Alex Schmidt, who is professionally a Schmitdy, is the smartest and kindest part of this site about finding and being cruel to extremely stupid things. We told him the thesis of 1900HOTDOG and he said “oh no, not that! But what about…. This?”
And then he presented us with a three-ring binder cross-indexing historical failures with headshots of Pierce Brosnan.
Schmidty loves baseball, history, aerial pranks, and melons. This article about an old-timey baseball team using a grapefruit to trick their manager into believing that his head exploded has it all!
Now if Schmidty were writing this, he’d tell you a grapefruit is a citrus, not a melon, because it grows on trees instead of vines. But he’s not. He’s not writing this, you’re stuck with us, and now you’ll never know that.
Pedestrianism was the sport of walking, and… oh, that’s it? We just assumed there was a second thing, but no. Walking was enough back in the day, and walking lit the world on fire. Come learn about the high stakes sport of moving a foot after a foot, and the drunken kings who ruled it.
True story: Every time Schmidty pitches us an article about a Pierce Brosnan movie, we say “are you sure? Because that sounds boring.” Every time! And every time he laughs and says “trust me,” then comes back with something about defrauding China and banging mermaids.
Schmidty loves Pierce Brosnan for reasons we don’t understand. Oh, it’s not his smoldering gaze or buttery accent. We understand those. Schmidty loves Pierce Brosnan because of how hard he wanted to be Bond, and all the terrible, embarrassing things he did to prove he could handle it. We’ll never understand loving Pierce Brosnan for that, because Roger Moore will always be the most hilariously tragic bond in our hearts.
“Choo choo!” Pierce Brosnan does not say in this movie, “all aboard the Death Train! Next stop… death!”
At no point does he quip “I’m not the conductor; I just punch the tickets,” before putting a bullet in a terrorist’s brain.
He never pumps his arms while going “chugga chugga chugga chugga” and then uses the momentum to punch a mercenary in the neck.
The whole film seems like a waste to us, but not Schmidty – he’s captivated by the way Pierce Brosnan seems to be working through his grief over the death of his wife by doing shitty B-Movies.
…
“You’re about to get railed,” he never says to his love interest!
As a monthly 1900🌭 columnist, Brendan has all the responsibilities standard to the position: protecting his part of the scepter and no second thing. However, as is his right as Scepter Keeper, he goes far beyond these duties. A normal email from Brendan will be “Almost done with the column; I just have 17 more books to read and need to complete a six month hairdresser training program for a joke about feathered bangs.” You’ll see what we mean:
Nash is a comic based on who wrestler Kevin Nash would be if reality took place in the imagination of a horny middle schooler with the 1999 turned up to maximum. Brendan explored this radical, erotic artifact, and the wrote and illustrated an eight page sequel. Like, as a bonus. It’s insane.
When we heard Brendan’s pitch for Baby Boxing, we were worried. Did our grandparents really watch toddlers battle? On hospital paperwork, is this what parents agree to when they check the box “I hereby consent to the rite of proving”? The point is, it didn’t sound right. And building a machine for sending messages back through time in order to form a baby boxing league is exactly the kind of thing Brendan would do for an article.
Bill O’Reilly is a cranky idiot with a lot of suspicious excuses for why he’s not technically racist and an even more suspicious number of documented sex crimes. This book is all that and more, For Kids.
Okay, so Red Shoe Diaries was a show about a guy hearing sex stories, and then telling them to you. So by the time you saw them they third-hand sex stories with the non-sex parts elaborately recreated. Maybe? What we’re asking is: do you like horny cowboys with just a touch of side boob and abduction? Come see what 1992 television owners had to sit through in order to masturbate.
When you write, direct, and star in your own movie you can be anything you want. Fuckmaster. Nunchuckmaster. Rapmaster. “Philthy” Phil Phillips cannot tell the difference between awesome and hilarious and he’s right. Every person who isn’t “Philthy” Phil Phillips completely blew it, and Brendan makes that clear.
Lydia Bugg, who was first among columnists and if the words of that dying warlock are to be trusted, she will be the last. Lydia came to us with expertise in obscure comic books and romance novels, and she’ll leave with a black belt in psychic scams and clown mouths. Who the fuck will stop her then? Not that warlock she killed, that’s for sure.
Most psychic grifters want the spotlight as much as they want the money. They’re the chosen ones, and only they can open your blocked chakras, foretell your impending disasters, or crash the Californian banking system with dream warfare. Lydia found the one pure and altruistic maniac who thinks your fat dog Chuckles is the true chosen one. This article is dedicated to Ken Ring, who is possibly some kind of domestic hog.
