Category: FUCKING DAY

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FUCKING DAY

WikiHow: How to Hide an Erection

Be calm. Maintain your vigil. Show no signs of external panic, or your life is forfeit. Be very still and give no sign that you have read this: 

You are currently surrounded by boners. 

Boners are everywhere — tucked into every corner, lurking in every shadow. Every single man whose crotch you cannot clearly inspect right now is hiding an erection — possibly more than one erection. 

I am assuming this to be the case, anyway, since half of WikiHow is just panicky pages about how to defeat manmeat. 

Not pictured: How to Destroy An Erection, How to Dismantle An Erection Piece by Piece, and How to Banish an Erection to the Phantom Zone. 

Here’s how prevalent boner-stealth is on WikiHow: I’m not even covering either of those two pages. I’m covering yet a third page, How to Hide an Erection, which presumably concedes that you already possess an erection so mighty one can not defeat it in battle. 

Strangling your boner is a solid plan. I have no critiques here. Suffocation is generally a good way to kill things, from sleeping enemies to a boring sex life. But I will say this: Stop lying to society. Stop lying to yourself. If you’re wearing silk underwear, there is no such thing as an unwanted erection for you.

This advice is less solid: If you’re crab-walking through the subway wearing a hat like a codpiece, the best possible thing people will assume of you is that you have an awkward boner. The worst is that you are a performance artist who says shit like “society is my canvas.” If it looks like people might suspect you of being a performance artist, immediately stand and assure everybody that you just have a highly inappropriate erection. They’ll be so relieved, they might applaud. Your little guy could always use that confidence boost.

This one actually requires you to plan your whole day around hiding an unwanted erection. If you take a look at your weekly calendar and find that all of Tuesday is blocked out for you to ‘practice the art of slight-of-hard-on,’ don’t scribble ‘remember to wear long shirt’ beneath it — just reschedule. Sunday is a far better day for playing the secret sausage game. That’s God’s day, and it’s always a little sexier knowing somebody is watching.

Also maybe make sure your shirt isn’t emblazoned with a giant anchor that serves as nothing more than an arrow pointing at your poorly camouflaged dong. That’s a rookie move. What you really want is a long shirt with a cartoon penis across the bottom, exactly where your real penis would rest. That’s 4th-dimensional dick chess right there.

Be sure to exhaust your erection’s stamina bar first, or your cock may kick loose from the pin and hit you with a Reverse Powerbomb, leaving you staggered and weak to both charging and flying attacks.

Every one of these pages about how to do the worst magic trick dedicates a long section to ‘The Tuck.’ And that’s fair: It’s a solid move. The Tuck is the Reverse Powerbomb of getting arrested for public indecency. But these diagrams could use some work. For example, the above image does not illustrate The Tuck at all, but instead demonstrates how to use the tensile strength of your erection to fling small objects, like grapes or paperclips, at your attackers and/or potential mates.

I call this one “The Diglett.” 

I just took Diglett away from you. I just robbed you of his joy. I did that to you and there’s nothing you can do to make that untrue. Not even the strongest Reverse Powerbomb will return that innocence to your mind.

Roughly half of the ‘models’ on these erection-blocking pages are wearing cuffed jean shorts with heavy loafers, like some kind of Vacation Frankenstein. I will venture a guess and say that these dudes have only ever had unwanted erections, and I do agree that they must be hidden from humanity at all costs.

Listen, if you find yourself with a potentially embarrassing erection, don’t sit there making heavy eye contact while rubbing a Coke all over it. Now you’re ruining both male sexuality and canned beverages for the rest of us. Down south they call this move “the Kentucky Snowman” and it is prosecutable to the fullest extent of the law.

And now we have intentionally left our house with an erection, and are biking about furiously, taking our boner on a high speed chase through the neighborhood. This definitely gets you put on the sex offender’s registry, but they’ll have to catch you first.

Serious points to the artist for the placement on that bike seat, though.

A lot of the advice for murdering a boner involves inflicting weird pains and intricate shames on yourself for having them. Don’t do this: This is how you make new Quakers. 

Advising somebody to worry about bills every time they become aroused is how you train a pornography accountant. You might learn how to write off a dick piercing, but is it worth the cost? Everybody who writes a Wikihow page on how to thwart pantpoles was once caught with an erection in a cancer ward and is now projecting their shame onto the world.

