Category: PUNCHING DAY

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Secrets of Dim Mak 🌭

There are points on a man that, if poked, kill. There are energies that, if harnessed, turn any dainty kitty cat slap into a murder weapon. You are about to learn the secrets of Dim-Mak, a technique known only to ancient tai chi warriors, any acupuncture hobbyist, and everyone who saw the international smash hit Bloodsport. We’re watching Secrets of Dim-Mak: An Instructional Video with Erle Montaigue, shown here and here respectively:

Secrets of Dim-Mak was produced in 1994 by Paladin Press, who made knife fighting books and ninja videos exclusively for maniacs. Most people know them as the publisher who got in trouble for selling a contract killing instruction manual someone fucking used. So if you were wondering who would be irresponsible enough to publish information on how to end any life with a single touch, yes, it was actual murderers. I’m not as careless, though. I’ve encoded all this article’s potentially dangerous gifs so they can only be viewed by licensed holders of a Death Touch Security Card. To get one for yourself, simply press CTRL-P now on any IBM-compatible PC.

Secrets of Dim-Mak: An Instructional Video starts with a threat more dire than any FBI warning. Not only will the strikes in this video kill your heart, brain, and life, they might do it years from now from seemingly unrelated events. It didn’t say “check with your physician before beginning this or any light exercise program,” it said “all you touch will forever be haunted by the specter of our death.” Readers, please whisper the activation command to your Death Touch Security Card now.

The warning also wants to make it clear that this video, Secrets of Dim-Mak: An Instructional Video, is not an instructional video. It’s up to you to seek out proper Dim-Mak instructors beyond this realm at your local time lost temple. I mean, yes, you might infect your training partners with time bombs of death energy. But on the other hand, don’t be ridiculous, future attorneys. This is more like a public service announcement for finding wizards. Speaking of, gently swat your Death Touch Security Card to meet the instructor who will not be instructing us.

The narrator tells us “Erle Montaigue was awarded the degree of master in 1985 at the All-China National Warshu Tournament. He is one of the very few westerners who have received such an honor.” It’s quite impressive, but even after I corrected it for spelling, this tournament and honor seem to only exist in references to Erle Montaigue books. I’m not saying he’s a liar, I’m just saying it’d be a weird combination of personality traits if this man could kill you with death touch energy and was also honest about his achievements.

He begins by explaining, “Dim-Mak means death point striking. Literally.” It is the art of hitting points along the acupuncture meridians. He clarifies, “It’s not a magical, mystical thing. It’s not a thing where you touch them and they die five years later, it’s not that.” Yes it fucking is, Erle! Your own warning just warned us that’s exactly what this is, Erle! God damn it, what a betrayal. Place your Death Touch Security Card between your toes and axe kick through a human skull to see Erle mock us for ever thinking his Oriental energy powers were “magical.”

The first chapter of the video is about locating the Dim-Mak points. He is adamant this is not mumbo jumbo. These aren’t mystical techniques. For instance, one of the points is just the carotid artery, and, I mean, sure. If you have an enemy, go ahead and hit them in that.

Another non-magical point known to all of Western science is called Stomach 9, somewhere above the carotid sinus. This spot is in charge of stopping your heart when it gets hit by a karate chop, which is awesome, but Erle is about to disappoint us again. He’s not going to do knockouts today. “Not even light knockouts,” he adds. So he’s sharing the secret of punching a man in the neck until he passes out, assures you it’s not as impossible as it sounds, and then decides against showing us. But I guess he thinks better of this and says, “I don’t want to hurt my students, so I’m going to cause a partial knockout.” I’m so lost. Erle thinks unconsciousness is a wide spectrum of neck trauma, and we are all using the same measurement system. So quick, before he suffers a scantily to piecemeal knockout, let’s meet his assistant. Locate the groin on your Death Touch Security Card and panther strike it now:

Michael Babin is a credulous Canadian man without the deception skills to pull off even the most partial of knockout. “Argh, the unthinkable pain,” he overacts as Erle thwaps and slaps him. He’s performing like he thinks this is a kid’s show. He stands there making Cosby faces while Erle fiddles around on his neck to find his murder points. At one point Erle finds a little bump he likes and tells us, and I quote, “This point right here? You could die up to seven years later from internal carotid artery disintegration. You die from a stroke seven years later no one relates it back to when you were struck on the neck through some idiot striking you.” So what the shit is it, Erle!? Is this actual science or a karate bomb set to go off only after an enemy’s second wife has given them a child old enough to vow revenge? Is that what you think science is, Erle? Because that rules.

