Category: FUCKING DAY

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FUCKING DAY

Linnea Quigley’s Horror Workout 🌭

Workout videos are known for often over-promising results, but when Linnea Quigley’s workout video warns that it might kill you, it delivers. The fifty-nine-minute workout only features about twenty minutes of actual exercise, but in that short window of time, I did manage to hurt myself! 

I learned so much from this workout, but I think the main thing I learned was that there is no governing body that determines what constitutes an exercise video. This workout video red-pilled me. What even is exercise, man? Exercise isn’t REAL. It’s just wobbling your bits all around and hoping something good happens.

Calling Linnea Quigley’s workout video a workout video is like when you live in the midwest, and a bowl full of mayonnaise and Chili Cheese Fritos is called a salad. You might want it to be that, but it’s just not. What it is, is something supremely of its time. It’s a cool prop for when you want to have a VHS tape that doesn’t say pornography on it but is clearly fulfilling the function of softcore pornography. What I’m saying is I’ve never seen so many tits in my life, and I have them.

The “workout” begins with Linnea taking a three-minute-long shower during which she washes her breasts and butt almost exclusively. Taking a shower before a workout is just bad hygiene practice, but it’s ok because the amount of working out that actually happens in this workout tape is so minimal. With her breasts and butt now clean, Linnea Quigley steps out of the shower and screams, apparently as horrified to be in a workout video as I am to be doing one. 

It cuts to an empty living room, and we’re formally introduced to Linnea Quigley, a woman whose hair is always frightened. 

We watch clips from some of Linnea’s movies, the longest of which is another shot of her fully nude in a shower. This time she’s making out with a guy. I’m concerned that Linnea doesn’t understand the primary use of a shower at this point. The clips continue until we’re a full ten minutes in before working out is even mentioned, and even then, it immediately cuts to another clip of Linnea having sex in one of her movies as if the video is apologizing for bringing it up.  After that clip, Linnea finally starts stretching. 

She’s wearing a leather studded bra, and fishnet stockings, which she acknowledges is not typical workout wear but asks, “face it, would you want to watch me workout in a baggy sweatsuit?” The answer to which is yeah, I would Linnea. You don’t look comfortable at all. I’m getting a wedgie just looking at that leather bikini. I’ll gladly pause the video so you can throw on some proper workout attire.

While this would be an excellent workout for someone with no arms or legs, those of us with pesky extra limbs are left yearning for instruction on what to do with them. Linnea doesn’t explain her exercise moves or their benefit to your body. She just wordlessly humps the floor for about seven minutes as we close up on her torso. 

Now that we’re thoroughly stretched, the workout can finally begin! Except it doesn’t. Instead, we cut to Linnea, going for a jog while wearing an outfit that looks like it’s been through a werewolf attack but in a sexy way.

She jogs by a cemetery, and a bunch of zombies rise from the dead for some unspecified reason. She defeats the zombies by body shaming them into exercising with her.

r. 

There are a lot of reasons that zombies make bad exercise models. It’s way more fun to do zombie stuff than work out stuff, so most of the actors are focused on the zombie part of the job and not at all focused on the workout modeling part. They’re not worried about demonstrating proper lunges. They’re worried about how a zombie would do lunges, which is, of course, badly. 

They stuffed so many zombies into this scene that it’s hard to fit them all in the frame. Two zombies would have been plenty of zombies! They clearly didn’t hire any kind of fitness expert to plan a workout for their workout video because they blew their entire budget on ten zombies. Then they put them all so close together it’s difficult to move around enough to do the workout. 

Anyway, the whole zombie workout thing is obviously entertaining, but lest we forget the actual purpose of this video, they make sure to throw in a brief cameo from Linnea’s boob. It flops out of her workout shirt a couple of times as she furiously does the monkey (for exercise). The majority of this workout could accurately be described as dancing but angrier.

Having completed her goal of showing you her boobs in a spooky way, Linnea proceeds to kill all of the zombies by tricking them into jumping in a pool. Is it zombie cannon that they can’t swim, or did Linnea just happen to find a group of dead people who never took advantage of their local YMCA? Also, if you can’t breathe, you can’t drown, right? So even though Linnea leaves the zombies in the pool, she’s just made a mess that she’ll have to find a new way to clean up the next time she wants to go swimming.