You never know which article is going to fundamentally shift the entire Hot Dog mythos. Lydia set out to mock lazy cookbook authors hiding their shame behind a cartoon cat, and she found Nathan Mazri – cartoon-themed popup restauranteur and celibate antivax crypto scammer. Those are just the words we could fit into that sentence, here are more: He found his fursona in this article and it’s Dollar Store hustler Garfield.
Some writers would find a Tennessee Hobbit knock-off resort and think “that’s enough meat for an article.” Some would unearth the failed politician’s failure of a son behind it all and think “this will make my career.” Only Lydia would find the failed politician’s failure of a son’s insane book of IP theft explaining the fantasy lore behind the resort, and then mock its bestiary. In journalism terms, that’s called “Hot Dogging a story’s mouth hole.” Hey speaking of-
Happy 1900-Hot-Dolidays, everyone! The year 2022 tried to get in our way and we marched right through that lame fuck’s turf. We have been mocking curses and not dying for three years, and we are here to celebrate that. Or look back on what we have done. We’ll see how it goes.
First off, we have a present! As you probably know, we are supported by the geniuses and tastemakers on our Patreon. But today, in the spirit of hot dog generosity, we’re making all our first year articles free to everyone. Because we’re geniuses too! We are shattering the only remaining business model for text entertainment! So if you or someone you know wants hilarity and lots of it, no questions asked, send them to any of our articles from 2020.
Now empty your mind in preparation for the best 1900HOTDOG Learning Days of 2022. We’re also making these all-star hits free as our way of saying Meaty Christmas and Happy Hweinerkkah, which we obviously shouldn’t say. Computer, activate year-end best-of Learning Days, authorization code Hweinerkkah:
In the madness mines of WikiHow, Brockway discovered a previously unknown element– a pulsing orb of stupid meant for no one but painstakingly described and illustrated anyway. The author of How to Live in a Haunted House was trying to find a way to get killed by a ghost, any ghost, and failed. Still, maybe it will work for you? For WikiHow, this level of expertise makes you almost overqualified.
There is no gift more precious than your first kiss. It’s a cute thing to say in a fleeting moment, but a terrible belief to build a society around. Watch this Christian fantasy utopia fall apart as kingdoms barter alliances with glowing orbs of virginity, which sounds like a silly exaggeration, but it’s literally what happens.
While Seanbaby, Brockway, and Lydia were dredging the bog of society’s discarded media, Jason was pointing at the insanity before our very eyes every day. “There’s a fucking bar on the bottom of every YouTube video where you can see the exact moment where people got horny! We’ve got to do something,” he warned us. But no one listened. We left when we heard there was a pervert detector because hell yeah, let’s probably see most of some titties.
There are a lot of self help books that look deranged but end up being mundane organizational tips. Bowl Better Using Self Hypnosis is not one of those. This bowler lost his goddamn mind, and it’s mostly your fault, the reader, for not believing the key to bowling success was mind powers.
There’s a character in Japanese cartoons who sucks, and this WikiHow author thought, “I could write a guide on pretending to be him.” This stupid piece of shit was right! Happy Learning Days from all of us here at 1900HOTDOG!
Warren G. Harding was a bad President and worse person. For example: Harding carried on a fifteen year love affair, with his friend’s wife, who was palling around with enemy spies…and that is not the most famous Warren G. Harding affair.
I’m here to talk about that lesser-known affair. But first, here’s the gist of the bigger affair. Married man Warren Gamaliel Harding gets elected President in 1920. Around the year 1915, married U.S. Senator Harding (age 50) starts shtupping Nan Britton (age 19). That continues in the White House – and I mean IN THE WHITE HOUSE – until Harding’s death from a heart attack in 1923. A few years later, Britton tells the public about her daughter, born 1919, fathered by Harding. Wow: history! That is some relevant, Clintonian, Trumpian history! You would think more history classes would teach that story. It’s a much more exciting story than “Teapot Dome”.
“Teapot Dome” is the main Warren G. Harding test question answer. Why? Because it was a huge scandal…but also because your middle school history teacher couldn’t bring up Nan Britton without recapping sex ed and getting signed permission slips. So if you know anything about President Harding, it’s probably “Teapot Dome”. Or as I call it, “The Most Family-Friendly Story About Warren G. Harding Getting Dome.”
On to the lesser-known affair. I’ve explored a unique Library Of Congress archive transcribed by the New York Times Magazine regarding President Harding. Because before (and during!) his Britton affair, married guy Warren G. Harding romanced Carrie Fulton Phillips. They hooked up from 1905 to 1920, plus Warren’s sweaty attempt at a follow-up in 1922. As I’m sure you’re aware, those years fall within the era historians call “Old-Timey Times.” Because they romanced in Old-Timey Times, Harding and Phillips romanced each other through letters. Letters now preserved at the Library of Congress. Stored, catalogued, and treated like artifacts, even though you’d think the LOC would have better things to store than secret scribbles where Warren G. Harding nicknames his penis “Jerry”.
