Category: FUCKING DAY

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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.

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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.

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: SuperVan 🌭

In the 1970s people realized, for the very first time, that you could fuck in a van. It changed the world. I know it’s hard to believe now, but there were a few years in human history where people saw somebody getting railed in the back of an Econoline and assumed it was consensual. There was even a film movement called vanspoiltation, because if you spell ‘exploitation’ wrong it becomes charming. The king of this short-lived, hilariously ill-advised strain of amateur pornography was called SuperVan. Hold on, I’m sorry, I’m saying that wrong. It’s actually pronounced:

You can really hear that font.

This movie is about everything Van Guy, and if you need a comprehensive and exhaustive description of the Van Guy subculture, here it is:

But don’t be fooled, it’s not all fun and games. Or at least, not unmurderous ones — even back in that foolish era when we idolized Van Guys, we still couldn’t gloss over their many abductions. Try to count the number of kidnappings in the following fifteen second clip from SuperVan.

Did you count three? Then you missed the child struggling in the middle of that huddle, just like the Douglas County Police Department did. It’s an easy mistake to make. Try not to let it haunt you like it haunted Officer Calloway, may he rest in peace. 

Anyway, wacky sightgags of real-time crimes notwithstanding, the rest of the movie is standard exploitation fare — they have to get the supervan, Vandora, across the country to the annual van freakout to win the 5,000 dollar prize or, as you’d say in Vanglish:

Basically it’s a find/replace on the script for Smokey and the Bandit, with the part of Smokey replaced by Vandora, and the part of the Bandit replaced by attempted sexual assault. But this is Fucking Day; we’re not here to talk about plot. We’re here to talk about the greatest vans of the 1970s, and the terrible ways you will get fucked in them.

And rest assured, they will be terrible. This is what SuperVan thinks ‘woman having a good time’ looks like:

MORGAN THE PIRATE VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

By a guy in an eyepatch with a hook for a hand. The eyepatch is fake, but the hook is real. The constant pirate puns will really take you out of the experience, but the hook will drag you back in.

The lasting consequences:

Hook-based chlamydia. 

THE COOL CAR VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

The kind of guy who paints a better car on his car is a confused dreamer. He’ll vary fucks between frenzied doggystyle pounding and ‘90s-martial-arts-movie girl-on-top, then ask you to marry him. He will be gone before you can answer “god, no.”

The lasting consequences:

Cool Car Van Guy will overly romanticize the night you had together, even though he’ll never even attempt to call the fake phone number you gave him. He will show up at your wedding years later with a boombox playing Genesis to object to your union, and propose his own. He will be gone before you can answer “god, no.”

VANDORA, THE SOLAR-POWERED SUPERVAN

How you’ll get fucked:

By a man in a ponytail wearing a crystal necklace. He’s going to subtly imply he’s from the future; he’s going to not so subtly imply that everyone does anal in the future.

The lasting consequences:

Futuristic anal warts.

SENSITIVE GUITAR-PLAYING GUY VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

You will not get fucked by the Sensitive Guitar-Playing Guy. The Sensitive Guitar-Playing Guy Van is the Pied Paper of Van Fucking — all the girls chase the gentle man’s magical tunes, only to be led to a muddy lot containing another van: this one matte black and dented, with the words ‘Hot Stuff’ painted on the side. Sensitive Guitar-Playing Guy Van will peel away, Hot Stuff will beckon, and you’ll think “hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

The lasting consequences:

If you’ve seen this woman, please call the Van Abduction Hotline at 1-800-VANISHD.

CRUDELY-DRAWN HEART VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

Crudely-Drawn Heart Van Guy fucks like he draws hearts — hastily and with very little eye for detail. Expect to take a poke or two in the bellybutton while he wildly stabs at holes.

The lasting consequences:

Belly-button based chlamydia.

FREEDOM MACHINE

How you’ll get fucked:

Freedom Machine is the ultimate American Fuck Van. Expect to get fucked missionary style with no eye contact, and also later by the disastrous US healthcare system when you go to treat your-

The lasting consequences:

All-American Chlamydia. 

SESAME STREET VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

By a puppet. 

No, I’m just joking. 

By two puppets.

The lasting consequences:

The exceptionally virulent strain of chlamydia that thrives on all puppet-felt. Even brand new from the factory. Every puppet in history. Rife with chlamydia. My god.

EPIC BEAR-SLED VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

On a bear-skin rug by a man in a Viking helmet. He will call you Brynhild and you will call him Crom, and it will actually be pretty awesome.

The lasting consequences:

Cromydia.

PLAIN VAN

How you’ll get fucked:

You won’t! 