I’m sure this sounds easy so far, and it is, but there’s a little bit more to it. Readers, please turn around to find your Death Touch Security Card has somehow circled behind you.

The key to ending a man neck-first is in the wrist, but not your wrist– his wrist. There are two points on the wrist called Heart 5 and Lung 8, and you need to erotically tug these at the same time you stroke their carotid sinus nerve. The wrist is encircled by “energy drainage points” because, again, none of this is magic. Any traditional medical doctor could tell you this, seven years after you ask them, when your bowels explode without explanation.

When done right, this removes all of the energy a human body would have used to not stop its own heart after the off-button on its neck was massaged. You get it. Erle does it on Mike and bam: DEAD. Lightly, partially DEAD. Merge souls with your Death Touch Security Card to witness it!

Erle shows a few other moves like the Triple Warmer 23, which is a chop to the eyeball. He only does it once because he “doesn’t want Mike in a spasmodic state.” It’s thoughtful, but unnecessary. Mike is a fully grown Half-Grimace whose neck would win a fight against any of Erle’s fingers. He genuinely almost flattens Erle during several random lumberings. Despite this, he restores Mike’s power after every blow with his, once again, very scientific healing powers. They never even mention these; they figure you already know a man who can kill with acupuncture could obviously unkill with mime. Partially knock out your Death Touch Security Card then feed it your healing energy now:

After doing both to him (partially), Erle lets Mike explain the difference between getting energy-drain knocked out versus knocked the fuck out. He doesn’t seem ready for this and improvises something about how one of them hurts and the other doesn’t. So save the eyeball chops for someone who deserves suffering and the neck chops for a loved one having trouble sleeping. But it really doesn’t matter. If you fuck something up, the district attorney seven years from now will never be able to pin it on you.

There’s been a lot of talk of science so far in the video, and here is more. Erle has a theory on brains. He says, “We thought we had one brain. We now know, science now tells us, that we have three brains up there.” The first one is the human one, Human Brain, like you’d expect. The second one is Reptile. As Erle explains, God thought “let’s try out this brain,” and added Human Brain to the Reptile Brain, so now there are two brains in there. I apologize for the scientific jargon. These concepts are easier to explain in their original Reptile.

I’m going to paraphrase, but I promise to be faithful to Erle’s description. The Reptile Brain doesn’t see well, and it’s like a crocodile eating. One minute he’s not, the next minute he is. A snake knows when something is coming to hurt it. He doesn’t think, “Here comes John.” He doesn’t think, “I’m going to do a leg sweep and then follow up with a pressure point strike.” No, they simply kill, then go back to what they were doing. For five minutes he describes “adrenaline” for any glandless viewers born yesterday. It’s, you know, similar to how dogs had their dog brains put on top of their reptile brains. I know this all sounds very smart, but you should also know Erle forgets to tell us what the third brain is. He might have no goddamn idea what he’s talking about. But if that were true, how would you explain this? Death Touch Security Card, master control remote command: “SHOW UNTHINKABLY HILARIOUS FIGHTING TECHNIQUE.”

Erle asks Mike to punch him and gets the most generous punches from the most generous scene partner. He gently paws at him between naps, and with the fury of a fucking idiot, Erle blocks each one with a short story told in nautical hand signals. I’m not saying this wouldn’t work, I’m saying a TikTok dance done from a car is better self defense. This is how the slowest bluebird would dress Cinderella for the ball if she was a grizzly bear. Erle blocks one of Mike’s punches with a double grab arm throw, puts it three different places, uses it as a jump rope, and gives his tummy a backhand slap. If you showed this choreography to Steven Seagal, he’d say, “I don’t get what the joke is; this move only needs a comfortable chair and two birthday cakes to be perfect.”

Furiously lunge at your Death Touch Security Card to reveal this clip of advanced Reptile Defense:

What Erle says this demonstrates is how fighting is not about technique. It’s about suddenly harnessing Reptile, the part of your brain which is not Human or the Third One he forgot to tell us about. He has very literally developed a martial art for guys who might not know any of that karate shit, but could win any fight by going crazy. He thinks if you do this right, you’ll become such an animal you’ll kill your opponent and walk off unaware of what you’ve done, like the snake he mentioned earlier who ate John. So I guess this is closer to werewolf karate than pressure point karate. Readers, force your Death Touch Security Card into the belly of a dogcatcher and out his mouth now:

Now that we know where on the neck to poke, where on the wrist to tug to make that poke work, and how to go nuts and let your primal instincts do something totally different, it’s time to learn Fa-Jing, the art of using death touching as self defense. Which, yes, sort of implies we’ve been the instigator so far in this video about blacking out and killing without remorse. Ask your Death Touch Security Card if it cares… now:

Erle liquifies the heart of Mike using a scientific energy bolt he never demonstrates or mentions again. As you can see, it’s so powerful Mike is reeling in agony before Erle has even started to conjure it. For historical context, this came out 17 years after Star Wars, so nerds had given us plenty of data on how well these techniques worked. And according to police reports, despite all these attempts, there were still only 817,989 deaths related to The Force. So you can train all you want– there’s still only an 11% chance of you being a Jedi. And there is absolutely no fucking way anyone bought Secrets of Dim-Mak: An Instructional Video before first testing to see if they were a Jedi.

