Category: FUCKING DAY

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FUCKING DAY

Fucking Day: Doctor Odyssey🌭

Quick, sit down. We don’t have much time. They’re going to let me talk about Doctor Odyssey. Everyone in my life has been listening to me talk non-stop about Doctor Odyssey since September 26, 2024, and I’m finally ready to share it with the world. Where to even begin. Doctor Odyssey is about a doctor on an odyssey, but the ship he’s on is called The Odyssey, and he is the ship’s doctor. It’s Love Boat meets ER meets Macgyver, but hornier than all three combined. You might think that level of horniness would explode your TV, and it will. I’ve been through three TVs, and I love it.

Doctor Odyssey has had sex with two of the three other people on the poster for Doctor Odyssey. His absolutely wild backstory is that he’s an Ivy league ER doctor who was the first U.S.-based COVID-19 patient. After nearly dying of COVID he’s decided to live life to the fullest by working on a cruise ship and fucking everyone he works with. He’s a goddamn American hero with no hobbies or interests outside of medicine and sex.

You might be wondering how much doctoring a cruise ship doctor could need to do? Presumably, Doctor Odyssey took this position because he thought it would be a cushy party job that was 90% sunbathing and 10% treating food poisoning. That might be the case on some cruise ships, but on The Odyssey, every single episode, there are multiple medical emergencies, and every single time, Doctor Odyssey will say something like:

And someone will respond, “We can’t do surgery on a cruise ship! This is a cruise ship! Look around you, Doctor Odyssey. Are you insane? It’s literally impossible to do surgery on a cruise ship.”

To which Doctor Odyssey replies, “If we don’t do the surgery now, this man will lose his broken penis. He’ll never make it to Jamaica in time to save his penis!” That’s the real reason they have to do surgery in the above screenshot, by the way. Something like this happens every episode. In fact, it happens so often that eventually, the writers realize just doing surgery on a cruise ship isn’t dramatic enough to feed their audience anymore. They have to up the stakes. So then it becomes. “We can’t do surgery on a cruise ship that’s going through a hurricane! We’re in the middle of a hurricane, AND we’re on a cruise ship. We can’t do surgery on a cruise ship that’s ALSO being attacked by sharks!” They have to build an emergency parfait. We’re still in season one.

By season three, they’ll need at least six concurrent emergencies to scare the audience. “We can’t do surgery on a cruise ship that’s adrift at sea and on fire, and Doctor Odyssey’s left hand is super glued to his face, and the patient is a shark, but we have to save this shark’s penis! He’ll never make it to Jamaica in time to save his shark penis!” Do you see why I love this show? It’s because there are a LOT of penis injuries.

It’s also important to note that the cruise ship is rented out weekly to different groups, so each week has a theme and some dumbasses that will have medical emergencies to go with that theme. There’s plastic surgery week, singles week, Halloween week. Are there a lot of cruises in October? What month is it anyway? Ssshhhhh. Doctor Odyssey is timeless.

Ok, so that’s the basic plot of Doctor Odyssey. A series of medically unlikely things happen to a nice, hot man on a cruise ship. Let’s briefly talk about the characters. Doctor Odyssey has two nurses: nurse practitioner Avery, who wants to become a doctor someday, and Tristan, who mostly wants to surf and have sex with Avery, but Avery is not interested until she, Doctor Odyssey, and Tristan have a threesome in episode six. Here’s a fun meme from that episode.

The episode is actually a pretty big bummer. The Odyssey is chartered for a wedding, and the groom ends up throwing himself off the side of the ship the night before the wedding. So it’s a grief threesome, which barely counts, I guess. After the threesome, Avery suggests they become a thruple and Tristan could be down, but Doctor Odyssey is like, “NO, I WANT TO GET MARRIED TO ONE WOMAN AND HAVE BABIES. I’M A NORMAL TRADITIONAL MAN.” Doctor Odyssey. You’re 46 years old, and you live on a cruise ship. You can’t be offended if people think you might be open to some alternative lifestyle choices.

When Doctor Odyssey made his strong preference for traditional marriage known, I realized that this show is kind of Republican. Sure, the guest stars are mostly B-list gay icons, Bob The Drag Queen, Margaret Cho, Shania Twain, Cheyenne Jackson, Gina Gershon, Amy Sedaris, Margo Martindale, etc., but this show is no Pose. It shares the most DNA with Ryan Murphy’s other show, 9-1-1, and I’ve come to think of them as Ryan Murphy’s Republican shows. I feel like what Ryan Murphy has learned from 9-1-1 is red states are willing to put up with gay characters if they are fighting a beenado.

You may never have heard of Doctor Odyssey, but everyone in Nebraska is watching Doctor Odyssey, and they were shocked by that threesome. They needed to see Doctor Odyssey express some remorse after he definitely let nurse Tristan peg him. Sure, he does some crazy things, but he’s still a straight white man. Don’t worry, Nebraska.

There will be a season one 9-1-1 and Doctor Odyssey crossover where Angela Bassett’s character from 9-1-1 boards the ship. She will probably swallow a shrimp fork, and Doctor Odyssey will be forced to do emergency surgery to save her vagina. It’ll be great.