Anyway, it’s sleepover time. Linnea has invited some friends over to watch exclusively movies that she’s starred in. They are all pretty confused about the concept of a horror movie.  

It’s ok, though, because they aren’t really there to watch horror movies. They’re there to pillow fight in lingerie, exercise in lingerie, and then die like everyone else who has attempted this cursed workout. 

Once again, Linnea doesn’t explain the exercise at all, and if she did, I’m guessing all she would have to say is, “pay careful attention to what your vagina should be doing during this part” since that’s the main focus for a lot of this segment. 

The exercise party is interrupted by the lights going out. Linnea goes off by herself to find the problem, screams and never returns. One of Linnea’s friends peels off alone to look for her and surprise surprise! She gets murdered.

Each girl proceeds to die in long dramatic death sequences that take up so much time you can almost hear the producer yelling, “Stab her like ten more times. It needs to be sixty minutes long, and Linnea can only dry hump so much.” One girl gets decapitated, and her head flies into a toilet. God, this exercise video really hates anyone who tries to do the exercise. 

Once we watch all of the girls except for Linnea die, the killer is revealed to be…goth Ronald Reagan, I knew it all along!

Just kidding, goth Ronald Reagan is Linnea Quigley herself! She looks directly into the camera and gives a deranged villain speech that, honestly, elevates the whole thing from an exercise video to some kind of bizarre feminist high art. 

“You, you on the sofa. I know what you’re doing when you’re watching my movies!” She says. Implying that she knows you have masturbated to this workout video that was clearly made to masturbate to and it has driven her insane. This is chilling and also fucking awesome.

Finishing this video feels like being dommed across time and space by Linnea Quigley. She dares you to look at her body and then shames you for it. I don’t know if any twist ending has ever satisfied me so much. Looper has nothing on this shit. That’s right, The Looper.

Sure, this exercise video has its flaws. Is it so difficult to follow that you could realistically injure yourself trying to perform it? Yes, but it’s also got everything you could ever want in a workout. There are zombies, pillow fights, humping the floor as a mode of exercise, hairstyles I will have nightmares about, goth Ronald Reagan, and Linnea Quigley making me feel like a nasty pervert for daring to try and do her exercise video.  
My nasty pervert ass is on Twitter @YouKnowLydia.

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FUCKING DAY

Angela Lansbury’s Positive Moves 🌭

Recently I, like so many others, had my high contact workout routine interrupted by COVID-19. I used to get exercise by lifting attractive women over my head like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Now that I’m stuck at home with no one to hoist, I need a new workout, so I turned to the woman with my idea of the perfect body, Dame Angela Lansbury.

I’ve been a big Fansbury since her star-making turn as the teapot who fucks in Beauty And The Beast. Angela’s VHS workout Positive Moves was released in 1990, and it was billed as a workout for any age. I’m 31, which is an age, so I figured I was good to go.

Positive Moves is a workout routine that is very concerned with not killing the people who do it. It’s perfect for me because I don’t need Jillian Michaels screaming at me to do better burpees or whatever; I want a workout where Angela Lansbury is impressed that I can move my arms at all.  

She’s always like, “hold onto something while you do this!” but I don’t need to hold onto shit. For the first time, I’m the king of PE class. In the land of the arthritic, the woman who can do squats unassisted is king. 

The workout is divided into five parts: 

Angela is in a bath towel, rubbing herself and explaining to you that if you rub yourself every day, you will notice if you start to get fat. The rubbing gets intense, and Angela seems to be enjoying it, maybe too much. 

After much massaging, we finally get the beginning of the actual working out part of the workout. It takes place outside because Angela Lansbury lives on a palatial estate where there’s enough room to do things outside. 

We get to do a lot of gentle, dance-like movements. It made me feel like I’d been cast as a tree in a grade school play. 

As you sashay along with Angela, there’s a very particular kind of workout music playing in the background. It sounds like if smooth jazz was somehow nerdier, or if a very sleepy man found a synthesizer. There’s a weird twinge of science fiction that makes me think any second Angela could throw on a jet pack and rocket away into space where no one can hear you sashay. 

Throughout the workout, Angela remains so positive and caring. “Bend your knees just slightly here. If you don’t have any knees, that’s fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re beautiful, pause, and reflect on what a cutie you are. Would you like ten dollars? Here’s ten dollars.” That’s a direct quote from the video; I’m pretty sure. 