Surprise: Warren G. Harding nicknamed his penis “Jerry”. Occasionally, “Mount Jerry.” We know that, now, thanks to Harding’s embarrassing sex letters. Here are a few excerpts:
How did our history teachers AND geography teachers skip this li’l chestnut? Also, great news, the Warren G. Harding Sexy Geography doesn’t end there.
Congratulations to Lake Superior on becoming the heart of a Warren G. Harding code-phrase about…genitals? I think? And this leads us to a big disagreement between me and the historical establishment. Surprise: I am here to fight with history experts! Again! Because the historical consensus here has a crucial flaw. This is the New York Times Magazine’s take on Harding’s nickname maneuvers:
Interesting! Also, wrong. I contend we do Warren G. Harding a huge favor if we act like he’s doing secretive code. Read the letters. There’s no secret. Every passage about “Jerry” is openly about Harding’s penis, and every letter is highly sexual. It’s obvious on the page. For example, here’s something Harding writes in the same letter as the Lake Superior bit:
He also writes:
If you spot any “secrets” in there, you’re a secrets wizard. You have a third eye for clever hidden sex verbiage and I’m astounded by you. All I perceive is a guy straight-up confessing how bad he wants this letter’s recipient to do wet, loud Goblin Mode stuff to his gamaliel. And yet, this letter is a supposed prime example of Jerry Code! Because way down that same letter, Warren says this:
Folks: “Jerry” is not code. What “Jerry” is, is some kind of nickname-play. Harding is hiding nothing. He’s simply *into this*. He does not care if you catch him. He…wants you to catch him? Unclear. Either way, there’s no chaste explanation for any of the Harding letters I’ve read. Lemme give you one more example. Here’s a fuller version of one I quoted early on:
That is Warren G. Harding remembering a sexual encounter from last year, and masturbating to the memory, and then writing that down in a letter. There are no other ways to read this letter! None! If you do try to generate a PG reading, you end up with the following story: Warren G. Harding thought about sex, went home, laid down, thought about sex some more, achieved a clear mental fantasy of his former lover’s perfect body…and then a second guy named Jerry entered the room to discuss that. In detail. With enthusiasm. That’s the *most plausible* chaste reading of this story. To make this story (a little) less gross you have to claim “Jerry” is a real-life Mister Poopy Butthole who’s on round-the-clock retainer to whoosh into any room and chat sex memories with (as of 1913) an obscure former Lieutenant Governor of Ohio. That’s what you’d read, there, if Warren G. Harding is some kind of cryptography genius. But you do not read that. The undecipherable Enigma Machine he ain’t.
Why are modern experts dressing up Harding’s letters as clever subterfuge? Is it because we hold a general respect for U.S. Presidents? Is it because professional historians are dorky prudes? I don’t know for sure. All I can do is show you these letters. Letters that are useless as code, and useful as indicators that Warren G. Harding liked to name and personify his penis. He really, really, liked to do that. Which means romance with Warren G. Harding was more awful than we ever could’ve guessed. It must’ve been an endless blather of eager narration, featuring penis personification and weiner world-building, unspooled mid-act by Warren “Giggles” Harding. A barrage of sex talk from a guy who followed up his letter’s Mount Jerry passage with an unironic use of the exclamation “Gee!”. For real! That’s the next word he wrote, after almost calling his penis “Mister Everest”. And I’m medium-confident Warren’s imagination went beyond his own hog. Because the New York Times Magazine claims Harding’s “code” included nicknames for Carrie Fulton Phillips. Once again, here’s their claim:
To my surprise, the Library of Congress has a whole ‘nother take on “Pouterson”:
Super different! Yet similar. Because both institutions frame “Pouterson” like it’s another deft code word, fueling a private love affair. But I call hooey on that. That’s bullshit. Because here is that nickname in action:
Folks: you see what’s happening here. Right? Do you detect a pattern? Do you remember all those times Warren G. Harding called his penis “Jerry” for his own gratification? I feel like you, Dear Reader, my Dear Grown Adult Reader, can make the same leap I did concerning “Mrs. Pouterson.” She sounds an awful lot like “she” is a “female body part.” Perhaps a part that can, oh I don’t know, lubricate independently of a person’s feelings. Also, consider the vibe of the word “pout”. You get it. I don’t need to go on here. Because I can control myself. Unlike the nickname-fueled coitus-rememberer who was our 29th President.