The video is 90 minutes long, but you’ve already seen all of it. Erle never moves on from his main three moves: Neck Chop with Wrist Masturbation, Eyeball Slap, and Dissociative Episode. He adds fun details like how poking the right part of a neck will make CPR impossible. He shares the forbidden secret of how tai chi is a 3000-year-old scheme to hide the deadly strikes of Dim-Mak in plain sight. He advises his female students to wait until deep into a kidnapping before throwing a palm strike because that’s when they’ll least expect it. It’s everything you could want from a death touch instructional video, though explicitly not an instructional one. Which means the rest of the article is only going to be Mike getting dominated by sorcery. Violently will your Death Touch Security Card to show you!

Feel the fury of an accidental tiger claw, Mike! We can fix this in editing, Mike! Readers, swallow your Death Touch Security Card and let it display the next clip directly inside your mind:

This is some real insider knowledge here, but boxers and martial artists often train with padded “mitts” designed for catching “punches.” They work great! Children hold them. People who know Mike Tyson hold them. AND YET WHAT PADDING CAN PROTECT FROM THE IMPACT OF THE DIM-MAK!? “Oh jeez, that’s a whole lot of unexplainable death power,” says Mike as his elbow ligaments unravel. Fuck your brave but inadequate arm, Mike!

Readers, digest and pass your Death Touch Security Card and look into it now:

In this clip, Erle shows how even the most oafish, immovable head can be controlled using the poking of pressure points. “Enough of this, I’ll kill you,” paws Mike clumsily. “FURIOUS REPTILE BLOCK,” argues Erle! Better luck next time, Mike!

Death Touch Security Card, Mike needs a win. Show us Mike’s Immovable Dick Technique:

I’m not sure what happened here. Secrets of Dim-Mak: An Instructional Video sometimes takes its job as NOT an instructional video too seriously. Shriek with reptile rage into your Death Touch Security Card to put Mike out of his misery.

The video ends with a slow motion sequence where Erle, using the footwork of a squirrel experts agree will never tapdance, barely holds off a series of friendly handshakes. I have spent over 6000 hours in beginner’s cardio kickboxing and I didn’t know it was possible to be this bad at martial arts. You could glance at this while failing your yellow belt test and see it sucks. If your five-year-old showed you these moves, you would buy them a tiny coffin for their first fist fight. If Steven Seagal saw this even he would say, “Very good. And they should be– I trained these Army Seals myself.”

With sincerity in your heart, thank your Death Touch Security Card in order to see one last moment of weirdness from the video’s credits.

An all new guy walks in during the last five seconds to let Erle bash him on the arm. Erle then explains how bashing hurts more if your arm isn’t so stiff and gives him a final, limp-armed bash. Enduring the pain, the man looks straight into camera and declares, “MUCH MORE PENETRATION.” Then he gives a little thumbs up and an even littler little karate bow. It’s impossible to know who he is, what happened to Mike, or why they waited until these final moments for such an important arm-bashing tip, but it’s how I’m going to end everything from now on. Much more penetration. đź‘Ť. Little karate bow.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Michael Lehr, who suffered a weird handshake seven years ago and will rest in peace… NOW.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Empty Force 🌭

Come along with me, hotdog children, to the mystical faraway land of California, where an ancient Chinese practitioner named Paul Dong practices the art of the Empty Force at a magical temple known as the YMCA. He has chosen to share his knowledge with all of us simply because it feeds his soul and also because I gave him five dollars.

Let’s get this out of the way right at the top of the article. Not believing that all Asian people are a little bit of magic is actually pretty racist. They put that right in the intro to the book, so take your anti-magical Asian biases elsewhere. Removing that stone from this house will collapse it.

Empty Force was co-written by Paul Dong, chi master of the YMCA, and regular guy Thomas Raffill. The idea behind the book is that the only thing cooler than kicking ass with karate is healing ass with karate, and chi can do both of those things. Paul is the main authority on this topic throughout the book, and Thomas is just sort of there as a witness. He doesn’t seem coordinated enough to co-write a karate book. His first anecdote about the healing powers of chi involves him losing a battle with his arch-nemesis, a car door.