After the intense warm-up is over, we move on to writhing on the floor. The camera pans over Angela’s entire body like they’re making a pre-Instagram thirst trap video that’s explicitly targeted at Mickey Rooney. 

There’s a long shot of her toes that made my broken brain wonder if Angela Lansbury has a wikifeet page, and before you open a new tab so fast you break your browser, let me just tell you that she does and it is extensive. She’s rated four stars (nice feet). 

Angela calls this part moving freely. “If you can’t move freely, that’s fine, remain chained where you are. You’re doing great! Here’s a little kiss,” I’m pretty sure she says. 

With prancing time comes a music change to some funky bass. Angela waves her hands around like a magician’s assistant that’s had too many Red Bulls, flaps her arms like Big Bird’s hot sister, and does a couple of Darth Vader force pushes. This is the most intense part of the workout, I think? It’s got some hardcore prancing.

The final part of the video is where things start to get weird. It feels like Angela made a thirty-minute long fitness video and then kind of forgot that the camera crew was there and just kept living her best life. She goes for a walk, bakes, sews, gardens, and the whole time the crew is filming her like, “Does Angela realize we haven’t gone home yet or…” 

I love being able to say I did an hour-long workout when what I really did was mostly watch Angela Lansbury bake bread, so this is my favorite part of the tape. Putting on a big ol’ snuggie and taking a nap is literally a part of this workout routine.

Then Angela starts to take a bath, which is weird because that’s how the video started. How clean does this woman need to be? She’s not sweaty from the workout or anything, so why is she taking another bath? 

The reason suddenly becomes apparent when she starts talking about older women and sexuality. “It used to be thought that women lose interest in sex after menopause, but now we know that just isn’t true. Here check this out I’m going to crank it right now,” is pretty much exactly what she says. 

This part of the video is great, obviously, because it demonstrates the difference between how men and women masturbate. If you asked a man for his ideal masturbation environment, it would probably be like a dank basement with no windows at all and a fridge with unlimited Gatorade. 

Women want a bathtub in a room with floor to ceiling french windows on a palatial estate, because you can masturbate anywhere on a palatial estate, that’s why people buy them. We want Angela Lansbury in the corner just whispering words of encouragement to us about how we’re goddesses and what we’re doing is beautiful, and maybe every once in a while, she hands us a Gatorade because everyone needs to stay hydrated. 

This workout has everything I ever wanted. An old woman being nice to me, minimal actual exercise, Angela Lansbury crankin it, a surprising amount of gardening, so many pastel jumpsuits, and Angela Lansbury crankin it.

Plus, it was made three decades ago, and Angela Lansbury is still doing it every day on her palatial estate at ninety-four years old, so it’s got to work, right? Give it a shot and sashay your way to immortality like a beautiful ancient tortoise who is well versed in the art of self-pleasure. 

You can follow Lydia Bugg on Twitter or check out more of her writing at Liddybug.com 

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FUCKING DAY

Experience… The Chermen

An “All-Cher production of Westside Story” seems like one of those thin Saturday Night Live sketches they only air after the second musical performance. It sounds like-

W-why did… I don’t even want to do this anymore. God dammit, Topper. One sentence. I was one sentence in. I guess I’m going to push onward and hope I find joy again?

…

“Westside Story but all Cher” sounds like the kind of idea that Cher’s handlers have to pretend to write down. It sounds like some breathy theater kid with an obnoxiously-spelled name found a magic lamp but didn’t think their wish through all the way. All genies are pedantic assholes, Mychaell, if you don’t provide qualifiers then you’re basically asking to be cursed. You’re going to technically get what you want, but in a way that makes you wish for death, which actually counts as your second wish, and wow — you are just getting schooled by this genie. Here’s your deepest desire, idiot:

That awkward, shuffling greenscreen gangbang looks like a warning that the hallucinogens are about to turn on you, but don’t throw away your faulty eyes. That’s real. It shouldn’t be. 

The special effects budget here was “it’s CHER, I’ll LEARN computers!” and the costumes are sub-Klump. The choreography is done entirely by Cher trying to guess what Cher’s going to do next, a feat you may recognize as laughably impossible. And the set design is somewhere between high school drama final and Twin Peaks demon world. Cool, at least it sounds like somebody’s fucking four dolphins at once.