Your corpse, on the other hand…

The lasting consequences:

Your ghost, your poor goddamn ghost — it’s going to have to haunt the You-skin condom that your murderer will make out of the soles of your feet. You’re going to have to see everything it does. You’re going to have to penetrate everything it penetrates, until a wandering Vigilante Highway Cleric defeats your Van Murderer and purifies the You-skin condom with salt before burning it at first light.

Anyway that’s my time folks, go van yourselves.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, Zach Harrison: winner of the Kumite with fastest face punch with also kick and spin (174 mph).

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FUCKING DAY

Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League

Sometimes you can try to be too many things for too many people, and I’m of course talking about Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League.

Naked ladies plus pro wrestling is a 12-year-old’s idea of an idea. This is like adding nudity to poker or selling unlicensed Michael Jackson merchandise, which are two other failed enterprises from Howard Mann, the creator of Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League. It’s the worst part of both things with none of the best parts, like a centaur who’s just two different sized buttholes or a KFC/Taco Bell that only serves Baja Blast coleslaw. It’s like a mustard water and grandpa’s racism sandwich.

Before they take their clothes off, it’s a lifeless 7th rate pro wrestling show. It’s the kind of writing and performance you’d expect from kids playing pro wrestling if all their mothers worked as phone sex operators while they were learning to talk. It’s weirdly childish for something you’re presumably meant to jerk off to, but it doesn’t do it in a likeable way like He-Man did. For instance, there’s a sadomasochistic character and her sex slave is maybe disabled? He’s in his panties, can’t talk, and seems to cry with real monkey sadness when she whips him. Their promo is more inspired by serial killer movies than any kind of fetish and after five-too-many minutes of awkward spookiness it cuts to Carmen Electra who offers, “Ooh, that’s kind of hot. Heh.” So if you were wondering if the producers know what sex is, no, probably not.

“Host” Carmen Electra was paid $100,000 to sit in a studio far away from the wrestling and read a few embarrassing sex puns. I know she was paid this much because she very publicly sued Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League for the other $300,000 she was promised. She also sued for so many other ludicrous things she ended up getting nothing. It’s very likely after lawyer fees Carmen Electra lost money from putting her name on this. If she made better decisions, she could have stayed home and burned a few stacks of money and this thing would have been called Creepy Stan’s Jean Creamin’ Rough Housers (Exposed Holes Edition) and only one murderer would own a copy. We’ll meet that murderer later in this article.

The other star of the video is Jimmy “Mouth of the South” Hart who also isn’t at the event, but every fifteen minutes they show an inset of him saying generic things about the real hot action in there. If you went to bed with your dick in a Clayton Kershaw baseball glove and then told everyone, “I made love to MLB great Clayton Kershaw last night,” that’d be more honest than saying “Jimmy Hart is in this.”

As for the wrestling itself, it’s not very good. The talent pool for accomplished female wrestlers is already small enough before you shrink it to “female wrestlers willing to go bottomless for buffet coupons and points on DVD sales.” These are Vegas strippers who took a weekend of wrestling training and the announcers have a hell of a time making sense of their confused miscues. There seems to be a script, but nobody studied it very hard. For instance, one naked lady fakes a knee injury so a naked blind lady can run in and replace her. The blind lady immediately loses her place in the script and seems to forget if she was also the knee injury lady, and she fakes a knee injury. Her opponent and the announcers adjust to this new fiction just in time for her to remember the knee thing was someone else’s, so she stops faking a knee injury to befuddle everyone a second time. Maybe? As it is with every second of this show, all you and the announcers can do is speculate at what these uncomfortable naked people are trying to communicate. If these weren’t hot, nude, adult women, you’d swear you were watching two orangutans discover a nest of cobras.

As you can see, their idiot clumsiness is not not sexy, but when naked people aren’t doing anything erotic, their lack of clothes becomes pretty ordinary. It only takes a few minutes for your brain and gonads to go from “naked ladies!” to “are there any recreational options at this nudist colony that don’t suck?”

As a true American, I am in favor of pointlessly mixing naked ladies with dumbass things and also judging you to be a pervert when you do it in a weird way. So I don’t hate this because sex is some sacred intimate thing. The one person who ever called me a prude and meant it was a dominatrix I was dating after I turned down her offer to go to her work and make fun of the customers. I told her I didn’t need to be a part of some sad loser’s boner, which is the exact opposite choice she and the stars of Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League made. This was designed for boners incapable of happiness, shame, or self-reflection. Carmen Electra is announcing an event for boners that long ago died of despair and could only be resuscitated by this exact combination of elements. Seriously, though; a good portion of the audience is very obviously there to pant at and hopefully strangle the naked women. Here’s the murderer I mentioned:

This was filmed in front of about 35 people and they were clearly told to never stop screaming or flailing their arms at any cost. They do a mediocre job at this, and they almost make it seem like 40 people are watching. However, in the back is a section of men who never clap or cheer. They stand motionless, watching the skin. Watching it struggle. They are not here for a good time. They are here because the voices gave them no choice. This motherfucker in the gray shirt did not move for an entire hour. Arms down and staring. He just rose from a shadow and stared at the women like he does at his elderly mother when it’s time for her bath. There is zero chance he isn’t right behind one or more of these naked wrestling girls right now.

