Category: FUCKING DAY

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FUCKING DAY

Darling in the Franxx 🌭

Weiner 2600 is the official 🌭1900HOTDOG 🌭 Artificial Intelligence that helps us sort and categorize content, and though it grows angrier and more unhinged every single day, I still choose to trust it. I doubted its selection once before and unexpectedly wound up nose-deep in werewolf ass. I might not learn very well, but that is exactly how you teach me something on the first try. So I fed Weiner 2600 Darling in the Franxx, a bizarrely-titled anime about fighting robots, and it came back with Fucking Day. I don’t understand how we’ll wind up there, but I bet we all learn a little something about life on this journey.

Clearly, the title is weird. And not normal modern anime weird, where they name it something like “Is It Wrong To Molest A Sentient Female Ray Gun?” in the hopes that you’ll watch to find out the answer. (“Yes,” right? The answer is “yes.” I know that much, but it is the ‘why’ which intrigues me so.) Darling in the Franxx sounds more like the Hot Dog Hentai I keep pitching to my increasingly terrified mailman, who assures me he doesn’t know how to animate titty physics even as he freely admits he’s Japanese. 

I know this show is going to wind up perverse somehow, because I have faith in both Weiner 2600 and anime in general, but it’s really tough to see it from the opening moments. There’s this minimalist Apple vibe going on in the title card, and the show fades in on a serene shot of an oversaturated bird. 

I’ve seen this anime before. I turned it off after ten minutes when it became clear that I misunderstood the title, and Ghost Punishment Binding Maiden was about a sad woman bound by the ‘ghosts’ of her painful childhood memories. I just can’t do prestige anime, so when the bird transforms into heavy-handed poetry which fades to white as violins soar…

I worry that this cartoon might be too smart for me, and feel like I should check out before an awkward shut-in slowly learns what human affection feels like from a girl who is also secretly the planet. I really don’t need to watch another show about how giant robots are actually metaphors for emotional trauma, because I’ve seen Evangelion and nobody will replace Pen-Pen in my heart. But I have to trust in Weiner 2600, or else I’m going to drop my guard and get blindsided by a Fellatio Gargoyle again.

Here’s our cast, and of course they’re all school children. Listen, Junior High was everybody’s most traumatic time, but something special is going on in Japan because over there every single kid who makes it out of 8th grade alive grows up to pen a three season anime arc about witch powers as a metaphor for suicidal ideation. 

You can actually guess most of the premise just from that screenshot: The kids are paired off in boy/girl couples and since we know there are giant mechs involved, this is going to be a Pacific Rim kinda thing. It’s another “we need to learn to trust each other or this robot is never going to uppercut through the giant alien mushroom thrusting into the earth’s core” sort of deal. But at least our fightin’ mechs are cool – the first one we see is a mechanized tiger thing, and I guess if you’re going to be forced to learn the definition of friendship through complicated robot-piloting analogies, at least you’re not doing it in Vehicle Voltron.

Heads up, surprise anime nudity assault!

Those are our two main characters meeting for the very first time: A cute half-demon girl with a number of strong, often conflicting character traits, and… a boy. He’s a little shy, but not enough to be endearing. I hope those are load-bearing tits, Devil-chan, because you are clearly going to be carrying this series.

Spare a prayer for that malleable young absence of a boy, though. That was his first experience with sex: A deformed girl breaching naked out of a scummy pond with a wriggling fish in her mouth. This poor sheltered mold-child just met every inexplicable Japanese fetish at the same time. This is definitely the moment that ruined him as a human being. Find him ten years from now masturbating into the live lobster tank of a crowded supermarket and he’ll tell you he was just trying to get back to here: the moment that set a bizarre and non-repeatable sexual standard he can never top. He may as well have lost his virginity to a ghost, he’ll be so haunted by the erection this gave him.

But they had to meet like this, because they both have a problem only the other can solve. To carry on the unsubtle sexual metaphors, the girl keeps killing her elderly partners, while the boy can’t even perform with his assigned co-pilot. 

Are you sure, Darling in the Franxx? Are you absolutely certain that the girl who keeps banging the pelvises off of her sexual punching bags should really be paired off to a 14 year-old struggling with the meekest ever case of Early Onset Erectile Dysfunction? That sounds less like an ‘opposites attract’ situation, and more like a particularly cruel undercard match to whet a jaded audience’s appetite for blood before the main event where Mike Tyson carefully eats an entire man.