Also…maybe never mind about all this? Maybe this is none of our business. These were two consenting adults. Maybe they’re allowed to figure out their (extramarital) sex lives however they saw fit. However: no! I take all of that back! Because on top of all the humongous embarrassments you’ve just read, Warren G. Harding’s sex letters prove his affair with Phillips was a U.S. national security crisis of World War One. Surprise: something besides sex enters the picture now. In March 1915, Warren “Gettin’ It In” Harding becomes a U.S. Senator. Harding continues to romance Carrie Fulton Phillips. I wonder what else the Library of Congress has to say about her…
Hey, New York Times Magazine, any related thoughts here?
They go on to say we’re pretty sure she was not personally a spy. But hey, wow! Warren G. Harding’s lover also loved the opposing side in World War One. And she was good friends with Kaiser Wilhelm’s spies. Also, wow, does that explain the “Jerry” thing? Did Warren use the name “Jerry” to subliminally increase the appeal of his penis? By giving it the main British nickname for German soldiers? And then if I use this insight to self-publish a crummy book of Warren G. Harding Subliminal Penis Appeal Tips/Tricks/Treats, could we turn that book into the topic of a 1-900-HOT-DOG column? Maybe! I’d love to dunk on myself in a Mr. Snrub mustache.
Anyway: Carrie Fulton Phillips supported the pre-Nazis. She probably didn’t pass secrets to the Kaiser’s agents. We’re mostly pretty sure she did not commit mid-war treason. And that’s all fine, I guess? She’s entitled to have opinions, and have friends. It’s not like she–
Well, okay, as long as it doesn’t impact Harding’s role as–
I mean as long as it’s private between–
Um–
Wow! Also we have a sense of how much leverage Phillips had here. Because technically, no, she did not get Senator Harding to vote against the U.S. resolution to fight Germany. However: Harding was just one Senator, and the Senate voted 82-6 in favor of war. A pouterson-whipped German asset would vote “yes” just to keep up their cover. And then when Harding ran for President in 1920, the Republican National Committee (great guys) gave Phillips significant money, plus a free tourist vacation to Japan, in exchange for staying quiet. So, yes, her blackmail position was strong. She had Jerry over a barrel. And that’s not the only letter these lovebirds exchanged about money:
If I’m reading that right, Carrie Fulton Phillips blackmailed Warren G. Harding. And then Harding tried to continue that affair, while starting another affair (Britton), and considering funneling cash to Phillips from the U.S. defense industry. Harding did that within two weeks of becoming a Senator. And he did that during the bloody middle of The War To End All Wars. It’s almost impossible to fathom. It’s like a sexy, unsexy, 1920s Iran-Contra. Harding is like a Voltron made of John Edwardses. And if there’s a hero in this story – which is a Mount Jerry-sized “if” – if there’s a hero in this story, I gotta say, it’s the written word. Let’s give it up for the written word. Because nothing else could provide such a powerful time capsule of seemingly boring history guy Warren G. Harding’s grossness.
It’s 2022! Bivalently vaxed, you’re cleared to celebrate Thanksgiving with elderly family at last. As you carry sweet potatoes ‘cross the strangely dim threshold of their home, the door slams shut behind you. “I’m sorry, my lovely child,” you hear Father’s mournful voice. “ ’Tis for your own good.” But what is this? Where are Nana and Peepaw?
A lone light bulb switches on, revealing a blotchy man in a denim button-down beneath a black sweater that cannot slim his paunch. Gummy wads of foam worry the corners of his dry mouth like a bridle bit broken by this wild stallion’s ceaseless jaw, this white horse’s pestilent thoughts. “Welcome back to The O’Reilly Factor for Kids!” he bellows gently. “I’m here to ‘freestyle’ some ‘straight talk’ in your ear about Your Private Life.”
Outside, Mother’s guilty sobs are choked off abruptly by hands not her own. With her blood, we pay our passage into The No-Spin Zone, that habitat of blustery, wrong uncles, for another Thanksgiving. Maybe this year we’ll learn to listen up and fly right.
We begin, as always, with letters from a blend of real teen narcs, some dorky attempts at an authentic “kid” voice, and a few future Antifa Molotov Brigadiers. Most of these kids want to help their parents endure the fine-grinding wheels of capitalism. Not Chris. Chris has life figured out:
Bill tells a boring story about damaging a customer’s bushes while painting his house, yelling at his klutzy friends, and lying to the homeowner. It has nothing to do with money except he’s shaken by the first glimmer of self-recognition that he’s a man without integrity.
