies, women don’t actually want you. They only come to you as a last resort, knowing that you equate rescue with fucking harder than Baywatch. 

It’s all about spite and power, and only maybe tangentially related to fucking if she can stay still long enough to convince you she’s a pillow and you’re not too full of Dorito to be horizontal for 90 seconds.

Girls X Battle 2 ads repeatedly hammer this message, just like you’d be doing to Stacy Williams, who called school security on you for masturbing through the slots in her locker, if only she would first contract a dangerous new plague and discover you’re the only one who’ll take her in now.

Here we have a Level 30 SchoolDamsel being chased by what I can only assume are a gang of Level 60 FuckPolice. She takes a turn to find the player blocking her way, and then comes what this audience longs for: That precious moment when a vulnerable young woman’s future is in your hands, and you can exploit that power for a peek at feet.

So in this fantasy, the only way you’ll get to sex is if you first harbor a dangerous fugitive in exchange for it? How little do your own imaginary women want to fuck you when you have to accomplice yourself in hypothetical crimes just to lick their old panties?

That’s what BarutoSTANx69 said when he tasted them briny britches!

The choices these ads present make BioWare’s moral dilemmas look like Season Four of The Wire. 

Here you see your wife flirting with a Level 30 Dude while you, a mere Level 1 Man — a cuttingly apt description of an incel if I’ve ever seen one — huddle around the corner. Your only responses to this scenario are to fight back, or utterly give up on life.

So you can either lose yet another scrap to a waistcoated fop in a bathroom, or just wait until your wife leaves with him before drowning yourself in the toilet. Again, these games are built around sexual fantasies. This is the least dignified fetish since Human Pigging. 

Sorry, Topper. I meant Lolli Vore.

Here we see what happens when you get dumped: 

Your options are “succumb to alcoholism” or “capsule” to get another girl, aka the Bill Cosby method. Yes, Capsules. Did you forget this was a mobile game? I mean, the ads sure did, but if I had to guess at the mechanics they’re so desperate to hide from you, the player they’re trying to get to play this game, it seems to be both gacha and card-based:

That’s two gambling mechanics fucking you, instead of just one! That’s as close to a threesome fantasy as these defeated dorks will allow themselves! 

So it seems like gameplay takes one of two paths: You can try to get girls the old fashioned way, by finding them in periods of extreme distress and positioning the prospect of having sex with you as marginally better than dying in a gutter. Or you can skip all that and fulfill the ultimate anime nerd fantasy: purchasing your girls straight from a vending machine! Or rather, you purchase the possibility of girls with each random card draw, sort of like the opposite of Magic: The Gathering.

Or hell, you might get a car instead. Both are equally valuable commodities. 

Here’s the closest thing the ads give us to a villain. It is an unattractive woman.

She has committed both of the ultimate sins: Not only is she unappealing to you, but she also doesn’t want to sleep with you after you proposition her anyway. It’s once again time for coin-based revenge!

Yes, you’ll show that cow once and for all… by purchasing a teenager from an orb like a sex trafficked Pokemon.

Obviously everything about that last sentence is a problem, but let’s set it aside to address the real issue here: This game is proud that it’s Pay to Win! You’re not supposed to admit to P2W at all, game! Much less advertise it like a feature! 

I guess I get the dream you’re pitching to your audience, which is that money can buy you coolness, but if that’s true you have to tell Elon Musk. He is dying out there. 

In this one we find the ultimate male fantasy:

Your dad explodes in coins like he just touched a spike at the end of Green Hill Zone, and your totally unearned riches instantly graduate you into the coolest of all things: A low level police officer. You are instantly so overwhelmed with pussy that you’re cursed to drag a literal chain of women around like you wished for some tail from an ironic genie.

If the purpose of art is to help you better understand a part of what it is to be human, then I’m going to present you with the best possible art. 

This one short animation explains absolutely everything about incel culture with not a single frame wasted. People have written entire textbooks trying to make sense of that movement, and they were just fucking dunked on by a six second gif from a mobile game.

One which I will now have to play. I think I’ve — hold on. Topper, been a while since you said anything. You paying attention?

GRRREAT! 

I think I’ve been fully briefed by these ads. I am ready to start this game, which I assume to be like playing a visual novel that learned to hate. I fully expect that downloading this onto my phone will give it viruses, and taking it into my brain will corrupt my thinking like a Snowcrash hack. Let’s get started:

What the fuck? 

Did I download the right game? This is not at all what I was promised. Is this just a JRPG with anime sluts? That’s so ordinary it’s almost redundant! There’s nothing in here at all about revenging myself upon women whose very existences reject me. Unless that revenge comes in the form of putting a Skankmage in the front row where she’ll take damage meant for a Tankwhore. 

Admittedly, this still sucks — it’s like a very embarrassing Suikoden meant for kids who can’t get past the Family Filter on their internet. 

But I have seen anime before. This is like a 4 on the Anime Embarrassment Scale, somewhere between Darling in the Franxx mech-handjobs and Kemono Michi hellhound ass-huffing.

Sure, Girls X Battle 2 is full of unfortunate phrases like ‘EXP JUICE’ and ‘GIRL SHARDS’…

Which makes it sound like Xenogears for budding serial killers, but at its heart the game is just a basic tactics RPG with, if anything, less prominent titties than usual:

It’s like Final Fantasy for 13 year olds to masturbate to, which is crazy, because that’s what Final Fantasy is for. It’s like that gacha Fire Emblem game, only exclusively marketed to incel terrorists. I realize no mobile game is allowed to have a truthful or accurate ad campaign, but this is backwards. You’re supposed to promise something epic and deliver something unexpectedly boring, not promise misogynist propaganda and then deliver ahegao Chrono Trigger. Unless… is Girls X Battle 2 trying to rope in an audience already susceptible to hate groups, and then soften their views with adorable girl-sprites casting saucy fireballs? Is this actually an outreach program trying to teach hate-weebs to cum harmlessly?!

Hey, there he is! Take us out, Topper. You know what I want to hear.

I have much worse anime shit than this in my arsenal, Topper. Say it. Or do you want to just start right in on Apocalypse Zero?

Brought to you by a Hot Tip from the Hot Dog Tipline. Thanks, Valriuk!