I hate you so much, Topper. I can taste my hate for you. It’s like over-microwaved burrito ends, just hard and dry and bitter and sharp in my mouth. Please just let me write this stupid fucking article that you have already destroyed.

…

I can never tell if Cher is joking about being Cher, and I think she lost that thread a long time ago, too. She introduces this whole premise by dressing up like a little girl, which she thinks is ‘oversized men’s button up,’ and pretends like her mother asked her what she wants to do when she grows up. Instead of ‘doctor’ or ‘astronaut’ or ‘artillery cannon crotch polisher,’ she says “I want to play every part in West Side Story.” 

Before the audience can even laugh she spins to her feet, stares the camera down and savagely confirms this is actually happening, motherfucker. Then the portal opens and you are sucked into Cher-world, where most everything is Cher and things that are not Cher are there for Cher to destroy at her amusement. Four Chermen leap out and dance at you so aggressively, it might not actually be dancing. It might be a Cher Shadow Clone Jutsu where you have to find the real one before her blade finds you.

Joke’s on you, Cher-san, only redshirt has a shadow! Now let’s see you dodge my Fireball Jutsu!

Listen: You just stumbled into an article where everything is Cher and she’s trying to both intimidate and seduce herself through song. You know what we’re here to do. We’re going to rate the attacking Chermen on their intense fuckability.

This is Fucking Day. Cher up, assholes. You may not survive this.

First up is…

It’s appropriate that he’s wearing a red shirt, because Dumb Cher will be first to die. He lives in the high-stakes mirrorverse of Cher’s ego, where everyone is Cher and everyCher is replaceable and this dork can’t even figure out a lighter. He has the pure unmitigated confidence of a Cher in an elvis wig, and obviously that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. But the way he fumbles and then immediately gives up on that Zippo tells me he channels the pure Cher Narcissism, but none of the Cher Lust or Cher Competence. He thinks orgasms are a myth and sex is when you look into a mirror with one other person who’s only sort of cosplaying as you. 

Dumb Cher gets: 

One Weird Cher-squeal #17 (ArooUHNNN) // Ten Weird Cher-Squeals 

Mook Cher is big and dumb and fucks like a rocket: all thrust, immediate separation, massive explosion, no survivors. Mook Cher is the Cher enforcer, and god help you if you wrong the Chers. He comes with a special jacket and a baseball bat and I’m using ‘comes’ in the other sense of the word. 

Mook Cher gets:

One entire Cher // Six half-Chers, all torn asunder for not recognizing the one true Cher when challenged.

Oh fuck it’s…

My god. It’s Cher dressed as a boy dressed as a character in a play dressed as a gang member dressed as Fred from Scooby Doo dressed for Lolli Fetish Con ‘72. This is too much raw sensuality and I’m afraid I’ve just sexually imploded any of you that can’t hit the high note in “Believe.” 

Lolli Cher gets: 

An extremely loud sucking noise that goes on way too long while making hard eye contact // Five

Spicy Cher is bringing that libidinous Latin fire, unless that’s racist for me to say, in which case he just has strong #1 Henchman energy. Spicy Cher is here to do three things: fuck, salsa dance, and attack Roger Moore in the midst of a hectic parade. And friendo, he’s going to be doing all three at once because that headband is due back to Headband Cher’s Headband and Electric Bra Emporium by 6PM. There are no late fees in Cherverse; there is only immediate banishment from the Cher Collective, a fate worse than Cher. 

Spicy Cher’s raw sexuality defies all measurement, so he gets: 

A Spicy Cher // Spicy Cher. 

Fuck it, Spicy Cher and a Half! A new record!

…

We’re delving too deep into Cherspace. There’s no way back. There’s only farther, harder, Cherer. But who would want to return? Each new Cher is better than the last, as they must be, by Cher law. Let’s meet…

Oh. Oh, it’s…

So this is how you die. Writhing in both ecstasy and disgust, your various orifices distended and bedazzled. In a way, it’s perfect in its symmetry: You became enmeshed with this dimension because you could not restrain your love of Cher, and now you’ve met a Cher who cannot restrain his love of you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it, Mychaell? This is what you asked for. You should have spoken more carefully. 