Look at the Faulkner of Fuck here, “occluding” his enormous “glans.” Just call it “sheathing the machete” like the rest of us.

You fucking wandom. “Wow everybody, look at the pickle man doing backflips on a weasel!” This isn’t going to work. If anybody looks away, it’s only to avoid eye contact with you. That might technically get you out of this situation unseen, but fuck that. You haven’t earned this. Nobody look away! Do not fucking blink. Everybody watch the wandom crawl away, clutching his unwelcome wang in humiliation.

You know what they say: a warning is only ever there because somebody actually did it once. Some dim pervert stood up in court and insisted that he should not be on the sex offender registry because the internet forgot to specify that he shouldn’t masturbate in public. It worked for him that one time, and that’s why today we have Devin Nunes, but it will not work for you. 

Let’s wrap up with our most important tip: Don’t randomly rocket to your feet, boner bouncing from sheer velocity, and scream to the heavens like your partner was just gunned down by the mob.

That is a power move meant to kill the erections of every male around you and steal their energy to fuel your own massive, glowing lust obelisk. If you pull off this move, no force on Earth can challenge your boner unless you find a way to dissipate the energy. If you don’t use it within five minutes, you will burn up from the inside. Please instead read the WikiHow for How to Fire Off Boner Energy Like A Laser, but for the love of God — aim up. Space can take your dickblast; Nebraska cannot.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Let’s Read Godek: Romantic Essentials 🌭

During my distinguished career at Cracked.com, I wrote several articles questioning the romantic competence of Gregory J.P. Godek. He is responsible for the best-selling 1,001 Ways to Be Romantic featuring tips like “buy her a pizza with her choice of toppings” and “hire a local youngster to teach you and your lover Nintendo.” Godek rewrote that same book many, many more times, and every single one had tips for fucking near food or the exact words “Go miniature golfing… in your wedding dress and tuxedo!” His mind is a clogged Pizza Hut toilet, but he has the heart of an aspiring clerk who was “a bit too much” for the Hallmark regional manager. You will never love again after reading the 27th version of Godek’s only and dumbest idea: Romantic Essentials – 401 Ways to Show Your Love.

Before we get into Godek’s sexy romantic tips, let’s talk about the cursed lore of my particular copy. It was previously owned by someone named “B. Haechler” who highlighted none of Godek’s ideas for “free backrub” coupons or any of his weird lists of popular love songs. In fact, there were no signs whatsoever B. read a single page. Andrea McMillam, if this gets to you I want you to know your friend “B.” threw your garbage wedding shower present away. You deserve this pain for what you’ve done as a terrible friend and a worse gift giver. It would have been kinder and less confusing if you gave B. a $7 gift card for “Fat Bitch Medicine.”

The introduction says “Hide this book” because it’s your “Romantic Secret Weapon” and its power will be mitigated if your partner discovers you’re using it to cheat at love. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Romantic Essential Tip #77 is a reminder that women are still horny… still sexual after menopause. Try bringing that up and see if your date cares what the source was. Romantic Essential #300 is just the word “Care.” Is Godek concerned someone is going to find this in your scrapbooking drawer and scream, “Care? CARE!? I knew you stole that idea!” Maybe. He does take for granted the reader is and is dating a cartoonishly nerdy fuck machine with every learning disorder. Still, it might be fun for us both to keep in mind the dumbshit who wrote this thought he was writing some kind of emergency handle you can pull to get out of any romantic trouble.

If a woman wants to sleep with you after you do this, great, but keep in mind you’ve just clinically proven she will have sex with anyone who asks under any circumstances. There is nothing less romantic or sexy than putting a pun on a calculator. It’s what a think tank of geniuses would come up with if you gave them an unlimited budget to define unsexiness. It’s a Hemingway legend from an alternate dimension where he was challenged to dry the panties of a nation in only twelve words.

Remember how this book was meant to be your secret romance weapon in case of emergency? Well, romance emergency lovers, one of the entries is “here are two novelty Three Stooges gifts that exist.” And since he came up with the idea of buying the wristwatch and the necktie, Godek counted it as two separate entries. I don’t care how low your expectations were for a cute little relationship book for squares, but no one could have gone into this imagining “maybe a Three Stooges product?” would be two of the 401 essential romantic tips. If this was a blank page under the words “BITE OFF HER TOE AND PLACE IT HERE,” it would be less strange. 