Ok, nerd, I guess you can tag along on this karate adventure Mr. Dong is taking us on, but try to keep quiet. So, if it is possible to have magic powers, why don’t more people just try force-pushing their enemies with their minds? The answer, of course, is sex. Every cult thinks we’re either having far too much or far too little, and finding the perfect amount of orgasms will ultimately save our lives.

We could all have superpowers if only pop singers weren’t so damn hot. If only ball game images weren’t so surrounding. Luckily, in the mystical faraway land of 1996 China, they have no pop stars. Strangely, the writer talks about China as if it’s still unspoiled rural farmland just waiting to be conquered by white people, who would, of course, lose to the terrifying super soldiers roaming the countryside looking for blood. This is not an exaggeration. The next section of the book is all about assembling a super team of chi-powered X-Men with names like Demon-Foot, Tiger-Claw, and one guy from Florida with the most terror-inducing name of all, Richard.

You may not know this, but traditional legs are longer than arms, which is explained in this book. Therefore, the Demon-Foot Master has an advantage on attack because most people aren’t ready for you to river dance them into oblivion. It sounds terrifying, but the description of the Demon-Foot Master is adorable compared to Tiger-Claw, who’s something straight out of a problematic Wolverine comic.

Woah, the phrase “it was said” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. It was said by whom? Someone on PCP? It was said the “Tiger-Claw King” trained his students by making them dig in the dirt and scratch the bark off of trees. He ate animal bones for their extra calcium and tore the flesh from horses and bulls for fun. So, like, not a chill guy at all. All Richard can do is gently tip a very frail man over, but he also has a sick dragon tattoo.

There’s even a cop with super chi powers who doesn’t have to carry a gun because he can spit people to death. This can be confirmed by the Beijing City government or police department if you’re willing to learn the Chinese phrase for, “Why is this pervert calling me about super spit?” Be sure to check out Spit Cop, the wettest AI-generated show, coming this fall to Roku. I encourage everyone to read this carefully as every inch of it rules:

Woah, an attack, which never misses, that can only be escaped by running away! That’s also how you defeat Batman. Or any man. If the super spitter ever gets super chi speed, criminals will tremble! As of right now, they’re pretty much fine.

So, you might be wondering how one develops these superhuman abilities. It’s a lot of hand swirling. You have to practice a lot of gentle swaying and swirling in order to cause the water in the hands to undergo a “nuclear-magnetic resonance.” Basically, your body becomes a magnet, controlled by your brain and also your Demonic Feet.

It takes two to four hours of swirling per day, 365 days a year without stopping, for about 4-5 years to experience these amazing results. Gaining superpowers is a lot like Duolingo. If you lose your streak, you have to start swirling all over again. If, for some reason, you don’t gain the ability to rend men’s flesh from the bones in a single stroke, did you perhaps miss a day of swirling in the past five years? What about Saint Patrick’s Day? Did you swirl then? Are you certain?

Once your skills are fully developed, the only thing that can stop chi is aluminum, a mirror, or, of course, running away. So, as long as you avoid distance runners, soda cans, and fun houses, you’re unstoppable. If you’ve got a cool four to five years to swirl, this book does include some gentle exercises for nuclear magnetizing your blood. After a mere two years, you’ll be able to do the more complicated poses, like spirit fingers and baseball umpire.

You might be thinking, who has that much time to devote to gently swaying your way to glory? The answer is nerds. That’s why our Western culture just isn’t set up to birth spit Avengers into existence. We’ve got too many lame distractions like spouses and children who want our time and attention. We can’t just say, “Sorry, kid; Mommy can’t make it to your soccer game today. She has to climb a hill and scream HA at the sun for two to three hours. You’ll appreciate this when she can kick your ass without touching you five years from now.”

So the author understands you won’t have time for all this. It’s not like the good ol’ days when we were free from distractions and duties and every village could hire a Bruce Lee. Or, if you lived in a less prosperous village, maybe a nice Bruce Le. Every old woman in the Chinese countryside was a Demon-Foot waiting to pounce.

Now, at this point, I should say I do wonder if Paul Dong is real and if he knows that his co-author wrote this book. Raffill claims that he’s simply helping dictate stories told to him by Master Dong in most cases. However, I can’t really picture Paul referring to himself as “a Chinese.”

There are photos in the book of Paul Dong teaching students, but they all seem to be taken from pretty far away. It feels more like someone with a telephoto lens knew where Paul Dong would be rather than a true artistic collaboration.