Anyway, that’s my time. 

Be absorbed by the gnawing hunger of Cher’s ego and unbecome, everybody!

Topper I- holy crap, that was actually a pretty good burn. What the fuck, Topper?

Categories
FUCKING DAY

How to Solve Your Sex Problems With Self-Hypnosis

Some time before The Secret but after Giving an Innocent Child’s Blood to Aruk, sorcerers interested in personal growth used something called self-hypnosis. It’s basically telling yourself what you want to hear -very hard- and hoping it comes true. People used it to bowl better, pick up disco chicks, or get bigger tits. This book is about solving your sex problems with self-hypnosis, so the author called it…

This is a used copy, and like all previously owned metaphysical books, the last reader seems like they were engaged for about five pages before they either abandoned their new life as a wizard or decided their powers were great enough. The preliminary instructions for achieving a state of self-hypnosis are heavily underlined and circled, but there are no signs they read anything else except for two dog-eared corners– one before the chapter “WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT MASTURBATION” and one on the section “how to remedy bedroom mistakes with self-hypnosis.” So here’s what we know about the previous owner: they are a half-trained hypnotist, they know at least what they should know about masturbation, and they are flawless in the bedroom. So I’m in some pretty fucking excellent company.

You might be wondering w– excuse me for a second. Go fuck yourself, Topper. Okay, you might be wondering what kind of sex problems you can cure with self-hypnosis. Well, this is a 1979 edition of a book first published in 1964, so their definition of “identifying problems” is pretty close to what you and I would call “hate crimes.” Author Frank S. Caprio believes homosexuals suffer from a deviant sickness which they would know if they’d just take the penises out of their holes and read a book. This isn’t a theory, by the way– it’s fact. It’s so important, Frank stops writing self-hypnosis affirmations for about 30 pages so he can explain what gay is and which traumas cause it. It’s so goddamn crazy. It’s like stopping a physics lecture to list which races have the dumbest voices. It’s like pausing The Voice to tell your wife, “All Lives Matter” six hundred times while stepping into your summoning circle to call Hitler. Here are some of the “up-to-date facts about male homosexuality” if you’re interested:

Now y– hold on. Topper, you are the “up-to-date facts about male homosexuality” of people. Now you understand this book was written by a man cursed with both unspeakable ignorance and supreme confidence who thinks psychic powers are real. This means Frank S. Caprio is capable of unlimited dislogic. For example, he knows self-hypnosis can cure gay, but some gays won’t want to be cured. Now stop for a second. I want you, treasured hot dog supporter, to get in Frank’s dumb-as-fuck mindset and think of the stupidest, most obvious thing a person would come up with to solve this problem. You’re right! The gays who don’t want a cure can use self-hypnosis to convince themselves they do want a cure! Frank S. Caprio’s mind is dumbshit turtles all the way down.

I apologize if you already know this, but females can also become afflicted with homosexuality (lesbianism). Frank’s “investigators” believe they are as numerous as male homosexuals. He uses this word “investigators” often, which at first I thought meant “experts” or “researchers.” But after seeing it so many times and in so many different contexts, I think it’s more likely Frank (🌭lmao) hired private detectives to document local homosexuals.

Frank absolutely forgot he was writing a book about self-hypnosis once he got on the subject of homosexuals.

My favorite story in the book is when Frank uncovers the source of one patient’s lesbianism. It was born when she was a child and she thought sex was when a boy peed directly into a girl. Right then and there she made a solemn, lifelong vow to never let it happen to her. And the only way to be certain of that was to become gay which is apparently harder to undo than relearning “sex is different from toilet.” Frank is probably making her up since her story is too insane to be real and also elegantly and stupidly supports his “facts.” Plus, it seems suspicious Frank ran into the only other person in the world who would devote their entire life and identity to a child’s misunderstanding of how everything works.

To be perfectly clear, there are dozens and dozens of pages like this followed by one paragraph telling you what to say to yourself to cure your homosexuality. But here’s the thing– none of it is written in the second person, and gay people are written about like they are a completely different species from the reader. It’s lunacy to think this book was ever intended to get into the hands of a reluctant homosexual. It was written for premature ejaculators and sex addicts who, unrelated to those problems, wanted to read several chapters of a madman’s bigoted ravings. This is like an air conditioning repair manual that’s just a list of common Jewish hiding places followed by the number for an air conditioning repairman. It is so fucked.