According to Joshua Jackson (the actor who portrays Doctor Odyssey), when Ryan Murphy came to him with the idea for the show, he said, “I feel like we’ve all been holding our breath for the last four years, and I want to make the exhale.” This is an awful lot of responsibility to put on a show about a man doing penis surgery with nothing but a scalpel, dental floss, and chewing gum. Its trailer did set a record for views, so obviously Ryan Murphy was somehow speaking directly to America’s subconscious.

The show is so strange that it’s spawned a lot of fan theories. The most popular one is that Doctor Odyssey never woke up from his COVID-induced coma and is currently in purgatory, helping lost souls survive their journey to the afterlife. When guests enter The Odyssey, they pass through a long glowing tunnel covered in a screen decorated for the theme of the week that seems very afterworldly. The show usually makes a point to linger on the guest stars in awe of this tunnel. It could be symbolic, or it could be a fun way to introduce guest stars. Still, making a show so bonkers people assume it must be some kind of metaphor for hell or whatever, is an accomplishment.

I believe that Doctor Odyssey could exist in our world. I think a man and a man that he definitely got dicked down by could do surgery on a woman they had a threesome with to remove her appendix during a hurricane. It might not happen every day, but it’s at least plausible. Wait, it does pretty much happen everyday for them. Ok, I’m a little suspicious. It might be Hell.

It says a lot about the show that the actors also don’t know if they’re in Hell but would be down for it if that’s the case. When they’re interviewed about this pervasive fan theory that Ryan Murphy is secretly making the new Lost and disguising it as a show about dumb, horny doctors, they’re like, “I’m on Doctor Odyssey. I’m down for anything. Make my character the Devil. That would be sick!”

If this show isn’t really a fun romp on a cruise ship but secretly an exploration of people on their way to Hell, why are there so many gay people on the ship? Hm. That seems a little Republican, is all I’m saying, Ryan Murphy.

My biggest concern about the political leanings of Doctor Odyssey is the anti-orca propaganda in their current shark attack plot line. You might recall that 9-1-1 did a Beenado event that was actually a cover for a plane crash episode they were told they couldn’t air in September. For some reason, Doctor Odyssey‘s much-hyped shark attack episode is actually a backdoor orca bashing event.

Did ABC tell them they couldn’t slander orcas because they’re so popular right now? We’re all big fans of their work on yachts, and Doctor Odyssey is talking about how they’re the smartest and deadliest predators in the ocean, and there’s a pod of them surrounding The Odyssey. I want to know what happens, and I do love this show, but if the orcas think Doctor Odyssey is part of the problem, I say sink that boat.

I’m pretty sure that’s not how Doctor Odyssey will end, though. Angela Bassett is appearing in the episode after the shark attack special, so Doctor Odyssey and the ship probably both make it out fine. Also, orcas have some of the largest penises relative to body size of any mammal, with the largest recorded one reaching eight feet in length. They are also prehensile. So, yeah, I think I know how the episode will end. Save that orca’s penis, Doctor Odyssey!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Eric Christian Berg, the last person you want to see with a scalpel, but the first person you call when your penis is at stake.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Hunk Week: Hunk the Movie🌭

Hunk is a 1987 film following the ’80s trend of be-careful-what-you-wish-for bodyswap cautionary tales. A pathetic loser gets more than he bargained for after being supernaturally transformed into the successful, universally attractive Hunk Golden.

On its surface, the film doesn’t have much going for it. It looks cheap. John Allen Nelson, while undeniably hunkier than a marble quarry, lacks leading man charisma. The acting is flat and unnatural, sometimes with actors talking directly to camera like Skyrim NPCs. It’s not a very fun film to watch. It does, however, boldly offer something of great value to any pathetic nerd hoping to improve their station in life: the recipe for becoming the ultimate hunk. The way the film gets there also happens to be uniquely insane.

It’s the first feature film with FMV cutscenes.

In order for a body swap film to achieve a satisfying arc, a character must wish for an idealized version of a better life. Most likely through supernatural means, they enjoy the changes they thought they wanted. Eventually they must come to realize what really matters is embracing your true self. Hunk is different. The main character’s true self sucks in every way imaginable. Bradley Brinkman is unsuccessful at work where he’s supposed to be making lifestyle computer programs, and no one involved in the production knew what that meant.

“Ha ha ha what’s any of this?” – The writer, director, and star of Hunk

He’s kind of weird looking in a way someone might be able to pull off with the right sense of humor, which he is thoroughly lacking. He doesn’t appear to have any friends, family, or romantic options. The only people in his life -his boss and coworkers- are completely intoxicated by his suffering. The movie does not even bother to present a single reason why Bradley shouldn’t just end it right then and there. So when he makes his plea for a better life to whatever dark forces are listening, he’s leaving absolutely nothing behind. No one would willingly choose to be this guy again after experiencing the magical benefits of conventional beauty.

Bradley was born too soon. This broccoli cut would have gone so hard with GenZ

The way the film solves this problem is where the unique twist comes in. When Bradley announces he would gladly sell his soul to get what he wants, Hell answers. It answers in the most 1987 way possible.

Oh, fuck yeah.

A succubus named O’Brien arrives and grants Bradley everything he asks for. Success at work, material fulfillment, and most importantly, the status of certified HUNK. In the body of “Killer Klowns from Outer Space” John Allen Nelson, Bradley now answers to Hunk Golden.

Check the ID, bitch. Legally recognized hunk.