Like most people who graduated into a post-9/11 world, I can only imagine what a career looks like. The year this book was published I was working dawn shifts on boats and painting houses. Both jobs ruled, and I have no idea what Bill is crying about here. I got paid to climb ladders, farmer’s-carry weights, and listen to comedy albums all day with my best friend. I would quit all the not-this-one jobs of my life to paint houses again, so study if you want to, but in the 21st century every job title is Product Owner. We’re about four years out from ComedyBot automating Hot Dog production, and by that time the Boston Dynamics Paint-O-Tron will have cornered home improvement. My point is Bill O’Reilly is so consummately cranky, he managed to turn even the last great job into scolding teens.
He reveals that the billionaires of his acquaintance are miserable because their lives are an endless chase for money. Take a moment to savor the Werther’s Original of the soul that is knowing Rupert Murdoch will die with an unfillable chasm where his heart should be, because you’re about to get yelled at by the observational comedy of the blotchiest Boomer:
He starts referring to himself as O’Reilly, so you adolescents know he’s real down. That’s crunk! Maybe even mad crunk. Of course, everything Bill does, he does mad:
He obviously snipped the money parts from Polonius’s speech to Laertes in Hamlet. And like that pompous pecksniff, Bill’s a moralizing blowhard who will soon insert himself into women’s bedroom conversations. But before sex comes cigarettes, because Old Man O’Reilly can’t do anything correctly.
Guh. This is a hamfisted simile to draw even if you haven’t mobilized support for igniting those fields, but Bill has gone so far as claiming Iraq was linked to 9/11, and calling for Baghdad —a place where very many human beings lived!— to be leveled. Now he’s cavalierly using the flames he packaged and sold to the American people as poesy. I was insufferably straight edge for about five years, and even school-age me would back away uncomfortably from this guy who breezily bombs other nations but moralizes about a pack of smokes.
Speaking of cool, Bill told The Man off once:
Goddammit, I hate how often Book O’Reilly is reasonable and cognizant compared to TV O’Reilly. I have $50 says Bill “wrote” this book by dictating his Factorial thoughts on the table of contents for co-author Charles Flowers to nervously infuse with quality life advice. And I’m going double-or-nothing on famous exaggerator Mr. No-Spin conflating a local billboard offer with getting cast as The Marlboro Man.
After admonishing you for not paying attention, he recounts the time a hot stewardess who chain-smoked wanted to kiss him. He complains about it, but notably skims over whether his species’s penis has taste buds.
What other vices can Bill O’Reilly ruin for you? How about America’s deadliest drug? No, not white supremacy, the chemical one.
Whatever parties Santo isn’t getting invited to, you can pinpoint exactly where his imagination consoles him. I don’t want to pick up the pro argument for teen alcoholism, but I spent my entire freshman year of college getting prank-called over a comedy piece I wrote about “I don’t need to drink, homework is my drug.” I have room to stretch in the space where Santos lives and seethes unironically. And it sounds like his school’s problem isn’t an abundance of alcohol but a shortage of health class. Obviously a 12-year-old shouldn’t be having sex or drinking, but just because booze is a liquid doesn’t mean it’s going to fill in your gaps as a parent.
I hate it so much when I agree with this asshole, because he always finds the least agreeable way of stating truth. This page exemplifies Uncle Bill’s unearned, patronizing smuggery. He’ll remark on the obvious, tell you to do the work of proving his point for him, and treat it as a rhetorical victory. If you dropped an ice cream cone in front of him, he’d find a way to mansplain gravity to you before it hits the ground. As heartbreak floods your vision, he’d sneer, “Isaac Newton: Look him up!” already strolling away to the hot new segment producer’s cubicle before you could reply.
What? No way. Bill O’Reilly is the likeliest guy in any bar to throw an empty glass at the bartender for not stocking the cheaper brand of scotch. He’s a liver spot that taught itself English by watching Father Knows Best in hopes of seeing beer commercials. He’s the embodiment of every mediocre man in the tristate area whose idea of kink in the bedroom is sobriety. I can’t accept clattering teakettle of rage Bill O’Reilly is not, at the very least, a dry drunk. As this book’s made-up chat abbreviations would say, SMHID (Sorry, my headcanon is drinking).
Do you know what this means? This is the best version of Bill O’Reilly. We live in the greatest of all Bill O’Reilly universes, and his functionality is directly inverse to the quality of life for everyone else. There are worlds where he drank himself to death the night after recording his “Fuck it! We’ll do it live!” meme, and in them a not-dead Iraqi physicist just published her breakthrough for cold fusion.
He might have later amended his ways. IRMC. (Imbibing rye manhattans, clearly.)
Uncle Bill made the decision in high school to never have any fun, and now he’s here to shake his finger under all your stupid, coke-dusted noses. Here’s a letter from a 12-year-old who has never done drugs and never been offered drugs, but is very worried about drugs.