My mission at 1900HOTDOG is to do more than point at things and say look at the silly artifact from a time when idiots thought intolerance was “facts.” I mean, without question, behold the ancient hypnotist’s outrageous homophobia, but it’s also my job to find the secret absurdity hiding behind the obvious. And it’s this– Frank S. Caprio is debilitatingly horny. The only reason he got into hypnotherapy was to meet vulnerable nymphomaniacs without the ability to spot bullshit. Here’s the type of patient he describes treating several times:

These women can’t get enough dong, and it’s almost always because they can’t find the right lover. They suffer from something he calls “FRIGIDITY” which makes them insufferable, but also and more importantly: dick-thirsty. He mostly helps them use self-hypnosis to, and I’m not kidding, forgive themselves for cheating on their husbands.

Topper, you are the most joyless monstrosity to ever ride a geyser of black afterbirth into our world. You’re what food additive scientists call “the part of the beaver anal gland we have no use for.” Where were we? Oh yeah, Frank was trying to figure out how to use hypnotism to give orgasms to these poor horny adulteresses.

This is the story of one of his many sexy female patients who throw themselves onto dicks desperately hoping to find the satisfaction their husbands can’t give them. This one was simply “unable to refuse sex relation to any man who became her escort for the evening.” And for an unethical hypnotist in the ’60s, this is very much the greatest combination of words you could ever hope for.

Assuming anything Frank says is true, which is ludicrously unlikely, he also consulted with this patient’s husband, “Jack” to help him, gradually through hypnosis, keep an erection long enough to bring his unfaithful cock-starved wife to climax. 

Topper, you’re going to have to avert your eyes, because not all of Frank’s sex tips are hypnotic. There’s a significant portion of this book that just forgets all about self-hypnosis to explain the physical mechanics of fucking a hole until it squirts.

There is… there is just so much of this. Frank fucks like Bret Michaels. He fucks like he’ll rupture if his balls aren’t drained every three hours. He fucks like a Mormon balls-deep in his fifth and seventh wives in the aisle of the school bus they used to get their 28 children to Red Lobster.

You probably guessed this from what you know about Frank, but he has very different rules for men and women when it comes to infidelity. When men cheat it’s more accidental, like looking down and saying, “This isn’t softball practice!” to the strange vagina you’re penetrating. Women are mentally ill and deliberate when they cheat, but men can be jogging and spontaneously start a secret family with a pantieless nymphomaniac running the wrong direction.

I want to tell you right now, though; Frank has no patience for people who kill their cheating wives. Under no circumstances should you murder your unfaithful spouse or her lover. It’s important not to strangle your whore wife to death followed by the man inside her, and this is a weird bit because you don’t yet know how often Frank weirdly repeats this sentiment over and over in his book. I’m not sure if he’s trying to find the right words or if a big part of self-hypnosis is NOT KILLING THAT AWFUL WOMAN, but please add it to the list of strange things going on here.

Oh, shit, I haven’t even talked about all the sex criminals Frank claims to have cured. He has a whole chapter on the rapists and pedophiles he reprogrammed with his techniques. And, look, I’m no expert. I’m just some guy who has read 74 books about self-hypnosis, but it doesn’t feel super safe when the man who stated, as fact, he can cure homosexuality is pretty sure the dangerous predators are ready to go free since he taught them how to hypnotize themselves and maintain an erection. You have to see the insanity he gets up to in pages 185 through 207…

Topper, you soulless fuck, I hate you even more when you’re right.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

The Time The Dirt Bike Kid Fucked His Bike

Good morning. I have come to you today with a simple task, unadorned by superfluous arguments and tangential frivolity. I aim to prove the following: In the 1985 movie, The Dirt Bike Kid, director Hoite Caston did knowingly and with malice aforethought commit to film a two-minute long sequence of a young child jacking off a sentient dirtbike. 

Welcome to 1-900-HOT-DOG. This is Fucking Day.

I shall now present the evidence.