So I page my lover with the message “0-1-1-3-4.” And then what? She calls to ask, “What’s so important!? I’m at work!” and I explain “0-1-1-3-4” means HELLO and it is, in fact, quite romantic? And then what? I wait on the line to see which of her ovaries collapse into sand? Godek, did you fucking just tell me to use a communications device to fucking say “HELLO” to someone I’m already fucking!?!? I’d call you a basic bitch, but Romantic Essential Tip #366 has proven there is literally no instruction manual for a beeper more basic than you. Tell your lover HELLO? I need you to take a look at yourself here, Godek. You’re worse than a failure. The government should tie you to playgrounds to prevent local child predators from ever getting in the mood.

One of Godek’s worst features, and he sucks hard, is his inability to distinguish between “romance” and “anything.” Suggesting pizza is romance. Saying HELLO on a pager is romance. A Three Stooges watch is like a dear friend watching you slap his wife’s tits from the other couch. In only the second tip of this book, he’s taking some troubling trend in American employment scheduling and duct taping it to the concept of love with the unsupported desperation of a YouTuber explaining why Alita:Battle Angel disproves feminism. Give an extra calendar month to your lover? Godek doesn’t suggest how you might achieve this in even the broadest strategy. He simply suggests you work 160 hours less every year and spend that time at couples pottery classes or walking tours of the Cuyahoga Falls historic downtown district. How!? With what shall we slow the passage of time, Godek? A Three Stooges chrono-lamp “eye gouge! silly face!” available for only $79 at timecandles.com?

Godek does this a lot. And when I say “this,” I mean he starts talking about really crazy shit as if you were already in a conversation about it. I’m not leaving some transition out between Romantic Essential Tip #2 and Romantic Essential Tip #3. He went from time sorcery to heart waffles and linked them with the words, “and then, of course.” These things aren’t related, Godek. You can’t shriek, “Time is a construct! Quit your job to pork and furthermore: did you know breakfast can come in shapes!? Visit appliances.com and put in offer code SLOW-TIME-AND-THEN-OF-COURSE-HEART-WAFFLE.”

Godek learned Pun as a second language so he could seduce Laffy Taffies. He sits at his desk with a bowl of candy penetrating cubes of banana after whispering to them erotic homonyms. “What’s the best day of the week to open your wrapper, my sweet?” he asks. “Hump day!” he giggles, playfully not giving it enough time to answer. “And what cut of meat did the romance writer buy Bazooka Joe? Chuck steak- wait, no, I meant ‘fuck’ steak. ‘FUCK‘ stea– no, don’t leave, bowl of candy! Did you see my note? Check your wristwaaaatch!”

Sure, go for it. It’ll help remind your lover which one of you is always needy and horny and which one of you does chores.

Jesus Christ, Godek. Maybe attach a note to your face: “Fuck me and everything about me.”

The world has a few empty slots it will always need to fill for the role of “romance guru.” For instance, every daytime talk show or radio station needs a love expert in their media contact database to give sexy Valentine tips or explain which anal beads make the best Grandparent’s Day gifts. Any, any, horny idiot with a passing knowledge of cultural stereotypes can stumble into this job. And once you have it, Godek demonstrates how this job has no fail condition. You can’t “debunk” folksy romance wisdom. Oprah is never going to grab her love expert guest and scream, “Imposter! Virgin! These are all cliches from edible arrangement packaging!”

When you start to believe you’re smarter than everyone else, you lose your grip on what’s wisdom and what’s too obvious for anyone who has ever lived to disagree with or not know. Godek maybe isn’t stupid when he says, “Women are not men. And Men are not women.” But, and I made a similar point earlier, say something dumber than this, Godek. It’s impossible for this to be anything other than duh to anyone. Pick any words about any subject and arrange them in a less necessary way. If you spent 30 minutes explaining how you always give farts Halfling names like “Elevator Cloudberry” or “Pop Beandigger” it would be no more or less wise. It would simply be a different kind of pointless fart noise.