Bill, who has also never done drugs, is going to solve this very serious problem with you in the most O’Reilly way possible: trying to convince you that you aren’t enjoying yourself, that his reading bestows more expertise than your practical experience, and that these fallacies are objective reasoning. Bill’s fondest memory of 1969 was attending Woodstock just to repoint the road signs down the wrong fork of the road.
He admits marijuana is non-addictive and less likely to cause car crashes, but you don’t want other teens’ respect because it’s uninformed. Throughout this book he eschews solid arguments to seize on the only one he can conceive: he knows your opinions better than you do yourself. In Bill’s world, pot lasts for days, is safer than booze, and makes you laugh, but is not cool even if the cool kids think it’s cool.
Again, I don’t want to endorse kids being rad before their time, but I don’t think anything could push drugs better than the grouchiest forehead on TV trying to veto cool. Not even Guitar Chris could make marihuana-devil-tea look as cool as your friend’s angry dad inventing reasons not to toke up and rock out. This anti-weed argument is the most devastating campaign ever conceived against alcohol.
The thread eludes Bill as he explains: pot, which is less addictive than booze, is fine if you consume it in thoughtful moderation, just like booze. Don’t do it. Period. Then he lists all the smart, athletic, creative leaders in your class who smoke it with no problems.
This is my favorite quote so far, because it led to Old Man O’Reilly getting his ass handed to him by this cool, composed 16-year-old who has read more of this book than its author did. It will please you to learn that kid grew up to have what looks like the sweet life you’d want for anyone who humiliates this blowhard on his own show, and with even more knives.
The problem with the “just stop” addiction argument is that even for black tar heroin, somebody has to want to stop to prove you right. Otherwise you’re just haranguing them. Nobody’s going to make high school duller to deliberately lose a book argument with a guy who actually believes enough children watch cable news prime time to know his catchphrases.
To recap: all drugs are bad, pot is more destructive than you think it is, all the cool kids are doing it, they’re wrong to like you for doing it too, don’t let it stop you from embracing life, but the cool kids are using it to enhance life. Bill’s never tried it, and all his friends who have tell him he’s the smartest man in Levittown. I think Bill was on drugs while he wrote this meandering mess. If you flowcharted his argument, it would overlay perfectly with a map of bees’ dance steps after scientists give them a speedball.
Bill, nobody knows where to find you or what that means, and not because they’re on drugs. Is that an offer of assistance? Does anyone here believe a wayward junkie approaching Bill’s mansion gates wouldn’t be torn open by extremely patronizing Doberman pinschers?
This book’s clumsy attempts to rap with the teens is encapsulated by the sex chapter arriving a single turn of the page too late to begin on 69. Leave it to this shambling echo of masculinity to fail at sex before it even starts. It’s like he has face blindness but for the clitoris. He’s never gone down on a woman except to taste a subordinate’s fear, and the most Bill O’Reilly ever gave a woman in bed was $50 for the morning-after pill. Hi, I’ll be here all week, try the veal, which Bill has microwaved and cut a slit in, insisting it’s a much-healthier outlet for The Curse of Adam’s Desire.
At the risk of phrasing this wrong, around the time this book was being written I was dating more extremely legal teens than ever smiled at Bill O’Reilly in his life (one). She nearly broke up with me because this Irish-Catholic dummy here wanted to wait. In the ensuing decade, I took a Fox News producer and a New York Post reporter on unimpeachably consensual dates, so I’m more qualified than Bill O’Reilly to advise you on ’00s dating even if you never leave the News Corp offices, and that’s his only expertise. I’m the world authority of this truth: ignore anything Bill O’Reilly says about how to fuck.
The man who spent $45 million unwelcomely penciling his brain-penis into a decade of subordinates’ work calendars is going to lecture us about controlling our sexual urges. If you wanted to find someone less qualified to navigate the intersection of responsibility, money, and sex than Bill O’Reilly, you would first have to sculpt a fuck-golem out of the urinal cakes from a Goldman Sachs executive bathroom and scrawl “UNSOLICITED” on its forehead.
Forty-five million! It’s a lunatic’s labor to pretend any sexual wisdom may come from a man who spent the opening week’s take of Spider-Man: Far From Home begging his phallus to predict six more weeks of winter. For that much money, you could not only buy an army of escorts for life, you could equip them into an actual army. You can’t lecture kids about responsible spending when the standard unit of your sexual repugnancy is a yacht.
“Get a handle on your emotions before you have sex with someone,” says a man whose wife never led him up the stairs without fear he might drag her back down them. The best love this wobbling failure of the human experience ever made to the mother of his children was “working too late” to get home before she fell asleep. His idea of foreplay is a neck massage that hurts and his idea of an argument is a neck massage that hurts.