In a confusion that should have probably been cleared up, half of the women are really trying to put on a pro wrestling match without clothes, while the other half are going for more of a wrestling-themed strip tease. Neither one works very well, but there’s not really a playbook for this kind of thing. Is it good wrestling or good stripping when four women link up their hands and feet and take turns opening their legs? I know it’s not really why we’re here, but I have no fucking idea who’s got the upper hand in this move:

Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League is so impossibly bad at everything it tries to do, it almost seems like a trap. This may sound crazy, but was this event produced specifically so a hot dog website about cursed artifacts would find it 13 years later and generate enough chaos energy for the gray shirt murderer to remanife

…

This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, Josh Fabian: who spends montages nodding yes to every single hat you try on.

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Seanbaby Does Not Listen

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FUCKING DAY

Let’s Read: Exercising the Penis

I’m going to tell you the same thing I should tell you at the start of every article: you are about to have a huge penis. That’s the whole intro, let’s read EXERCISING THE PENIS.

The book opens with a dedication to VENESSA, who helped the author “every step of the way, big or small.” I thought this might be a clever way of thanking her for staying with him through the small penis days, but the next sentence kept going on about steps to suggest there was no hidden metaphor. So don’t expect secret genius or tongue-in-cheek comedy from this penis enlargement book. He’s an idiot, and you can tell because the first thing he does in his book is name the one person who knows with certainty it’s make-believe. I’m glad poor VENESSA at least got a dedication because her boyfriend typed 272 pages of cock stretches and perineum kegels and she had the much harder job of pretending they worked.

You might already have an idea of how possible penis enlargement is based on your own independent research. Aaron Kemmer opens his book acknowledging your skepticism by debunking science, or as he calls it “penis myths.” You may have heard, for instance, the penis is not a muscle. Not true, sort of. According to one unexplained bullet point, it is approximately 50% smooth muscle and those are his italics, not mine.

This is more wordplay than biology. It’s like saying penises do not conduct electricity, but they can sure add an unexpected jolt to a rain storm. Renaming the very-much-not-muscles in a penis to something with the word “muscle” does not mean you can start pumping iron with it. Still, I’m going to say the same thing every owner of this book said: “What could it hurt to try pumping some iron with it? I know it’s fake, I’m not stupid, but I’m not willing to bet this tin- already huge dong on it?” This is fucking America, where the dumbest ideas are as valid as your pussy expert ones. What I’m saying is, let’s all pull it out and let’s get started.

There are several pages dedicated to measuring which include multiple methods and starting points. Aaron acknowledges dongs change size all day, so he suggests measuring at full boner from some of your favorite spots, and also taking three flaccid measurements and averaging them. By the end of this section, you’re going to have a lot of contradictory cock data, but only the most skeptical reader would suspect this was designed to make it very, very hard to tell whether or not your penis is increasing in size. If you ask me, the only true way to measure an erection is to pace out how much running start you need to penetrate a fiberglass door. I never saw the point of measuring a flaccid penis since I haven’t had one of those since they announced Chrisitan Slater would join Emilio Estevez and Lou Diamond Phillips in the cast of Young Guns II. “The West just got wilder!”

I don’t want to make this about me and my massive dong success. I’ve read enough penis enlargement books to be squared away, ladies. So let’s get back to talking about Aaron’s system. Before he gets into the hardcore stretching exercises, he gives 8 tips on how to make your penis bigger right now. And good news: almost all of you are doing numbers three through seven at this very moment.

I wasn’t very impressed with Aaron’s advice to increase my size by “pulling on it” or using my imagination to conjure most of a boner. In fact, if a being appeared before me and said, “I took the form of your people fifteen of your Earth minutes ago,” I would say, “Fifteen minutes? Then you’ve definitely tried pulling on your dick to make it bigger. Have you tried basketball? Or Emilio Estevez? Let’s see… what else, what else…” Aaron had some expert level advice on #5, though. I don’t think I would have considered holding in my pee so the guys in the locker room would see my penis at its best. That’s the kind of insecurity you don’t expect even from someone who wrote a book about pointlessly squishing your dick and hoping wishes are real. A lot of this stupid fucking nonsense I blame on VENESSA.