The Dirt Bike Kid is the scum that floated to the top when Hollywood scraped the very bottom of the E.T. ripoff barrel. In the 1980s, every third movie was about a shitty child solving a trivial injustice with the help of a magical Alien, Robot, Dirt Bike, or Nintendo Brand Power Pad Accessory. It’s a movie about the kid from A Christmas Story trying to save a hot dog stand with his mystical motorcycle. It is also an unacceptable catalog of filth and perversion — a dementedly whimsical instance of child pornography that must be banned by all moral societies. To prove these assertions, I need only establish two things. 

First, that the vehicle in question is sentient, and has autonomy. 

This is easy enough. In the film, the titular dirt bike is seen ‘swiveling’ its headlights to convey emotion. It also makes various noises, from honking to revving to inexplicable beeps when Mr. Caston forgets the premise of the movie he’s making and just lapses into blatant Star Wars IP theft. 

Perhaps the above scene only conveys intelligence on the level of, say, a lesser ape or YouTube personality, but later we are explicitly shown the dirt bike:

  1. Moving on its own
  2. Displaying a full grasp of human language
  3. Which it uses to navigate the United States address system

And now, to point the second: I must prove that the dirt bike has sensation.

Part of my job has already been done. This motorcycle was able to feel the weight of the package on its seat, and to gauge said weight in order to calculate the distance of its throw. That displays tactile awareness, but I can further prove both sensation and emotion.

Here we see the dirt bike…

As it… revs in pain when exposed to police brutality? Jesus Christ, Dirt Bike Kid, cut me some slack here. I am not the man best equipped to tackle this issue.

Clearly, this motorcycle is a thinking creature. It is capable of understanding the English language, the US postal code, and even the morality of practical ownership vs. legal ownership as regards a hot dog stand. It is able to sense human touch, and feel emotions like fear and anger. It follows that it might also feel lust. Through whatever unspecified magics animate this dirt bike, it is no longer a mere collection of metal, but a sensuous creature. 

Therefore, to portray the ‘washing’ scene as such:

Is a crime against humanity. 

From the lingering shots of this young boy’s hands scrubbing its filthy haunches, to the flaccid but eagerly bulging erection of its fenders, this entire scene is explicit and illegal child-on-dirtbike pornography. I ask that Mr. Hoite Caston be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and if there is not a law about filming children giving handies to magic motorbikes, I propose that there should be, and that again Mr. Hoite Caston be made to suffer the fullest extent of it. May god have mercy on your soul, sir, for there is none left in my heart for you.

I bid you a solemn and sober Fucking Day, Hot Doggers.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Let’s Read: How to Date a White Woman

The book How to Date a White Woman – A Practical Guide for Asian Men (2002) is a thoughtful, clinically racist encyclopedia for horny Asians whose fetish is “ordinary.” The author, Adam Quan, has channeled his loneliness into 200 pages of robotic graphs, quizzes, and observations. It is an academic shrine to not getting pussy. And in honor of Adam’s regimented approach to striking out with white women, I’m going to structure my article about his book in the same way. It’s going to sound like I’m making up these chapter titles to goof on poor Adam, but I promise I’m not. This guy is the fucking Da Vinci of dorky sex pests.

In Chapter Two, before any dating is to start, Adam makes a half-hearted attempt at explaining all racism. He breaks down who Asians are and why they are different from whites with divorce statistics, common activity charts, and variations in dick game. Adam’s points are indelicate and obvious, as if they were specifically for pure souled children who have never known intolerance but who also want that white ass. It’s written in the author’s second language with all the tact of Bugs Bunny explaining the difference in our cultures using only buck teeth and a squint. For instance, there was probably a better way of acknowledging white privilege than calling herds of Caucasians “white power groups.”

So let’s review. If you’re having trouble understanding what a “white power group” is, it’s sort of like being in the Yakuza. Oh, does that not help? Well, then I guess it’s kind of like when you’re sharing quarters with whites, and you’re Asian, during South African Apartheid? Okay, good, you get it. Now you’re ready to DEVELOP YOUR COMPATIBILITY TO PICK UP A WHITE WOMAN.

Asian men interested in White women, now that you understand a few humorless ways Asians and Whites are different, it’s time to learn how to be a little more White. For example, don’t loudly groan when you’re eating food (page 51). And, hold on, this can’t be right… brush your teeth? Wash yourself? This book is racist as shit.