The only condition? He has until Labor Day to decide if he wants to remain in Hunk’s body. Again, why wouldn’t he? Hunk rules and Bradley is a failed software designer 35 years before software designers became fuckable. Well, it turns out if he does accept, he becomes the herald of the literal apocalypse. The Devil has been running himself ragged by constantly jumping around all of human history in an effort to preserve Big Evil. Apparently he’s losing ground and he needs someone charming and handsome enough to convince the world to go to war with itself, ending all life as we know it. So it’s a pathetic techbro being granted supernatural gifts by the devil with a doomsday clock, which means Hunk is just Spawn mixed with the plot of current day America.

Bradley’s tormented soul reminds Hunk about the ever present power meter

It’s not a challenging piece of art, so Bradley chooses to go back to his shitty life and save the world. And if it feels like there’s a lot missing between “pathetic loser granted extreme likability in exchange for the complete extinction of all human life” and “…but he chooses not to”, it’s because the rest of the film is bog standard ’80s stuff. Everyone he meets adores him on sight. He gets payback against some beach bullies who stuffed him full of sand. He bags hordes of peak ’80s women until he literally can’t stand on his own. He falls in love with someone the audience is supposed to think is plain, which Hunk is generously able to look past and see what is still a very above-average looking ’80s woman. He eventually starts to wonder if he’s losing himself to the power of pretty privilege. There are no twists in the way Bradley chooses to abuse hunkdom and his decision to eventually reject it.

If Hunk is too tired to fuck, hop on him and put his bed on autopilot. WARNING: DO NOT SET TO JIGGLE-O WHILE JELL-O SALAD IS PRESENT (ka-boing sound)!

The real twist is all the demon magic. O’Brien, the succubus in charge of Hunk’s ascension, has been seducing losers for nearly a millennia. Multiple lifetime’s worth of trial and error has led O’Brien to this moment, the creation of Hunk Golden, the hunk apotheosis. She’s equipped him with everything he may need to effectively seduce the world into submission. Perma-firm flesh. Wrinkle proof perma-tan skin. Unfrizzable hair. Unbreakable bones. Self cleaning, cavity proof teeth. Odorless sweat. O’Brien clearly understands the ’80s and she has spec’d into a meta build. She then explains her character’s cosmetic choices. According to O’Brien’s findings, the very specific elements needed to construct the most important hunk in human history are as follows.

🌭 The Thighs of Sylvester Stallone

🌭 The pelvis of Elvis Presley

🌭 The navel of Arnold Schwarzenegger

🌭 The nipples of Robert Redford

🌭 The eyes of Paul Newman

🌭 The schlong of King Kong

This information is accompanied by a lovingly composed ground up pan of Hunk’s speedo clad body. Further analysis of this shot will determine whether or not O’Brien succeeded in executing her vision, and if her vision was even correct to begin with.

ITEM #1: The legs of Syvester Stallone

Was it the right choice?

The decade was dominated by the eternal question of who the bigger action star was: Schwarzenegger or Stallone. Even if the question remains unanswered, no one else came even close to these two. Steven Seagal couldn’t make a single Cobra if he had 270 tries, and he spent the next forty years proving that.

While both Stallone and Schwarzenegger possessed bodies forged in defiance of God’s will, the absurd proportions of Arnold’s physique made Stallone’s seem almost obtainable. It makes sense a demon would lean toward Stallone to help achieve a balance between impressive yet believable. At first blush, Stallone’s legs seem like an unorthodox choice. Known more for abs he could use to sharpen knives and the garden hose sized steroid delivery system he calls veins, it’s hard to recall if anyone ever had anything to say about his legs. Even finding an image showcasing his legs proved difficult. The above image puts some things into perspective. While no Arnold, his body from the waist up is just too much. As badass as he looked, it’s hard to imagine most women being into this. It’s something only men would be impressed by. His legs, while undoubtedly in good shape, look relatively normal by comparison. Considering those same legs carried Stallone through one of the most important training montages in film history, their pedigree becomes undeniable. The verdict is yes, O’Brien made the right choice when she selected Stallone’s legs.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

Right off the bat, this is a huge miss in O’Brien’s execution. She didn’t even come close. Stalone is built like Wolverine and his short, stocky legs are designed to turn him into a dewy little piston, driving power up toward taller foes. Hunk’s legs, by contrast, are long, slender and almost completely lack definition. These legs wouldn’t be caught dead running through the mean streets of Philly. These legs would drown themselves in the ocean if Carl Weathers’ legs looked at them. These are the legs of a Drag Race champion. They would absolutely slay in the right heels. So okay, Hunk has arguably sexy legs, but the point was to make Stallone’s legs and in this regard, O’Brien failed. Her penalty is having to watch one Nazi eat a banana.

ITEM #2: The Pelvis of Elvis Presley

Was it the right choice?

In his prime, Elvis did indeed have an attractive waistline, but when O’Brien insisted on using the pelvis of Elvis, she was most likely referring to the hypnotic hold his dance moves had over ancient women. Religious groups were known to caution ladies against staring directly at The King of Rock and Roll’s hips lest they be overcome with lust. In the fiction of “Hunk”, Elvis’ hips may have actually been instruments of the devil’s design. If you separate the man from the hips, however; it could be argued they weren’t anything special. He was an easy-on-the-eyes white boy with a nice voice. Being able to kind of move his hips like a black person was a great bonus, but the groin shaking probably wasn’t the source of his powers. And it’s worth mentioning this movie was after Elvis got fat and died. In 1987, “The pelvis of Elvis Presley” sounded like a paper you’d write if you were studying the effects of peanut butter and bacon fat.