And the worst part is this is wise counsel! Even his sensible sex advice is so joyless, it’s a jerk-off jeremiad.
At last the message becomes clear: you no-good teens stop trying to fuck Bill’s daught—Wait, I looked it up, and both of Bill’s kids were in nursery school when this got written. What lunatic neighbor spent dinner with this grouchy predator elaborating on their teen daughter’s peer pressure to spread?
Once again, Dour Dad can’t commit to any argument beyond pooh-poohing your judgment. He thinks kids’ religious beliefs are authentic and deeply held, despite the pressure to hold them from parents who control life’s necessities. But if you’re not religious, he thinks you’re just being edgy to impress Chris into writing a song about you.
Can you believe coeds in the peak ’60s didn’t want to spend two minutes of their newly won sexual liberation being lectured by a naked twerp? Of course he had no moves; it only takes three things to be good at sex, and he’s incapable of listening or loose joints. Bill O’Reilly considers it edging to wait for a woman to requite interest.
But seriously, this is a vulnerable admission. As someone who also intends to lose his virginity at an advanced age, I applaud his honesty. 1-900-HOTDOG’s thoughts are with the young woman or enchanted frog who deigned to let him access their person.
Ugh, this guy talks to young people like the Steve Buscemi “Fellow kids” meme waking up from having its wisdom teeth pulled. MOST pregnancies? Bill, what kind of Promise Keeper debutantes are you creeping on? Most women can enjoy sex on its own merits if it’s not with the male lead in Irish-America’s production of The Shadow Over Innsmouth.
First off, that song’s pre-radio working title was “Any Dick Will Do,” but Bill stopped paying attention to lyrical relevance when he realized there’s no guilt to savor in what these humans call dancing. More importantly, I don’t know why I’m writing jokes to compete with the juxtapositions between the man’s book and his entire angry life:
Sex is complicated, but shouldn’t be so complicated it’s newsworthy. Nothing burdens a life like the nation learning you spent $45 million to keep your dick in your pants. He could have bought every strip club in Manhattan for that price, not gotten in trouble for staring, and earned some of his money back.
Except it wasn’t his money, it was corporate coffers, clipping the rest of the company’s War on Christmas bonuses. Bill O’Reilly is a money-pig with other people’s wallets. The lawsuits against him exponentially raised the payout for a lesson this carnal toadstool refused to learn, and the only uplifting part of this story is that some women are taking luxury vacations with money that homunculus Rupert Murdoch had earmarked in Excel for “Thought-Virus, Spreadable.”
Leslie’s going to burst into tears when she learns Robin Williams’s best joke writer was his coke dealer, but to the point: every one of these cranky gosling-steppers is a giga-dweeb. Yes, I am here to mock the children.
They are Brittany, who in 2022 posts hustle memes conflating her MLM with a small business, Leslie, who can conceive neither children nor a life without a TV set, and Brian, who is—I’m sorry, this is just the way the world works—nowadays dealing poppers at a club called Bone Dawg Daddyz. I can’t tell you if the God of Brian’s fathers is real, but I can say with certainty He loves irony. If you raise your child to fear MTV’s The Grind, you move the zero-points of their eroticism/forbidden axis to a place where a hangnail is considered dangling flesh.
This soothsayer, though:
I think this is our first documentation of “Hey, none of this feels right” in Fox News consumption. Bill ignores it, but I guess brownie points for picking up opposite from Rush Limbaugh’s “I’ll tell you what to think” stance:
If I weren’t confident it’s preemptively thwarting our biggest criticism of Fox I’d say this O’Reilly guy really digs, or understands, what Millennials like me called “the tube” in reference to cathode-ray technology prevalent at the time.
Now that we’ve connected with kids over their hemorrhoid cream and second home purchases, there were just two kickass female protagonists on TV at this time; Buffy was the one JJ Abrams didn’t put in a gratuitous lingerie scene to nab post-Super Bowl views. It’s weird to pretend the thrust of Buffy the Vampire Slayer was her beauty, but not as weird as watching 24 for the cars. Is this Mad Libs? Are we doing Mad at the Libs?
I can’t take another minute of Bill interrupting himself to remark on how much he runs his yap. He can’t be pretending books don’t have editors, because they’re the harassable producers of print.