More than anything this book proves how racism is bad even when your intentions are scientific and your motivations are as pure as masking your identity to get laid. In less than five pages Adam went from “here are some cultural differences to consider” to “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS EVER NOTICE WHITE PEOPLE ACTUALLY BATHE? SEE, ASIANS KNOW YOU DON’T NEED TO CLEAN IF YOU –LOOK– LIKE YOU’RE CLEAN. ROUND OF APPLAUSE FROM THE ASIANS…WHO HERE HAS SHOWERED IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS? SEE!? NONE. MY ARMPITS SMELL LIKE FISH AEROBICS STUDIOS. AND WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH WHITES ALWAYS BRUSHING OLD FOOD OUT OF THEIR TEETH? UM, NO THANKS. I’M TRYING TO FUCK A BECKY, NOT A DENTIST! Thank you for your time, I’m Adam Quan. I’ll be in the back selling books about how to turn this troubling way of thinking into pussy.”

Chapter Four is when Adam goes from listing problematic stereotypes to listing problematic pickup artist tactics. To be very clear, this is not a book about how to make an interracial relationship work. This is a book on how to suffer through rejection until a white stranger fucks you. It has worksheets, psychographics, and a section called “WHERE TO GO HUNTING FOR YOUR WHITE WOMAN.” He even lists the common types of cock blocking:

Adam’s not a very good communicator, proofreader, or student of the human condition, so it’s sort of hard to figure out how he’s being racist sometimes. Like I know there’s something wrong with his description of “ethnic male” scavengers here, but how? Does he mean they take the ugly girls, or are they swooping in to get the hot ones after you soften them up? So say you interrupt their brunch to say, “Greetings, female Whites. I floss my teeth and wash much like your kind. Are any of you interested in casual sex with, let me finish, flavored condoms? No? I understand; thank you for the opportunity.” Do the ethnic male scavengers come up to them after you leave and slide their panties the rest of the way off?

In Chapter Five, Adam adds a new element of problematic when he explores classism. He explains to the reader which type of White women will find Asian men acceptable based on income and educational background. And sure enough, it’s the super smart ladies who know not to date stupid jerk Whites with all their stupid jerk muscles.

I bet if you put the Mandarin character for “cranky virgin” into a translator it would come out as “Intellectual white women prefer slim, medium-sized body frames! They see white male as brute!” Adam Quan’s approach to women is to narrow down demographics until he finds the exact combination for free sex. He definitely keeps a diary listing the heights and hair colors of all the White women who rejected him when he held out a wedding ring and cried on his exposed penis. He has a list of cities where White women don’t like it when you buy them a goat. Adam Quan has absolutely written himself a note that says, “Elementary education majors with freckles will not let you practice taking off their bra (not yet tested on government holidays).”

As a comedy writer in a world of limitless cultures, shifting standards, and increasing absurdity, it’s often difficult to communicate exactly why something is ridiculous. That’s not the case when some fucking nerd names one of the chapters in his book “ANALYTICAL DATING FRAMEWORK, KEEPING SCORE AND TRACKING YOUR PROGRESS TO SEDUCE THAT WHITE WOMAN.” No one needs a joke to explain why that’s hilariously crazy. So thank you, Adam Quan, you outrageous sexless robot.

By Chapter Seven, Adam assumes he and the reader are best friends and he can reveal his full creepiness.

Adam Quan writing How to Date a White Woman is like Tim Allen writing How to Give Birth to a Black Centaur. If a bus was set to explode if Adam Quan ever gets to second base with a White woman, you would simply pick up and drop off passengers for thirty years and retire after a relaxing career as a bus driver. Adam Quan has declared himself an expert in a sport he has never played and mistaken “dating” for “humiliations to make girls uncomfortable NOW WITH RACISM.”

By Chapter Eight, Adam Quan is in a sheer panic. The rest of the book was a carefully built plan to get your dick into a White and it’s hitting him that it doesn’t and didn’t work. So instead of wrapping things up, he just types every idea he has ever had about relationships. He literally complains about insincere girls in nightclubs and reminds you White women hate when you forget marriage anniversaries on the same page. He throws in a few tips on dating Asian women and where to find a babysitter… it reads like the dumbest virgin in the world drove his car into a lake and desperately tried to record all his life’s wisdom before he ran out of air. Wherever Adam Quan is now, you can be certain the White women there are going undated.