Young women of the ’80s were not being driven wild by the pelvic thrusting of Elvis Presley. The pelvis meta had evolved since then and women were fainting over a new monarch, The King of Pop. In the 80s, it was required for every movie to feature at least one bit of someone trying to dance like Michael Jackson. The joke being how absolutely no one could come even close to his skill level because of how unique Jackson’s talents were. For O’Brien to miss this in favor of some tired old cracker bullshit is an insane oversight. While everyone else was busy imitating Michael Jackson for laughs, O’Brien could have used true demon magic to give Hunk a legitimately world dominating set of hips. So no, she did not make the right choice.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

Physically, it sort of looks like Hunk has the same waistline as young Elvis, so great job there, O’Brien. Appearance aside, there’s only one dance scene in the entire film and it features a pre-Hunk Bradley dancing kind of like he’s making fun of Elvis. Hunk never once needs to rely on dance for seduction. The rest of his build is so OP women simply throw themselves at him on sight. At this point it doesn’t even matter if O’Brien succeeded in bestowing Hunk with the pelvis of Elvis. The question is why did she even bother? Elvis also doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would let his pubes periscope around the edges of his speedos.

ITEM #3: The Navel of Arnold Schwarzenegger

Was it the right choice?

The devil is in the details as they say, so who knows how important a good navel can be to the overall package. It’s possible in all her years of grooming nerds, O’Brien failed to anticipate how easily an outtie can turn an otherwise perfect body into a disgusting pile of garbage. Clearly she operates on levels beyond mortal understanding (see dance floor gif above).

Still, if she was going to make navel selection a critical part of her build process, she could have done a lot worse than Arnold. One might be curious why O’Brien looked at Arnold and decided to stop at the belly button. Every part of his body is world class, afterall. It’s possible she was worried about running into the same problem presented by Stallone. It’s simply too much for most people’s tastes. At the time, there was no shortage of men with Arnold’s proportions, and none of them were sex symbols. Too much muscle, and you can overshoot Hunk and hit Incredible Hulk. So Arnold’s body was part of his brand, sure, but he also possessed a charm and focus the Devil himself would envy. If O’Brien was going to take anything from Arnold, it should have been his ruthless pursuit of success. The point is, Arnold is a must-have for any celebrity Frankenstein, but causes more problems than it solves. His beef levels are such that a single body part would cause a massive imbalance in the overall build. You put the torso of Arnold on the hips of Elvis and he rips himself in half the first time he cums, which is, if you know anything about Arnold, part of his daily workout routine.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

While Hunk does have an aesthetically pleasing midsection, his navel looks like a baby’s dolphin’s blowhole when put up against the stern manliness of Arnold’s abdomen. Hunk’s navel is even pursed like it’s waiting for a bottle from a gentle-handed marine biologist. It’s way too eager. Not an attractive trait at all. Arnold’s on the other hand is flat and unamused, like someone just told it a joke and it doesn’t appreciate its time being wasted. If anyone dares approach Arnold’s navel, they better bring their A game or they will be crushed by its disapproval. It’s hard to even imagine Arnold’s navel being connected to an umbilical cord. Arnold was not nurtured by some tube of nutrients. He was thrown into a uterus by Crom who offered only a granola bar guarded by a coyote. Hunk has the navel of a boy who never got over being separated from his mommy and now umbilical play is his secret kink. This belly button fucking sucks, O’Brien. Your penalty is five minutes in the presence of the multiverse’s oiliest Atilla the Hun.

ITEM #4: The Nipples of Robert Redford

Was it the right choice?

Never once in the history of the human race has anyone uttered the words “Robert Redford” and “nipples” in the same sentence, but again, O’Brien is a demon with the wisdom of the ages. She’s watched empires rise and fall. Only she knows for sure how many times ugly nipples have played a part. Would Robert Redford have been allowed to become a famous actor if he had ugly nipples? It’s impossible to say. It turns out he has pretty nice ones though, so they clearly didn’t hurt his chances. When compared to all of her other inspirations, O’Brien’s logic becomes clear. Stallone’s nipples look like they were fighting and his pecs had to step in and separate them. If Elvis lost his nipples in an accident they could have been replaced with Grape Nuts and no one would notice. It might have happened for all we know. Fuck your tiny squirtless tits, Elvis. And finally, Arnold’s nips are just too obsessed with his intimidating navel. They simply refuse to look away. Redford’s, though… they’re just right. They’re visible, but not too large. The placement feels correct. Not too close, not too far apart. They look like they never make direct eye contact… a little too cool to give anyone the satisfaction. Possibly the most aloof nipples in existence, and aloofness drives women wild. Excellent choice, O’Brien.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

In terms of size and placement, this may be O’Brien’s best work yet. The areola to nipple ratio is nearly identical. Still, there’s a certain magic lost in translation. O’Brien was aiming for beach hunk, not rugged man’s man hunk. As a result, she opted for a hairless chest which, in the end, hurts the effectiveness of these particular nipples. On Redford, they look like wild animals thriving in their natural habitat… enjoying the sunshine, happy to be alive and free. On Hunk, they look like animals in captivity. Terrified, confused creatures looking out at the world from their barren enclosure. They’re the same animal, but they have been traumatized in transit. Still, a very strong effort from O’Brien.