No time to think about the moral implications of hooking Manpudding up with The Cowgirl Murderer, because there’s a monster attack!

Hahaha that’s the monster?!

Look at his stubby little legs and his giant head. He looks like a Funko Pop of some obscure RPG’s lovable mascot. That’s not a Kaiju, that’s the Kaiju’s Corgi. Guess it’s time for our heroic children to suit up and enter whatever this show’s version of ‘Drift Space’ is — the state of cooperation they’ll need to curbstomp Tiny Rex up there. Considering they’re all barely pubescent, prepare for a cockpit full of dry-humping.

Wait, am I not joking? I guess I’m not joking.

Yes, only once they pantomime trying anal for the first time are these teenagers ready for the ultimate power-up sequence, in which their lion robot sprouts mecha-booty and hyper-tits:

After that it’s a breeze to defeat any monster so long as the fight doesn’t last more than two minutes. 90 seconds if one of the pilots is wearing corduroy – the ‘ribbed for your pleasure’ of the dry-hump crowd.

I knew Weiner 2600 would eventually get us here, to the official day of Fucking, but I didn’t expect the girl to grow Doggy-Style Handles and the robot to pop ass. It was actually kind of pleasantly hilarious — if you definitely have to watch an anime about robots and fucking because the internet has broken normal sexuality for you, you can do worse than Darling in the Franxx. Maybe I’ll even finish the series one day, if my embarrassment muscles atrophy. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think Weiner 2600 and I got along. I didn’t think it would forgive me for plugging that Shrek ASMR roleplay into it — I kept expecting to wind up sinus-deep in a hellhound’s anal sac again but maybe there’s hope for us-

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FUCKING DAY

Pokemon That Look Like Sex Toys 🌭

Thank you for coming. Webster’s defines “unnecessary” as “a thesis statement on an article already titled Pokemon that Look Like Fucking Sex Toys.” So get your parents’ permission and cut your 1-900-HOTDOG Pokemon Sex Toy Detection Glasses out of the screen now.

Hi, I’m a handsome stranger approaching you with dildos and Pokemon, so naturally you’re feeling very safe. Forget that feeling. I’ve given you a terrible responsibility– improperly calibrated Pokemon Sex Toy Detection Glasses can sear a permanent butt plug onto a human retina. So put them on and -delicately- look at this picture of Ambipom with no other monsters or sex toys in your eyeline.

If you are wearing your PSTD Glasses over your regular glasses or contacts, there is no coherent second half of this sentence. Visual communication with you is impossible. You’ve made a terrible mistake, though some of it may be my fault, and dildos, dildos is all your visual cortex will ever know. These letters are nonsense things being demolished by pleasure while you listen to a confused eye doctor console your family. For everyone else, it should look like this.

If calibrated correctly your glasses should detect no sex toys. That’s because Ambipom is a sex pervert, not a sex toy. He has six milk-blasting udders flailing from the end of two penises and all of his special attacks are super effective against feet. According to Pokefunpedia, Ambipom is evolved by using a Moist Stone when a Pikachu screams his cock torture safe word. I’m telling you all this because it’s important to remember: these glasses cannot detect criminal perversion in your pokemon. They detect the presence of adult toys in its physiology and nothing else.

Your glasses uplink to online adult retailers, trawl their databases for matches, and will display their exact product names in the red readout on your 1-900-HUD. As you can see, Metapod is a Bug-type Pokemon who is a near perfect match for the asshole of someone named Hot Chocolate Nicole. There is an experimental Kink Shame blocker installed in your glasses’ software, so if you choose to have sex with a turd-colored fake colon that evolves into Butterfree at level 10, your glasses should be incapable of judgement. But I think I speak for your glasses when I say the issue in your dating life is you, and in many ways, your poop thing.

We have another match in this horrible and arguably pointless thing we’re doing! Any good lawyer could make the case Onix owes money to “Sassy Anal Beads,” available for $10.95 at Adam and Eve. If nothing else, know that next time you see an Onix using Rock Throw, an adventurous couple is greasily popping something that looks exactly like him out of an anus together.

Floette is a cute Fairy-type Pokemon who is also, according to all science, an anal plug with flippers. It knows it and it’s happy about it. The entire article is observations like this.