Bill’s only advice is the same “This thing sucks but it’s fine in moderation” grousing as every other topic, with exceptions for the him-parts. So to burn page count, he revisits observational comedy. It’s all just spinning the wheels until he gets to his favorite non-teen-sex finger wagging…
Two very real children push open Bill’s favorite thing in the world: a side flap on the “I’m not racist but…” tent. This guy got rich tilling the earth for history’s most successful gangsters, so I don’t know what his issue is with people who just pretend to be one in song. Oh wait, yes I do: Blackness is the crime.
I know about as much of Allen Iverson’s rap career as I know about Allen Iverson’s basketball career: which is to say, twice as much as Bill O’Reilly knows about being a decent family man. But I see his argument, you don’t have to enjoy the things you enjoy if you don’t want to. For example, perhaps your selfish tastes upset your TV-commentator father?
U.S. avocado consumption only began surging in 2005, so look how much money those of us born in the ’80s had! Why, we were practically swimming in birthday sawbucks thanks to rising lifespan rates of our grandparents. Away, my friends, to the not-dying mall! There we will buy CD backups of our favorite MP3s, and the Mr. Coffee Tamagotchi-alarm-stereos to play them.
Here are the three things I know about Mariah Carey: She left Sony because working for your ex is awkward, she wrote the greatest Christmas song in half a century, and when she was a kid growing up in the same part of Long Island as Bill, racists poisoned her dog. Leave that nice lady out of this, and don’t try to pin her tribulations on me.
IRMC.*
*It’s racist, misogynist crap.
Wow, imagine an anti-authoritarian genre about obtaining material security in an implicitly persecutional system that disproportionately impoverishes and incarcerates Black people finding an audience among men deprived of same by same. But something something, real music has harmony. Hey, being a Fox News commentator is easy!
And lucrative. This slouch-joweled smuggo can’t get through two chapters without bragging about how much money he gets paid to talk. If Bill’s not racist towards rappers he’s professionally jealous. He really thinks he’s going to pressure kids into changing their tastes by pretending their friends are the ones hectoring them? Name a more pathetic way to get rich than One-Way Telegraph Child Bully.
Oh, wow, screamo, that was a fl—Hey! Did this motherfucker just capstone six pages of “Black people: why don’t they try harder?” with swiping the United Negro College Fund slogan? Jesus Christ, the part of America that’s this white would pry your fillings out with their fingernails if they weren’t superstitious that a bite could turn them.
Nonfictional children Jason, Jennifer, Jenna, and Jeanette write in to say they’re too stressed with school to have fun. Bill’s first and only response is to enumerate all the ways that fun isn’t fun. Then he gives you extra homework of writing an exhausting list of things he can help you stop enjoying. FUN!
“You know what I mean” is Bill O’Reilly for “I can’t be bothered supporting my argument. Why do you have to be such a little shit as to question it?” This is another chapter where Bill has nothing to say other than “Fun: stop having it,” because he looks exactly like a Mother Superior who’s suspicious of anything you can’t offer up to Christ’s suffering.
On the one hand, he’s not wrong about moderation. On the other hand, which is stroking Bill’s semi-turgid sex organ while telling a producer he’d like to lather her boobs, he’s not the guy to say what’s cool. He’s gonna try anyway:
That’s bullshit: the joy of hooky is like nothing else in this world. The nervous energy of being out of bounds is the closest our frontierless existences come to riding for a horizon, beholden to none. If I were going to explain it to Bill in terms he understands, I’d say “Picture the second you release your wife’s neck but gravity has yet to take hold of her. In that instant, your phone rings. It’s your sexy employee calling to ask if she can move to a hotel room that isn’t accessible via yours. The universe is a wild place, but there is a balance within it.”
“You make the call” is another lazy aside when this XXL water bear can’t be bothered to have a point. Nearby, Charles Flowers wrings his hands nervously. This year’s tough talk has gone long, but almost too well. We are all tired. Can we make it through pie without a fiery rant about “beepers (the cell phone for thugs)”? Only the quick-hits section knows for sure.
There are many reasons not to shoplift from our wage-thieving overlords, but Bill implores the youth to have social consideration the free market lacks. This mother-hen spent five pages shaking his head at all the fun you thought you’re having but only expends 85 words on “Don’t steal.”
The positive feedback loop that is Bill O’Reilly getting rich nagging society, then bragging about the money he made doing so has sealed itself. I am exhausted. You are exhausted. Neither of us has any money. We should drag him from his home and dance in the light of his burning mansion.
Wait a second…IYNWIM? If you…NO…what I mean? Let me look up Bill’s fictional ch@$p3@k.
No. No, that can’t be it. That’s a whole cloth invention, a cybersteampunk paleologism. Let me just quickly don these 1D double-red-lens specs I bought at the Charles Flowers estate sale…
Ah…that makes so much more sense.
If Twitter still exists in your timeline, these are Brendan’s best jokes this month.