ITEM #5: The Eyes of Paul Newman

Was it the right choice?

A lot of time was spent talking about how Elvis as a source of inspiration was pathetically outdated. Era specific hip wiggling is one thing. Smoldering, piercing blue eyes are another thing entirely. In all of O’Briens travels, there’s a good chance she never ran into a pair of eyes brimming with so much power. The quiet confidence in those eyes would have been devastating in the wrong hands. Saying no to them would simply not be an option. The older Newman got, the more his eyes seemed to shine. They were bottomless pools of unlimited potential trapped in the skull of a mortal man. It’s hard to say whether or not O’Brien could have chosen a better set of eyes.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

O’Brien’s hubris really shone through on this one. Hunk’s eyes are fine. They’re just fine. They are the eyes of a handsome man for sure, but there is no art in the execution. These are 3D printed eyes. Perhaps O’Brien’s failures here aren’t so much in the result, but in how high she set her sights. How does one capture the light of the moon? How does one replicate the feeling of staring into the infinite and realizing everything is going to be okay? If anyone has the answers, it’s not O’Brien. She got the color right and not much else. Hunks’ eyes are dull where they should be bright. They are hawkish and intense when they should be comforting and reassuring. They don’t take away anything from his face, but they certainly don’t add anything. O’Brien might have been better off not saying anything at all about the eyes. Every hunk needs eyes, right? It would be weird if he didn’t have any. She skipped over so many other parts of the body, nobody would have noticed if she hadn’t blurted out Paul Newman when describing some regular-ass eyes. Her penalty is contemplation in the gazebo of infinite ruffles.

ITEM #6: The Schlong of King Kong

Was it the right choice?

This one is tricky. All of the source material up to this point was verifiable. Suddenly O’Brien wants to be coy and introduce a fictional character? It obviously makes sense. No major Hollywood actor is going to want the details of their cock leaked to the public and referenced in other movies for laughs. Since audiences weren’t aware of Willem Dafoe’s scene-ruiningly huge dick back in ’87, O’Brien didn’t have many options other than hyperbole. From a purely filmmaking perspective, referencing King Kong makes sense. He’s huge, and everyone immediately understands that. The internet didn’t exist yet so one would have been able to make a big deal about how gorillas actually have one of the smallest penises in nature relative to their body size. In 1987, you had to have disappointing sex with a gorilla to know that.

Did O’Brien pull it off?

Okay, wow things just got even trickier. The gorilla penis size thing was supposed to be a joke, but judging from Hunk’s close up, it may legitimately be the point the film is trying to get across. There’s no way to know for sure, since the film weirdly doesn’t offer any kind of nudity whatsoever, but Hunk’s dick looks like it might be too small relative to his body. Some benefit of the doubt might be in order, since there’s always a chance he’s a grower. But based on speedo shadows alone, this must be declared another miss for O’Brien. For her failings, she has been sentenced to an eternity of penis charming Bradley in his original form.

To everyone else, happy Hunk Week!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Haraka, the kind of hunk even Hell has to admire from a respectful distance.

Categories
FUCKING DAY

Hunk Week: Letters to Playgirl🌭

Note: difficult to explain to management.

Is anyone more committed to hunks than Playgirl? Yup. Playgirl puts words between dong spreads, while rivals choose purity of purpose. Half eschew logos for more dong. But Playgirl has history. It’s celebrated tips, triceps, and tequila since 1973, offering a Playboy alternative with mustaches and saner ownership. Probably. Maybe. Let me dream.

I mean that about the tequila, by the way. I’ve got a stack of seventies Playgirl on my shared kitchen table, and they’ve all got spreads for Montezuma tequila.

I assume the brand’s drifted. Playgirl targets tennis club hornballs, and that’s not Montezuma’s vibe. Today, Montezuma Gold comes with an invite to your intervention. Forget the car: it’s already totalled. Just call your parole officer for a ride. Their number’s on the invite.

There’s also a gentle connection to beauty brands. For example, the perfect beach makeup blend uses Coppertone, Coppertone, and a splash of Coppertone. Add a flask of Monty, and you’re ready to find disappointment by the shore.

While I’m an insult-comedy midcarder, I have to confess: these issues have style. Not “aside from the porn” or “only as porn.” There’s some genuine high-effort softcore. Look at these art school abs:

Granted, some find double exposure vulgar. Here’s more conventional boning.

The photo essay Fantasy mixes prom balloons with drugs and budget Halloween costumes. Nostalgic. Grad school’s great, even if you learn nothing. Though you can save three years with an edible and ball pit.

On the art-titillation scale, that’s half a Red Sonja. Dorm-worthy. Or a museum, these issues are ghosts. My best friends are eBay and Chinese torrents, and this is the first time Xi’An’s failed me. I’m glad eBay lets you sidestep auctions, because I can’t outbid full-time hunkologists. Their love is stronger than my net worth.