Maybe… sure, sometimes? Was there a study to discover how often this is true? And if not, how is this more helpful than saying, “When I fart on my wife I call it Eggsy Hogpen!” And speaking of Godek’s wife, he has one, so he’s only really scientifically tested his love expertise on the one subject and its cervix gets wide when exposed to pizza or calculator puns. That’s no challenge, Godek. And whatever, get after it, stud, but it means your entire identity is no different than entering a kitchen for the first time, following the instructions on a Hot Pocket, and declaring yourself a master chef. Incidentally, readers, microwaving a Hot Pocket counts as foreplay in Godek’s house if you hiss, “Nyuk! Nyuk! This is only the first warm crust of cheese my tongue will tickle tonight! But first meet, hrrnhh… Poofnik Proudburrow!”

Okay, dickhead. Feel. Thanks, I’ll try this one while I look at the Three Stooges necktie you told me to buy. Oh. Oh god, is j-joy? I feel like I understand heart-shaped waffles. Oh, god, I get it now! The note on the wristwatch! Everything!

Fucking why? Are we trying to outsmart the ghost of a dead florist? Is this type of Garfield-in-sunglasses zaniness honestly easier than developing a personality? I get you’re only 25 entries away from finishing your book, but have some self respect. This forced goofing like a robot intruder pretending to understand the hu-mor of a novelty tennis mug. This is cuteness black face.

It’s in every book. Every fucking book he has ever written. To Godek, there is no single piece of wisdom or act of affection more worth mentioning than this, his idea of playing miniature golf… while dressed in your wedding gown and tuxedo! If tomorrow you watch your roommate scald his dick on 45 different Hot Pockets, you’ll now be able to say, “I’ve only seen one other person be so certain a dumb idea was a brilliant idea this many times in a row.”

Thirty five entries ago this pizza fucker thought I didn’t know what a woman was, and now he’s just tossing me four blank lines and telling me to go crazy? Fine.

“An authentic boomerang?” Bitch, only you would brag about how interesting you are for buying yourself an airport gift, but I do admire your bravery in writing a note this unlikeable on something designed to be thrown at you.

If I wrote this note on a boomerang it would also say, “Consider this note part one of your PUN-ishment for touching my weapons. Part two is duck. Too late. This was not my only authentic boomerang and the rest of this note is now for the people who find your body. Hello Mister Police duck. Too late. Why do you idiots keep thinking I’m out of boomerangs? They’re like four bucks at any gift shop!”

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Kemono Michi Rise Up

When I plugged the synopsis of Kemono Michi: Rise Up into the Weiner 2600 — the machine that decides which aspect of Hot Dog our content represents — the damn thing told me to schedule it for Fucking Day. And I just don’t understand: Kemono Michi is supposed to be an anime about a Japanese professional wrestler who loves animals, then gets sucked into a kind of fantasy world where he has to become a wild beast tamer. Look at these adorable scenes from the opening credits:

This show is about a man becoming best friends with a bear, Weiner 2600. While I do find that concept intensely erotic, the Attorney General of Alaska has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am an outlier in that regard. This shit is as wholesome as a church picnic before someone mentions the gays.

Of course, I am well aware that Japan can turn anything into a porno, and the whole country grows 4% more erect every time you doubt that fact. But I just don’t see it happening here. 

The setup is that our hero, Animal Mask, wants to quit wrestling to open a pet shop. Most professional wrestlers dream only of the day they can quit injecting steroids straight into their testicles professionally, and switch to strictly recreational use. This guy dreams of selling puppy chow. That’s downright heartwarming. 

And this is Japanese professional wrestling we’re talking about here — if American pro wrestling is about veiny meat-monsters thigh-choking racial stereotypes for ‘roid money, Japanese professional wrestling is about all of those things plus war crimes. You ever see a fluorescent light match? You’re supposed to flee the county if you so much as crack one of those suckers, and Japanese pro wrestlers spend forty seven minutes shoving them up each other’s assholes. 

This guy…

Is the most adorable thing to come out of wrestling this side of Captain Lou Albano struggling to read cue cards about video games he only understood enough to fear. 

Our purehearted paladin even does his wrestling moves alongside his adorable little dog:

I am all in on this show. It’s even got a proper, full-body dropkick in the first scene, and proper, full-body dropkicks are my spirit animal. 

In the middle of the match, Animal Mask gets pulled over to some generic fantasy world, where he’s supposed to be their hero…

And he instantly bodyslams the mystical princess that summoned him. 

This show may have a pure heart, but there’s only so far you can bend the suspension of disbelief…  and implying that a woman might go unviolenced within twenty feet of a professional wrestler just pulls the audience right out of it.

