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 ā€˜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 ā€˜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:

ā€œOh no, he’s a pervert.ā€ 

ā€œOh wait, he meant something innocent.ā€

ā€œOH SHIT HE IS INSIDE OF ME I WAS INCORRECT ABOUT MY FIRST ASSUMPTION.ā€

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 ā€˜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.”