Still, I’m as braindead as any other February survivor, so my mind wandered. I asked “How does one join hunkdom?” Then I air fried a burrito. Later, I thought “What’s hunk fan mail look like?” This second, attainable question led me to Playgirl reader mail. The fans had thoughts, and some were printable. Unless you’ve made some serious choices, these are the first thirst texts you’ve read with your grandmother’s diction and sense of humor.

Bob passed early, but clearly made it to hunk Valhalla.

Mediums and Democracy Index scores change, but people stay the same. Playgirl’s mailbag mixes Nintendo Power enthusiasm with ass. Along with our trademark clarity around sex. These are some contributors’ first sex talks, including the parents of four.

We have a few different piles: 70’s Playgirl splits letters into Readers Write, Voices, Personal Advice, and You and Your Sexuality. And probably a dozen other sub-brands, but vintage pinups cost money. It’s a seller’s market, like whatever pill keeps you alive. We’ll work with what we’ve got.

First, the general letters. In The Readers Write, hunk-worship is a trap door to deluxe human insanity. Familiar. It started out as Voices, but editorial craved something blander. Some New York magazines always put punchlines in the title, even when it ruins nevermind.

These start out as you’d imagine: marriage offers for the last issue’s centerfold. Simple synergy: Playgirl likes letters about how hot and good Playgirl is, and adult comment section participants need a soapbox somewhere to avoid writing inmates.

Some stick to the fundamentals:

Carla can smell her slang dying, and ignores it for hunkdom. The purest form of love, aside from Gunpla and children you remember to feed. Editorial keeps their bond strong:

Simple carrot-dick management. Support your hunk, get more hunk. Or maybe most customer interactions look like this without a VC firm up your ass.

Many admirers focus on details:

Reframing the mundane’s a joy of writing, and I’m a little jealous of Della’s lust. Nipple fixation’s simple, and probably basic, but writing it still sounds Martian. Editorial returns her energy:

Again, Playgirl rewards the faithful. After years covering Baptists, that’s a new one for me. Pastors should try it, user feedback’s strong. Thought that might hurt klan turnout.

That said, hunkologists tend to turn on each other. Foot fans get the typical lashing:

Right, I was born after we invented hiveminds and filled them with porn. Feet are so far down the fetish ladder they might as well be asses or not dying alone. Today, I need two exes calling my book “okay” to feel a twinge. Y.U. clearly enjoys inventing foot jokes, but she’d be better off uniting the other branches of Hunkology: some readers want to destroy hunk nudity (civilization) altogether.

Karen sees the big picture. Take nudes for granted, and you lose them. We have states where it takes two, maybe three additional seconds to find porn. Is that the future you want?

The bond between these readers and spray tan is lifting. There’s even clown-hunk crossover! I dream of these vaunted heights:

Becoming prime Robin Williams seems difficult, though selling my soul to multiple devils might work. Think Hellblazer, but for a cause bigger than survival or saving mankind. I’m trying to buy this issue, but my bank thinks I’ve been hacked by a retired lech. As an indigent lech, I’m honored.

Surprisingly, many letters are about the articles. Maybe honor roll types think their Playgirl use gets graded. Their open-book test answers are short mysteries, especially without the actual article. You get to take the aftermath and work backwards.

Natalie‘s copout could’ve spared us fifty years of fitness swordfights. And the fifty to come. We’ll still be making the same three videos after appetite becomes a dial on your elbow. HunkTip: it’s tempting to keep it at 0, but keep it on 4 or higher to avoid death.

Advice columns save countless readers from health and wealth. Playgirl joins the hustle with Personal Advice, where the effort matches the title. It still beats the Ethicist, but so do horoscopes and deadlines.

T.P. has, with innocent intent, committed a grave sin. Look at our back catalog. Earth is under siege by sex dictionaries calendars listicles wikihows jokebooks guides pun generators with no end in sight. These books will outlive me. They will outlive the LLMs scraping them for dickshots. And T.P. has directly asked a publishing entity for more.

The war rages on. I leave it to the clowns after us to fight on.

For today, let’s see how Playgirl responds.

The columnist, Shirley Zuckerman, seems fun. I’m biased toward advice columnists willing to ask “What the fuck are you talking about?” Granted, given the reading level of most letters, that can get one-note. But it keeps things honest. I’m not setting anything up, this is probably the last section. You know, the rule of twos.

For completionists: Shirley hits some real shit about boning while disabled or traumatized. Since we’re over the national cruelty quota, I’m skimming until I hit nonsense. Teenage Dennard–better known as “Thrawn_the_Second” or “BlackMencken1991”–is very disappointed. He’ll live, and start wearing primary colors.

The hunkless seek mercy. Does Shirley have any?

Absolutely not–Shirley goes full grandaunt. Which is an ambush in Playgirl, which runs guides to tagging hunks’ ears in the wild with titles like “Find Him Fast in the Classifieds.”

Okay, I was certain I made that up. But it’s in the same issue. Though mixed messaging’s publishing tradition. Stick to anything, and someone might unsubscribe. That’s why our next columnist avoids, when possible, saying anything at all.

Lolita Sapriel, M.S.W. runs Playgirl’s sex column. The other sections cover sex too, but work with me. Lolita has something they don’t: a name I wish was real. But you know how dreams go. She also has a softer line between fair question and bait.