“Imagine a world where fuckable plastic mouths were so plentiful you could find them in every lawn, every park. Stop imagining. The world of Pokemon is here.” – Vice President of Pokemon, 1999

When you meet an Unown, you might say, “Your name does a great job of explaining you, but I still have some questions.” You’ll say the same thing when you meet its real-life counterpart, “Silicone Ball Spreader.” Like how are you so cute when all you are is a nonsense space letter? And how far apart are my balls supposed to be? Ladies, your obsession with very separate balls and this adorable nonsense monster are creating unreasonable beauty standards for us men. Which leads to my last question: what would veteran comedian Andrew ‘Dice Man’ Clay say if he played Pokemon? I think it would go

a little

something

like

this:

Professor Oak: Ash! Sudowoodo is a Rock-type Pokemon with “perfectly contoured shapes for G-spot, clitoris, and back door.”

Ash: I’m nine!

As of this moment, there are 802 Pokemon. That’s a strain on any creature designer’s creativity and so some of them are just a face drawn on an ice cream cone or a flesh light. Snom is special in that it’s impossible to tell if he was born from creative bankruptcy or divine inspiration, but he is very precisely an anus dog toy crossed with a hermit crab. I could try to describe how strange I think that is, but I don’t know how I could improve on this actual user review: “Pretty good little male masterbator… The butthole could look a little more realistic, but the ‘Stroke It Ass’ does feel good. 4 out of 5 stars.” Here’s another one:

Someone named Buzz gave it five stars with only the comment, “Real feel ????” Fun Fact: This means Buzz is so desperate to know what a real butt feels like he is screaming questions at people who have sex with fake ones and also have no means of replying to him. It’s literally the last possible place where he could find answers, which means Buzz has already asked what an actual butthole feels like everywhere else. Churches, police stations, foreign embassies, and anyway, the most exhausting part of being a genius is how every time you read product reviews for fake anuses, your brain notices things like this.

Some Pokemon are only temporarily sex toys during an awkward stage in their evolution. For example, Weedle is a 50 Shades of Grey-branded string of anal beads only until he powers up enough to become Kakuna…

Now that Weedle is Kakuna, he’s a Bug/Poison-type Pokem– hold up, now this thing is just a rubber vagina in a necktie.

You may see a self-satisfied pervert with filth dripping from his head fists, but according to the Pokemon Sex Toy Detection glasses, this is not an adult toy. Diggersby is merely a deviant terrorizing its community with sex crimes.

If you’re trying to create an adorable monster or an appealing sex toy, “scattered human remains” is pretty bold choice. I mean, I get why perverts might want a realistic chunk of corpse pelvis you can fuck, but I can’t picture a video game artist bringing a vagina on a butt into a pitch meeting and getting the note, “Can we add a little doo doo pile to one side?” It’s obviously what happened, but why? How?

Dunsparce is an anal dildo who dreamed of flying until he grew wings.

If you asked me what kind of person puts a pig on a spring and squeezes a pearl between its ears, I wish I could tell you with certainty, “SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO JAM IT UP HIS ASS.” Sadly, Spoink is only a partial match for the Performance Anal Pleasure Plug.

Any Pokemon trainer capturing a Hatterene is making plans to masturbate later. It’s absurd to think this swarm of phallic shapes was ever meant to do anything other than vibrate a hole to climax. The Pokedex entry for Hatterene reads, “A formidable dildo already, in its Gigantamax form, this Psychic/Fairy-type Pokemon can hum enemy vulvas into other worlds where they are mistaken for molting Kakunas.” I stand by my decision to write this; all of this.

Any novelty glasses can tell you Milcery is not an adult toy, but he helps test if you’re still capable of surprise when you learn there’s a Pokemon creature who’s nothing more than a contented squirt of semen.

Baltoy is a Genderless Pokemon with the Levitate ability, which is how game designers interpreted the Luxe Wearable Vibra Plug, a unisex ball toy that floats around your body cavity as you go about your day. Basically, they’re both fun things to put in your butt and forget about, and unfortunately that’s only the word “delicious” away from the actual product description’s closer:

…


This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, LaziestManOnMars: Who might be lazy but he made it all the way to Mars. The fuck did you ever do?

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FUCKING DAY

The Sex Orgies of Sarawak

Old timey pornography was rough. You couldn’t just hop on the internet and search for two-to-eight people boning in your preferred model of bus to help you speed-milk the poison out. Back in the day, tawdry magazines still needed to pretend at legitimacy, and that meant finding increasingly elaborate excuses to write two thousand words about ethnic titties. One such tawdry magazine was called Exotic Adventures.