But you know, the suplexing princess scene actually makes me understand what’s wrong with this categorization: Weiner 2600 analyzed the show for panty shots and came up with a rate of 865/hour, so it mistakenly shuffled this show into Fucking Day because it doesn’t know that’s Japan’s absolute legal minimum. 

That’s okay, Weiner 2600: I will accept gratuitous cartoon panty shots that make me embarrassed to be a man, to be human, and to have working eyeballs, if that price buys me cute dogs doing dropkicks. I’ve seen anime before.

There’s even a legitimately funny bit where Animal Mask runs out into this fantasy world dressed like a benchwarmer at a Kubrick orgy and the townspeople instantly call him out on it.

He tries to plead that he’s all wrestler and no molester:

…but we all know the only difference between those two things is a referee. 

I know this site is for showing you hopelessly broken things that slithered over here from the Wrong Dimension, but I messed up on Kemono Michi. This is just my new favorite series. I honestly don’t see how this show about a Speedo-clad man who loves animals could go wrong.

I immediately see how this show about a Speedo-clad man who loves animals can go wrong.

Oh fuck it’s happening so fast. No, you can’t do this to me — w-we had a rapport going, show. You just spent ten minutes establishing credibility, charm, normality; there’s no way our adorable hero is going to-

…instantly transform into a sex monster and try to power-rape everyone he sees. What the screaming shit, Kemono Michi? We’ve gone zero to the bathroom in a furry convention in .6 milliseconds. This has to stop, this-

…is going to get so much worse before it gets better, isn’t it?

Yep.

Yeah.

Yep.

Here we go.

I feel immensely betrayed, and all goodwill I have for the world has been irrevocably shattered. 

In that screencap up there, a cat-girl is begging our hero to stop taking deep, perverse huffs of her wolf-man brother. But Animal Mask only came to this world to do two things: Smell animal crotches, and smell animal crotches (after banging them). For the record, none of the sentient beast people are into this at all:

And there is zero doubt that Animal Mask thinks Informed Consent is some sort of Yes cover band. 

I’m so sorry. I should have given you a trigger warning. If you’ve ever helplessly stood by as a psychotic bodybuilder groped your poodle, you are surely having flashbacks to Jason Statham’s birthday party by now.

Oh, okay. It’s just belly rubs.

That’s seriously how the show tries to justify this scene, forgetting that they spent extra time drawing the naked terror in the wolf-man’s eyes as his autonomy was taken from him. Wolfie is shown here apparently enjoying it, though later he is overcome with shame and guilt, and tries to shower off the psychic filth. That is not a joke, that scene happens in this show. Kemono Michi goes out of its way to show you the consequences of Animal Mask’s unwanted advances, but never stops him from doing it.

I hear at level 55 you get an epic mount. Do not ask what the epic mount is.

HIS CROTCH-SNIFFING LEVEL IS OVER 9000!

The show loves to set up the same joke over and over again. See, Animal Mask seems like he’s suggesting perverted things…

When really he just likes animals! 

Then, before you can relax, they flash to his idea of ‘liking’ an animal, which is straight pornography:

I do not understand the joke! 

If the setup is that Animal Mask says something that sounds sexual, when he really means something innocent, you cannot punctuate that by smash cutting to him twisting a wolf-girl’s fuzzy nipples. 

Every scene plays out like this:

“Oh no, he’s a pervert.” 

“Oh wait, he meant something innocent.”

“OH SHIT HE IS INSIDE OF ME I WAS INCORRECT ABOUT MY FIRST ASSUMPTION.”

That’s not a joke structure, that’s tearful testimony.

How did the pitch session go for this show? Did they bother actually writing down the words ‘SUPERPOWERED ANIMAL RAPIST GOES TO DISNEYWORLD’ or did they just tongue-kiss a panda on the conference table until the producers were so psychologically broken they’d greenlight anything?

I am not cherrypicking one scene out of context here. Later in the episode, Animal Mask encounters a cerberus, body slams the beast…

Then gleefully huffs its asshole. 

Magical sparkles of delight alight in the air around his head. This scene drags on for like a full minute while the camera zooms in on him growing happier and happier with what he’s found in the hellhound’s anal glands.