Nice inkblot test. Did you decide this writer, Playgirl, or the boyfriend were full of shit? I’m on Team Four: ghosts are fucking in this apartment. Only the Vatican’s most sexless priests can save them now. Let’s see Lolita’s take.

A bit too genteel. The best case here’s a hunky poltergeist, and this isn’t that kind of skin mag. Every word Lolita’s typed is true, and not one morpheme addresses the blatant disaster. The essence of an advice column is communication, and Lolita’s letting a moron and/or liar walk right into a ghost orgy.

Let’s lower the stakes. You’ve found the alt-hunk of your dreams. But

Stop laughing. This is a serious emotional problem in a serious emotional column. Be like Lolita, and rattle off common knowledge like a substitute teacher with three minutes left on the clock.

Fair, plastic surgeons have a strong tradition in hunkology. I think we can all agree that mechanically augmented hunks are the future. But what about nanobots? Can hunk modification go…too far?

As soon as Hims cracks the code, Yetimaxxing is in.

I love this one, real or extra-real. “Dear Playgirl: My fiance’s perfect. Can I Gattaca him into a hunk? Then we can have sober sex in the light. I’d ask a doctor, but starting with the naked New Yorker felt right. Thanks!”

Let’s hear Lolita’s spin. Hopefully she doesn’t go on too many tangents.

Solid Borg answer. I’m sure Legal loved this, but Lolita missed a chance to show more personality. A personality. To prove that she’s not three editors peering down the barrel of a deadline.

A common problem in sex columns: “my fuckpower terrifies mortals, sending them screaming to their mud pits. How do I control this force? Can it be controlled?” Lolita lists more facts, which remains disappointing for the pen name “Controversy X. Mermaid.”

Of course, the narrator isn’t always the protagonist. Sometimes they merely observe fuckpower, until their favorite hunk gets shot by the pool.

For general sanity, I’ll assume teens write to Playgirl. I have a limited supply of child predation jokes, and my side gigs cover anime and politics.

There must be an age combo where I don’t have to deal with this. I’ll dig up my old graphing calculator if I have to. If it can run Tetris for two periods, it can handle this.

They’re still expanding today, long after the host’s death. The cockmass has inched, undeterred, toward Earth’s core. If you thought the planet was fucked before, brace for the cumquake. A salty new hell approaches. Think Waterworld, but viscous.

What a charming letter about two curious teens. According to my graphing calculator, they’re “Fatal Error” years old. I wonder if Lolita has any editorial thoughts.

Nailed it. No one wants fuzzy data about their hall monitor boyfriend.

Two hunks! A classic sitcom dilemma. What’s Lolita got?

An opinion! It’s a brave new world, with the old one’s tone.

While I’m not an expert in avoiding divorce court, I suspect simulated breakups aren’t elite strategy. That game still sucks with two or four players, and maybe even one. Lolita’s not on the reader’s side. I wish she’d live up to her name’s edge, but Lolita’s found Jesus in the margins of Playgirl. An anti-hunk. Anyone that keeps Paul around has a Roman avatar. Yes, even after they kill him.

Socially, I’m the type that says “optimal” out loud. But this seems like an optimal way to become single. Not monogamous: total party wipe. Though one can do worse than single.

Let alarmists drone on about grooming or genetic deformity. They’re great things to drone on about. Points to alarmists, they’ve got quality warnings for avoidable disasters. Mindgeek lied to you: whether Your Sexuality questions are fake or fake, avoid diving into shallow gene pools. Or at least don’t make a habit out of it.

Set authenticity aside. I can only pollute hunk week with so much incest, and I’ve sailed past 2000 words. Isn’t the density of madness impressive? The age bit sprinted past me the first time I read it, next to all the swamp action.

Lolita wanders a bit in her response.

What’s an 8? A honeymoon? Two hemophiliac kids? Alimony? This writer’s sprinting to Casterly Rock, and Lolita calls her inbreeding mid. Maybe she’d react if there were two brothers.

If this wasn’t as fictional as predatory, I’d ask for Lolita’s also-fictional badge. She’s corrupted our innocent hunk quest with brain needles. What kind of animal does that? The mind boggles.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Nicholas Lovino, a living monument to thirst and the reason America’s horniest aunts learned to use a typewriter.

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Fucking Day: 123 Frisky Sexual Fantasies & Erotic Roleplay Ideas

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Fucking Day: Joy of the Quickie

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Fucking Day: Green Porno🌭

Isabella Rossellini was nominated for an Oscar this year for portraying a nun in the drama Conclave, but what she should have gotten an Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony, Nobel Prize, World Beard and Moustache Championship Award, and Best Local Burger St. Paul for is her short film series, Green Porno. If you exist on the internet, you’ve probably seen out-of-context clips of Green Porno because it’s got a lot of hilarious scenes where a lady is dressed in big silly bug costumes, and that lady is Oscar nominee Isabella Rossellini.

Green Porno is the cure for sadness. It looks cool, It teaches you fun facts, and it allows a woman who is a master of her craft to use everything she has learned across her decades-long career to portray the joy of a horny housefly getting laid.

The show originally aired on the Sundance Channel across eight episodes that were solely focused on bugs and their reproduction. Season two had six episodes and focused on the sex lives of sea creatures. An abbreviated season three was sponsored by Bon Appetit. It took a more serious tone with an environmental message about the dangers of overfishing at the end of each episode. It’s a message that’s surprisingly not hindered by the big silly anchovy hat.