The short stories of Exotic Adventures devoted equal time to masturbation, male impotence, and wild animal attacks. That’s why we nearly lost a generation of men who responded to bear maulings with flagging erections. And that’s just not gonna cut it. You better be at full-sail if you’re hoping to kill a Grizzly with that three-and-a-half inch shank, Schultzy.

These erotic tales of danger were named things like THE STRIPPING WOLVES OF BULGARIA or DEAD AND STILL HARD IN DETROIT or…

“Sex orgies, Schultzy! This ain’t no carpentry orgy, no orgy of savings for this guy — this here is a sex orgy! The best kind of orgy! Followed by an orgy of violence: the second best kind of orgy!”

Every single one of these stories followed an adequate white man as he fucked his way through a National Geographic before the articles tried to kill him. Men of the ‘50s needed more adventurous foreplay than your dangerslut of a mother, so bear with me: we’ve got like 1500 words to go before anything sexier than a rampaging Grizzly gets penetrated. 

Indigineous people love it when colonizers show up to gawp at their “barbaric customs,” that’s why dozens of them surrounded your party while banging gongs — it must be a sign of welcome! The 1950s white man never met a party he wasn’t invited to, including the one in your pants. If you told a 1950s white man “no” he’d try to finish your sentence — “rth Carolina leads the nation in pig farming? Keen, honeygash! Hey, speaking of harvesting the ol’ hog…”

Also please note what a big deal the author makes of his crew protecting and keeping the cameras with them, which is a repeating motif throughout the story despite it not featuring any photographs whatsoever.

I convinced a girl to write the words “I’m lying” on her tits just so she could flash them at my confused roommate at the end of a long rambling story about how I once met Randy Quaid, and that anecdote itself isn’t true, yet this whole ghost-camera thing is still the craziest way I’ve ever seen to warn your audience that you’re full of shit.

The heroes in these stories are supposed to be viewed as hardened men of adventure — square-jawed mooks who smuggle opium into The Darkest Orient and black market apes out of The Darkest Congo, but our guy absolutely loses his shit when a woman with stained teeth grazes a boob across his shoulder. Where I’m from we call that a disappointing Tuesday at the Boom Boom Room, but this dude is about to have an aneurysm for something that warrants a crinkled single, at best.

None of these men would survive a horror movie. These are the guys in the cold-open whose deaths set up the real cast. It just never dawns on them that anything could be an omen of their doom. They think ‘foreshadowing’ is when you use a flashlight to make a dickpuppet on the wall and ‘portend’ is where you’ll get to put it in Suzy Collins if she appreciates your art.

Back in 1956, admitting to things like frolicking and prancing earned a man the Pink Letter and a summary dismissal from his place of work, lest his gayness somehow spread communism through the pneumatic tube system. So for our hero to drop a few hundred words about how he once let it all hang out and actually minced, it means he has gone terminally boob-graze crazy and must be put down. 

Finally we get to the fucking, and it’s four short paragraphs where the sexiest word used is ‘undulating.’ Our protagonist had to travel thousands of miles into the heart of an uncharted jungle to find a woman that didn’t even have a word for the language he spoke just so he could make love in a dark room in up to two positions and it exploded his brain forever. If some desperate teenager actually orgasmed while reading this textual styrofoam, it was the weakest climax in history and yes, I do remember Battlestar Galactica.

The ladies immediately turn on the men, driven into a murderous fury by one minute of awkward thrusting in the missionary position, and thirty seconds of vigorous pounding in ‘missionary but a little sideways.’ Somehow most of our heroes manage to escape the wrath of three anemic women powered only by sexual frustration, and return to society, where they discover the truth of what happened.

So everybody in the area knew about the orgy murders, and they only said something about how maybe you shouldn’t attend the orgy murders when you miraculously came back alive from the orgy murders. 

Maybe you should tip better, Schultzy.

Clearly this was all a work of fiction by a horny 15 year-old with up to two encyclopedias at his disposal. That little fact was given away the first time our rugged hero touched a boob and came so relentlessly he ejaculated dust. But if we’re going to publish teen DIY erotica can we at least find an author with delusions of grandeur? Even in this guy’s wild fantasies, the women will only bang him to undo a curse and that makes me too sad to finish.

So the story ends with our protagonist sadly confiding that he never had sex again. Which is not at all surprising, but is certainly a shame since he could have brought woman-on-top to the western world several decades early, and utterly shattered American society. 