I want to be clear: This is not classified as pornography. I didn’t turn on my special Recursive VPN (that’s a VPN that routes through another VPN in case the feds raid the first VPN) and trudge through the dark parts of the internet to unearth this obscure, condemnable porno. I found this fucking show on Hulu right next to Friendly Neighbor’s Pie Enjoyment Competition and Nick Offerman Reads Poetry To Ducks.

This is the worst thing I have ever seen in anime and I have seen anime before.

Here are the ending credits.

Pretty cute way to close out a show about raping werewolves, Japan.

Weiner 2600, I once again owe you an apology. Your methods are unimpeachable and I understand now, too late, that you were trying to warn me.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

The 1,001 Best Places To Have Sex In America 🌭

1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA isn’t really a realistic guide on places you can fuck, though it sometimes seems to think it is. It’s more like watching two aggressively pedestrian minds get battered to death by a task beyond their means. It’s the sex book equivalent of watching a little boy’s head burst off after attempting a 2800 pound bench press.

The authors, Jennifer Hunt and Dan Baritchi, have the worst possible combination of shortcomings for erotic authors. They are incapable of creative thought and they write about sex like two children who snuck away from an Amish community to google “blue job what is” and “where is butt?” I have, without exaggeration, read hundreds of books like this and I’ve never seen anyone run out of ideas so completely and immediately. By the end of the very first page, in a book promising 1,001 fucking things, they were already recycling entries. Every single one of these is real. None of these are a bit; I swear on my life.

Hey, why not On the Deck (or Patio) On Secretary’s Day? Why not On the Deck (or Patio) Reading the Yellow Pages? Why not “On the Deck (or Patio) While Calling Abishag Number 1 Locksmith? Why not On the Deck (or Patio) While Calling Bojar & Baasha Emergency Locksmith? Jesus, writing sex books is easy. I am rock hard and I haven’t even had a single real idea yet.

The cover didn’t say “cleanest” or “most romantic.” It said BEST. And what’s more best than fluorescent lighting, urine splatter, and hepatitis C? This entry demonstrates how Dan and Jennifer’s advice is usually a disappointing combination of obvious and disgusting. If you were going hiking, Dan would remind you, “be sure to fill your water bottle,” and Jennifer would add, “so you can wet your teeth before you eat ass!”

Mmm, feel the cold tile on the back of your head. Feel the sensual creep of bacteria along your perineum’s membrane. Hey, remember earlier when I mentioned urine splatter and hepatitis C? Because your partner will while you pork on a soggy bath mat like a silverfish. The bathroom floor wouldn’t make most people’s top 50, but Dan and Jennifer give it 4 out 5 in Ecstacy Factor. See, they rate each spot on four things: Ecstasy Factor, Calorie Burn, Kink Level, and Risk. And these ratings would be pointless even if they weren’t stupidly inconsistent wild guesses by two square dumbshits. For instance, sex “While Swimming in the Pool (#5)” apparently burns fewer calories than sex “On a Floating Raft in the Pool (#8).” What? I know banging Jennifer obviously isn’t an exact science, but why is floating harder than swimming when you’re inside her? Is she inflatable? Is she filled with fish? If she’s filled with fish it would explain why she is constantly running to the bathroom to moisten all her holes.

It’s pretty clear Dan and Jennifer exhausted the actual places they’ve fucked somewhere in the 10s. I never considered anyone would need to hear this advice, but if you find yourself writing a book on 1,001 places to have sex and you’re driving past a bowling alley and you think, “You could do it in the bathroom there! Or like at the bowling part! Maybe the parking lot? This place is a sex location gold mi–OH! A Pizza Hut! Sex at a Pizza Hut would be, what, like 3 out of 5 Calorie Burns?” maybe you shouldn’t be writing that book about fucking.

Despite their frequency, none of these entries bring any special expertise to fucking in the bathroom. There’s no special way to pleasure your wife’s writhing sac of vaginal fish in a bowling alley shitter versus dealing with it in a porta-potty. All these entries are each clumsily reworded versions of “This is pretty gross, but our editor says it counts as a new one! 2 out of 5 kinks!” There’s so little thought put into this book, I feel like maybe they don’t even notice they’re doing it? It might honestly come as a shock to Dan and Jennifer to find out 40% of their life’s work is slight variations on the phrase “toilet sex.”

Oh, did the author look up from his inspirations notebook and see a train? Did the big boy sex book author see a choo choo and get a new idea?