The episodes vary in length from around one to two minutes and focus on one animal at a time. They were pretty popular in the mid-2000s when they aired and ended up spawning multiple spinoffs, including Seduce Me, which was about animal courtship displays and mating behavior, and Mamas, which was about animal motherhood. “I am not a monster. Yes, I killed my baby and ate him. It was my tenth child. I was exhausted.” That’s a dramatic monologue by an Oscar-nominated actress portraying a hamster.

In case you weren’t aware, Isabella Rossellini can do whatever she wants. She’s the daughter of actress Ingrid Bergman and director Roberto Rossellini. She probably doesn’t even need to work at all, but she’s a straight-up freak who voiced Lady Cadaver in the video game Goosebumps Escape From Horrorland because that’s what she felt like doing on a Wednesday. Isabella Rossellini is the Nicolas Cage America deserves.

Green Porno utilizes the color pallet and low-budget look of a very stylistic children’s show to set the vibe. This makes it extra funny when they do something like have Isabella Rossellini stand in a forest of cardboard animal penises during the episode “Why Vagina.” Yes, it’s a forest of objectively terrifying animal cocks; some of them look so much pointier and twistier than seems natural, but also, it reminds me of the Hamburger Forest in Mcdonaldland commercials. They’ve created a magical land for us, but not one anyone would ever want to visit. I know, I know, I’m just speaking for myself. I’ve seen the internet, you perverts.

My favorite episodes in the Green Porno universe are the ones that don’t focus on a specific animal but more on a broad topic, like the evolutionary purpose of a vagina. In Seduce Me, there’s a great episode about Noah’s Ark, in which God gets angry at the animals going into the ark that don’t reproduce using both a male and a female. He checks all of their genitals as they enter the ark and then yells at them if there isn’t one male and one female. Sorry God, but all Whipped Tail Lizards are gay icons. I learned that from Isabella Rossellini and a lot of cardboard.

Most nature shows are fairly sympathetic to the animals they observe but also kind of condescending. We all know the famous Animal Planet catchphrase, “Look at the leopard, what a schmuck.” In Green Porno, Isabella is inhabiting the animal not just by dawning a series of fabulous hats, but when she acts out their behavior, she’s explicitly expressing how the animal would feel about itself, not how humans view their behavior. When a mother cuckoo puts her egg in another bird’s nest, she’s a glamorous girlboss with better things to do than care for her giant ass baby.

When a bedbug gets stabbed in the stomach by her lover’s dagger-like penis, and his sperm is injected directly into her bloodstream, she is thrilled. There’s no human moralizing about how a bloodstream full of semen would feel. Isabella completely loses herself in the role of a bedbug filled with ecstasy (and semen).

The reason the show was on The Sundance Channel is Isabella Rossellini is good friends with Robert Redford, and he basically gave her a free ticket to make any kind of short-form video she wanted. She could have gone for an Oscar. She could have made something about World War 2, or a woman with cancer, or a woman with cancer who flew planes in World War 2. Instead, she made her life’s work the cardboard penis show, and that was absolutely the right decision. She even slapped the fancy-looking independent film titles that look like an invitation to a wedding with a steak entree option and an open bar.

When interviewed about her decision to make the Green Porno family of shows, she said in her enormously charming Italian accent, “I always wanted to make films about animals. There’s not enormous audience, but there’s an enormous audience for sex.” She tricked us into learning, and I respect that. Trickery is the only way I’ve ever learned anything. Here are some of my favorite things that Isabella Rossellini tricked me into learning:

1. Limpets are Sequential Hermaphrodites

This means that they start life sexless, and then wherever they are in an orgy pile determines their sex. When the lady on the bottom of the pile dies, the closest male becomes a woman, and they continue mating. Gross, nature, ew.

2. Male Bees Don’t Do Shit

Literally their only purpose in life is to wait around until they see a female bee that’s ready to mate. Then they fight to mate with her and die in the process, or mate with her, which tears his penis off and kills him. Losers.

3. Spiders Don’t Have a Dong

No dong at all! They can’t send dick pics to spider ladies who don’t want them, only genital hole pics.

4. Isabella Rossellini is Gorgeous as Both a Boy Shrimp and a Girl Shrimp.

Ok, I may have learned this one voluntarily. She didn’t have to trick me into this.

Oh, have you somehow been trained to expect five entries in a list? Well, guess what, suckers, we don’t do that here! I only learned four things and refuse to learn one more for your nostalgic comfort. A list with four entries is unacceptable chaos, and that’s how we like it around here.

Immediately following the completion of Green Porno, Isabella Rossellini went on to star with Jake Gyllenhaal in a surrealist psychological thriller called Enemy. She later served as president of the jury at The 61st Berlin International Film Festival and the 2015 Cannes Film Festival. She also did a short web series with Burt’s Bees called “Burt Talks to Bees” where she portrayed both Burt and the bees. There is nothing this woman can’t do. She has limitless talent, and she’s willing to use it to be as silly as possible, which is why she has all the respect I have to give, which isn’t very much because I’ve already given most of it to Angela Lansbury.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jared MountainMan, a mother cuckoo in a power suit, outsourcing all parental responsibilities.