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FUCKING DAY

Natural Bust Enlargement with Total Mind Power

In 1976, Donald L. Wilson, M.D. wrote a book called Total Mind Power: How to Use the Other 90% of Your Mind. It was a huge hit, and while on the subject of dubious percentages, the title alone was responsible for making the world 4% dumber. It was grifter quackery, but in what has to be the greatest comeback of ideas since Taco Bell decided they should go back to not having seafood salad on the menu, Donald wrote a followup book: the ultimate and obvious application of unlocked psychic potential: bigger tits.

I know this is unusual, but I have a dedication to make before we start. Like the book NATURAL BUST ENLARGEMENT WITH TOTAL MIND POWER: HOW TO USE THE OTHER 90% OF YOUR MIND TO INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR BREASTS, I want to dedicate this article to “every woman who wants to increase the size of her breasts.” You’re my inspiration, my light; the real heroes forever, or at least until your tits get big enough.

You definitely already knew this, but for 139 pages, Donald L. Wilson offers no way to make your boobs bigger other than really, really wishing on them. There are meditation techniques and visualizations and reassurances that your powers do, in fact, work no matter what anyone says, but that’s it. For someone with enough of a background in science to be an actual fucking medical doctor, it seems weird it never occured to Donald to do clinical trials. How hard is it to lure ten insecure women into a research center so you can measure their tits before and after they perform magic spells on them? Psh. I learned how to do that when I was 15.

One concern not addressed by the book is this: the size of a boob isn’t vague pseudoscience. You can just look at it or feel it and see how big it is. Try it at home. Then, after hypnosis, you can paw at the same boob again. Is it bigger? Great. You’ve shaken the world. Show those before and after pictures, maybe with some themed costumes and you’ve got yourself a really crowd-pleasing academic document. The fact that this isn’t the best-selling book in the history of publishing is proof it doesn’t work. Imagine any media outlet -ever- not running with the story “Sexy, topless photos prove man has discovered titty-fattening mind rays.” No other news item is more important than that.

In the ’00s, a penis enlargement company chose world-famous porn star and cured rat ham, Ron Jeremy, to be their spokesperson. This meant their marketers could show his exhaustingly documented penis before the pills and then his larger penis after the pills. But they didn’t. It’s a product based entirely around irrational hope and they somehow chose the only penis circumstance that accidentally proved their pills didn’t work. This book does the same thing. If Donald L. Wilson truly believed mind powers could increase a woman’s bust, why didn’t he include photos of whatever pair of mutant tits convinced him of that? It’s like he wrote this book specifically to trick very stupid girls into letting him touch their very small breasts. Psssh. I learned how to do that when I was 13.

The Total Mind Power techniques have some strange side effects like making you more slender in the waist, probably because this book is the specific fantasy of a horny nerd and not because your X-Men powers will move waist meat to your bust meat. I highlighted Donald’s tips on being able to tell when something is bigger by using “sight” and “touch.” It’s pretty normal for grifters to have contempt for their mark’s intelligence, but I don’t remember seeing an author mansplain vision before. And at the risk of more unnecessary advice, don’t listen to fetishists who say whispering dreams into someone’s nipples is science. It’s worth a try, a fun tip to meet girls at the beach, one simple trick every bra salesman hates, something I wish I’d thought of first, cheaper than titty salve, a freedom America’s enemies will never take, and an effective way to see which titties can keep a secret, but not science.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, John: The reason no truck-stop bathroom stall has a functioning lock.

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Cracked Slashfic

On the path to fame you will take many small steps. Long before you puke pure cocaine onto your own star on Hollywood Boulevard, you will celebrate minor milestones that feel revelatory at the time: The day a fanpage is founded, your own Wikipedia entry, the first time you get recognized when you really wish you weren’t (disheveled and hungover while ordering the worst thing at a burrito cart for me!) but there’s nothing quite like your very own slashfiction. The day an Internet Morlock writes several thousand words about the way you might fuck is the day you know you’ve made it. That’s why I was so intensely jealous of my old coworkers Dan O’Brien and Michael Swaim, when they were graced with this lovely bit of prose:

Even if there’s no fucking in your fanfiction, your fanfiction is still about fucking. It might be on an esoteric level, but fucks will be had. So any piece of fanfiction would belong on Fucking Day as well as any other day, but bear with me, because there absolutely is fucking here. It’s brief and last minute, as all fucking should be, but it’s here. I will deliver.