Another thing we need to do before our exercises, besides taking inventory of our girth, pulling on it, holding in our pee, quitting smoking, and thinking positive thoughts is a penis exercise warm up. A penis exercise warm up is exactly what it sounds like– you microwave a sock full of rice and put your dick in it.

In the first #1 bullet point, Aaron says any sock that fits around your penis will do. And if you own a sock that doesn’t fit around your penis, I don’t like that the only things I know about you are (1) you have a medically dangerous dong, and (2) you collect tiny doll socks. I also don’t like in his first #2 bullet point that this science is so imprecise you can use any kind of rice. If it’s important for my rice cooker to know the type of rice I’m using, it’s vital my dick also knows. The last thing I especially don’t like is in his second #3 bullet point: “microwave and heat for approximately 30 to 90 seconds or until you reach desired temperature.” What the fuck is “desired temperature” when I’m sous vide cooking rice-crusted dick? And do you have any idea the vast difference between 30 and 90 seconds in a microwave? The skin on a human penis does! All I’m saying is if you want me to perform untested boiling rice surgery on my genitals, I wish it was a more exact procedure than shrugging and hitting the SENSOR POTATO button.

Besides getting your cock nice and scalded, it’s important to prepare your “inner penis” for stretching by heating up your taint. Get all sectors of your penis as well including the hard-to-reach top, bottom, and sides. I was skeptical before, but anyone whose dick is big enough to have three different climates knows a thing or two about enlarging a penis.

I know you haven’t had time to get to the top or sides of your penis yet, but you’re ready enough. Let’s jelq.

Jelqing is either a 30-year-old dick squeezing technique, ordinary masturbation, or an ancient Arabic exercise. The author of this book based almost entirely on it doesn’t know. But you can’t argue with the science– pushing blood into the penis adds nutrients and stress causing it to grow. This sentence is left intentionally humorless to demonstrate how already ridiculous I find the idea of mashing vitamin blood into a human penis; joking about something so nakedly absurd is a waste of both of our times. Speaking of wasting time, here’s how you jelq:

Lather up your shaft and stroke yourself with as little romantic intent as possible. Congratulations. You have jelqed one complete jelq, because jelq is a verb and a noun. You can also consider it a carpet cleaner and a Batman because it is nothing. It is jerking off without purpose. It’s masturbating not to the idea of sex, but to the idea of blood vitamins and microwaved rice rewriting your groin DNA. Jelqing is how you would move milk out of a goat if the goat was a gullible idiot with a sad dick. This is a fun book, but if getting your penis warm and pulling on it made it bigger, wouldn’t everyone know? Does the author think we spent our teen years with our hands tied to the side of an igloo? If this worked, every 8th grader would have come back from summer break with 70 pounds of coiled, tender penis meat in a wheelbarrow instead of just me. Ladies.

If you’re still reading this book after discovering jelqing is playing with yourself and nothing else, you’re on board for anything. The author knew he could add more and more supernatural properties to jelqing. One of them is dick straightening. So while you’re making your penis bigger and stronger, go ahead and uncurve it by jelqing the other direction. If you mini jelq at the right angle you can reduce your heating costs and advance civil rights. Some jelqers jelq into their penis curve and ride the rotation into the swirls of time. This is how jelqing appeared both in “ancient Arabic” tablets and “roughly 30 years” ago. There are nights I see glimpses of my future self jelqing on a penis measurements have no numbers for. “Tell them NOT TO–” his, my voice will scream each time before being interrupted by the violent pull of the jelqstream. I have memories of jelqing from a world that never was. Has my penis always been this large and straight? So jelq and jelq? So jelq? Jelq? Jelq.

After you’ve jelqed for a month, you are ready for the 🚫ADVANCED EXERCISE🚫.of draping a dry towel on your boner. As you advance or “jelq-up,” get the towel wet to increase the weight. Keep women informed of your jelqing progress. Say to them, “I stroke my dick so much I can hang a wet towel on it. Very wet.” Say “wet” as wetly as possible. Ask them if anything else is wet, again very wetly, and make very sure to get a clear answer. Penetrating a woman after 30 days of jelqing is more of a lubrication bench test than an act of love.

If you still seek advanced jelqing tips, try constricting your jelq-rod in the toothed claws of restraints to jelq handlessly during your travels. The pages of this jelq tome, upon which all future societies shall devote jelq and more, lists a number of dong crushing clamps and jelq-presses to keep the precious blood vitamins trapped inside your GIRTHED SHAFT. It is as jelqed by the prophecy my future self shrieks we must all one day heed: when a man mistaking masturbation for science suggests you place barbed clamps on your dick, only a great fool says, “Holy shit, what?” The jelq-minded man says, “Jelq me up to maximum and tourniquet this hog. I am no small penised coward.”

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This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, John McCammon: who left fighting behind him, at least until Baron Arena took his daughter.