They set out to advise horny dingbats on 1,001 places to fuck and missed their goal by about 1000 places. Is there a failure more complete than this in the history of literature? We’d never know because the only equivalent would be writing an autobiography so badly the universe decided you never existed.

Fine. I guess you technically haven’t fucked on a CONVENIENCE STORE toilet yet, Dan and Jennifer. You treat your genitals like pedantic fucks treat scoring in Scattergories.

Can you imagine some dull couple looking to add adventure to their love life and learning they’d spent $14.95 for a list of places to pee? These sad, filth-sucking cows. I don’t have any disappointment left for them. If you gave Dan and Jennifer an hour to come up with three suggestions on where to eat, they would come back to you with, “Poop in a sock, barren widow left for dead in an outhouse, let’s try poop.”

“Jennifer, honey, what are some places to have sex other than the bathroom?”

“Sweetheart, no. The fish in my asshole would die.”

“Of course, my sweet. I forgot. I love you.”

“Glub. Prrrbrraappppppp!!! Bllgbbbbb!!!”

I’m not being fair to Dan and Jennifer. They had several dozen other ideas on places to bang like “On an Indian Reserve in a Teepee (#645)” or “With a Prostitute (#540).” They also suggested doing it “In a Public School Bus (#358)” and “In the Back Seat with Your Mom or Dad Driving (#485)” One is simply “At the Mayor’s House with the Mayor’s Wife (#357).” About 50 of them require felonies  before you even get to the fornicating in front of strangers. So don’t get the image that these two are Mormons who waited too long to share their love and this is the memoir of their giggly month-long consummation. Dan and Jennifer are legitimate sex criminal perverts.

It’s weird that it took Dan and Jennifer so many bathrooms before they finally remembered the one people actually fuck in. Not funny weird, but I don’t think an entry this lazy deserves a joke.

What? Fucking WHAT, Dan and Jennifer!? You two sloppy drips have been rolling around in tourist diarrhea for 158 pages and now suddenly you’re sexing at high speeds along the surface of the water on a… did you say hot dog? I take back three of the bathroom things I said about you! This one is terrific! What a coherent, non-insane, BEST place for sex!

Dan and Jennifer explain this means to have sex in the bathroom on a plane! Can you imagine!? I can, you goldfish-minded, halibut-vaginaed sluts, because you just suggested this 288 entries ago. There’s a good chance I’m the only person who has ever read this book, including its writers and editor. There’s also a good chance Dan and Jennifer are the first people to get a shigella infection in all 50 states.

“Ah! Same old Jennifer!” hisses the janitor through the stall door. In this economy he worries he will never be able to retire.

It’s possible… no. Could they? This might sound crazy, but I-I think Dan and Jennifer might have “sex” mixed up with “pooping.” It definitely explains all the bathroom ones, but it also explains some of the other strange ones like #35: “In Your Kids’ Sandbox.” It’s an abrasive place to fuck, but a perfect-crime place to poop.

Oh my god, these two absolutely think they’re talking about poop. It would explain the strangeness of #79: “In the Garage in a Refrigerator Box or Shipping Crate” and #254: “At the Santa Claus Photo Area at the Mall.” It even explains #308: “In Santa’s Big Chair at the Mall.” I’m not saying they’re sane, but they’re poop-on-Santa twice insane, not all the way fuck-on-Santa twice insane.

I’m glad I figured out what was going on in this book, but how did this come to be? Could it be a prank? Did Dan and Jennifer’s parents, friends, and family all independently decide to tell them pooping is called “sex?” This is such an amazing discovery. This must be what it was like to find the first dinosaur fossil. I honestly feel like I just talked Helen Keller into a handjob.

Well, I can’t lie. Something this clearly erotic sort of fucks my poop theory up.

“Honey, are there two-story outhouses?”

“I don’t care! PUT IT IN THE BOOK.”

“You got it! Only 217 more locations, my little streptococcus!”

“I fucking know! Our entire life has been thinking up unique qualifiers for toilets!!! For hours!!!”

“Oh, did we do regular outhouse already?”

“Yes.”

“Did we do the bathroom at-let me finish… the bathroom at the bowling alley?”

“YES!”

“Did we fuck on Santa at the mall?”

“We did, but that’s a good one. Put it in again.”