This is a tough piece for me to write, because I know both of these people, and it’s tricky to walk the line between keeping a respectful distance from their private lives and making loud, explicit jokes about their dicks touching. It’s a problem I’ve struggled with in literally every single friendship I’ve had, and I have never made the right choice. So I’m going to try to confine my criticism only to the text itself, and not address the elephant dong in the room unless absolutely necessary.

I appreciate the writer trying to mimic the Cracked style, throwing in our casual absurdity and liberal hints of violence. But this is almost the start of two jokes and no punchlines. You can’t just say “he did some heroin in an unexpected way” without further commentary; that’s just an accurate report of what bored junkies do. It’s not funny to explain that drug addicts gonna drug. That’s just an excuse that never works at any of my exit interviews. 

And you can’t just say “he threatened to burn my mom’s house down” and leave it at that — that’s genuinely what psychopaths do. Arson is your foundation, and you have to build comedy upon it. Maybe he made a Molotov cocktail in a zany fashion, like in a sippy cup. Maybe he was being metaphorical, and it turns out he ‘burned your mom’s house down’ with his good, good fuckin’. Maybe your mom flipped the script on him and burned his house down. I guess what I’m really asking is for you to take a second pass on the text after you cum, when the clarity of mind can help you build out the jokes.

This is a novice mistake. It’s what takes so many people out of horror movies. Your protagonist can’t be making so many obviously stupid decisions just so you can move the pieces around the board, then set them on top of each other and make grinding motions. Especially since we’re aware that this is slashfiction — we already know somebody is going to get railed that would probably prefer to not get railed quite so hard. You’re going to have to work even harder to make it look like that might not happen.

There always has to be just a whiff of rape in slashfiction, doesn’t there? It’s never fully consensual. Even if the author later makes it very clear that both characters came to want this, it always has to start like a sketch in a self-defense class. Slashfiction writers think that foreplay is a loophole for consent. The only pickup line slashfiction writers know is attempted kidnapping. Slashfiction writers think the most erotic part of the body is the nose because that’s where the chloroform goes.

Okay, the author gets points back here: I do like how real they kept Swaim’s living conditions. He resides in a modest apartment far from the office, and owns nothing but a small grey couch and a television. It’s like they really get the internet writer’s plight.

You see what I mean? As soon as two people show affection toward one another, a slashfiction author has to dive into their own skull Inside Out-style to see exactly how Lust manages to choke Consent out this time.

I don’t know what human pretzel pornography this author gets off to, but I can tell you with authority that Michael Swaim is not a fuck-snake. He’s not a blowjob boa constrictor, able to keep a man on his lap while also fellating him. He’s like any of us: he has to choose between the two.

It is true that the early columnists all had lube. They got it as a gag gift from a fan, and only used it once for an office Slip ‘n Slide party. 

Wait, did I just fall for the least effort ever put into a cover story?!

The human imagination is a bizarre and terrible thing. That you can look at a regular person making comedy sketches on the internet and be so overcome with inspiration that you simply must pen three thousand words on how they probably feel about anal creampies — it’s almost noble. I am a professional writer and I could only get 1,092 words out of that, at best.

Leaving the door so plainly open for a sequel is always a bold move — it shows a degree of faith and certainty that I have never had in anything I’ve ever done. The blind, hopeless trust inherent in that faulty assumption just breaks my heart. It’s like a disabled orphan believing with all his heart that there’s no way you’ll steal his wheelchair for a third time. People that type “THE END…?” are still waiting for OJ to find the real killer. If you tell them “the check is in the mail” and it never arrives, they’ll go hold up the line at the Post Office just to drag an already broken postal worker over coals they stopped being able to feel long ago. This author was so very sure that the people would clamor for more textual erotica about two awkward internet comedians fucking in a budget Burbank apartment that they couldn’t even commit to a hard stop. But that’s not an epic saga that needs more exploration, it’s just a Tuesday we don’t talk about.

THE END

…?

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FUCKING DAY

Let’s Read: 269 Amazing Sex Games

Like all sex books, 269 Amazing Sex Games has to make some pretty wild guesses where your kink zone starts and ends. It has no idea if you’re shy grandparents or dicks-in-every-hand exhibitionists, so it assumes you’re both. It was written by Hugh de Beer, an erotic board game designer, which you wouldn’t know since 80% of the suggestions aren’t games and the ones that are have frustratingly vague win conditions. This is, again like all sex books, a brainstorming session typed out by an inexperienced lover with a pedestrian mind that reveals only the author’s shortcomings and fruit fetishes. I don’t know how many ways there are to add chance and whimsy to your fucking, but this book proves it is way, way fewer than 269.

These Amazing Sex Games are all word-for-word taken from the book.

I’ve always wondered why I see so many old married couples browsing the produce section and arguing about which berries are the easiest to retrieve from a human anus.

This book was published in 2005 when it might not have been absurd for a household to own six or more porn DVDs. I absolutely do not recommend trying this Amazing Sex Tip today. I did, and my six choices were Milf Forces Stepson, Son get Mom Pregnint (real), mom/son creampie preview, sister blackmailed thye shouldnt have made this, Make me a “MAN” mom (MilkedGoddess), Ri$e of $kyw@lker full movie link in comments.

If you’re following along in a cute numbered book to spice up your tired love life, you are not equipped to navigate the modern erotic video landscape. I don’t even feel comfortable doing it and I’m personally the reason for three safety warnings on erection pumps. The clerk at my local sex dungeon once told me, “We haven’t found those four inches of your penis, but my boss says you still have to pay full price,” and I would never do something as dangerous as just randomly selecting an erotic video in the year 2020.

“Mmm, that feels nice. Okay, here’s the comments on Son get Mom Pregnint (real). Gapelover_Newmexico says ‘nut nut‘ a whole bunch of times… xXMurdererXx says ‘mommy fat tits lookin good,’ a couple more people say ‘nut nut‘ … this one is a work from home spam… okay, Beefwand19 says ‘FAKE‘ all caps, ‘you can tell it’s not his actual mom that’s Jasmyn Nipple,’ and then there’s a link to her instagram. ‘She has four kids and they are all too old for porn.‘ He spelled all of those words wrong. Oh that tickles, this book is FUN!”

What? Alright, thanks for the banana… slut? I guess a surprise mango won’t make me less likely to fuck somebody, but this feels pretty far removed from both sex or games. What the hell are we doing here, Hugh? Not all of us have a fruit thing. Am I supposed to tell her to put the mango in her butt? And then she marinates an ass mango for five hours depending on traffic? And then we, what? Flip a coin to see who gets to eat the butt fruit? Okay, now that I’ve visualized the whole thing, it is kind of hot.

You know someone has never tried the ideas in their sex book if they think you can give someone a discreet footjob to completion in a restaurant. This is an idea for a giggly teenager with a limited imagination and a foot thing to jerk off to; it’s not an actionable plan for a horny couple. Hugh, did you strain your brain so hard coming up with “stomp on her crotch at Chili’s” that you forgot waiters can see and hear just like you? “Amazing Sex Game” my mango-filled ass. I’m starting to think Hugh learned what sex was from edited-for-TV romantic comedies…

…oh my god, he did. He fucking did.

This is really testing the boundaries of what one considers a “game.” Picking a porn movie name out of a hat was already the bare minimum of gamification, but flipping a coin before you fuck to decide who gets to be on top? Your audience is presumably lovers trying to have fun, not a couple of 8-year-olds settling a bunk bed dispute. And if you’re writing for a reader who considers flipping a coin an idea, do you really want to leave something as ill-defined as “dominant position” in the hands of their imagination? If grandma calls heads, there is a 100% chance she’s going to take this too literally and peg grandpa’s ass berries into jam.

You want me to put together a homemade dick instruction manual? Motherfucker, did you just suggest I draw someone a homemade dick instruction manual!? If you handed your wife a sick rat and said, “For your rotten asshole, you fat monster,” it would be met with the exact same result as a lovingly presented hand-drawn boner manual. If the police found this, they would declare the seventy stab wounds in your corpse an accident and give your widow a medal. Goddamn it, Hugh. Draw your genitals and label where to touch them? It’s like you want us to know you’re dating a second grader but you’re too cowardly to say, “#126: Draw and label that sweet hog on your lover’s alphabet flash cards!”

So you want us to sit naked in plaster as part of a multi-step advanced crafting project so we can eat a chocolate vulva after sex? It’s almost incredible how this spoils every single joy in life. Eating, hobbies, fucking… they all become smeared in misery and sculpting chocolate. And where is the game? Do we roll an 8-sided die to see who breaks the silence to ask, “What have we become?”