Am I saying this book was created by a man driven to madness by a gentle Tai Chi class? Legally, no. However…yes. I think this is the creation of someone who simply couldn’t handle Tai Chi. If he had taken a yoga class, this book would be about superhumans who can twist their torsos into lassos, and it would have been called Spaghetti Force: The Squeakiest Martial Fart.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Josh S, also known as the Master Dong of the YMCA, funnily enough.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: A Big Bad BeetleBorg’s Christmas

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Punching Day: Dinosaurs for Hire

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Punching Day: The Mr. T Game 🌭

Here at this delightful 1900HOTDOG website, I’ve written two hundred and eighty (280!) articles about maniac cops, horny witches, and diseased grifters. That’s a lot of curses I’ve exposed myself to, so today let’s do something nice. Maybe something better than nice– the Mr. T Game. It’s “an exciting race against time” based on the cartoon where celebrity Mr. T leads a “child vigilante army.” You and I, best friends, are going to face off in this 1983 board game for ages 6-12! Nothing could go wrong!

This is not how I remember this cartoon about gymnasts fighting crime. The board is a pleasant suburb built around a Mr. T city center with well-kept, harmless locations along a bus route. And the manual says the object of the game is to “run your errands and reach the airport BEFORE time runs out.” So we’re not going to be jumping onto any escaping speed boats or recapturing an escaped zoo animal. This is going to be something closer to Mr. T’s teen friends returning some library books. Or exactly that if you want to be a dick about it. They don’t even say why we need to get to the airport. We’re probably just picking up a Toblerone for Mr. T while he’s off in some board game with stakes.

Okay, let’s get started. There are four game pieces and none of them are Mr. T. We’ll also need the bus game piece because we get to take turns controlling it. The complications of this bus take up 80% of the rules, and I would argue our adventure would be cooler if we weren’t commuting to it with local public masturbators. The point is, if you’re making a Mr. T board game, every player is a Mr. T and on your turn you roll to see which fools get punched, and which fools get pitied. If you find yourself explaining arcane bus movement rules for a little boy’s trip to the post office, you fucked up somewhere. Anyway, I’m Jeff. You’ll be Robin. Sorry, Kim and Woody. You’re staying in the box.

The first thing we need to do is draw MR. T cards to get our errand assignments. Because again, someone took a show about gymnast kids battling alongside Mr. T and made it about picking up his dry cleaning while he was out of town. This is like making a game where sad paramedics pull ladders and mops out of dead bodies and calling it Jackie Chan Adventure Cards. Has it been your turn this whole time? Come on, we’re all waiting on you to draw your MR. T card.

Wow, Mr. T gave you a terrific errand! If you believe in yourself with all your heart, you’re already done and ready to take the bus to the airport! Now I’ll draw mine.

This must be some kind of weird misprint. I’m going to draw another one.

It seems really important that I get to the grocery store for Miss Bisby. Your turn!

You rolled a 3 and landed on the bus which means you double your roll to move the bus, but you can only depart the bus if you stop o– you know, what? I’m going to just draw you a BUS card.

I don’t understand this game at all, but maybe your fun trip will give me time to catch up. I’m drawing a TEAM card because the city’s only bus is in South Dakota. I’m not sure what they d-

Oh no. This is terrible because you still have the bus and get to draw a BUS card. If you move forward just one space you’ll reach the airport and win the game! Let’s see!

You are so good at the Mr. T Game. I’m still stuck at Jeff’s house with a growing list of errands and missing children. Here I go. TEAM card, draw!

What? B-but this isn’t how cards work. How could i–

I’ve decided to stop asking questions. It’s still my turn, and I draw…

Oh no.

Oh no.

Yes! Awesome! Awesome!

If you hired Mr. T to load crates in your warehouse, this is exactly what he would be doing by lunch. This game rules! It’s still my turn!

Still my turn.

This seems… I don’t think I read the instructions carefully enough.

How d– did nobody shuffle?

It’s… it’s still my turn.

Oh fuck. Okay, something has gone very wrong here, but I’m worried it’s only going to get worse if I don’t draw. So here goes.

I think I’m getting better at the Mr. T game. It feels like I’m really turning things around.

I’ve got this.

Damn it.

God damn it.

The sea’s dark gifts have checked off half my to-do list! It’s still my turn.

I don’t know how to stop this.

No.

Release me from this, Mr. T!

Okay, I love the game again, but I’m worried it’s going to betray me.

Sweet!

Oh.

Rad!

Is it still my turn?

Oh my god, I did it! I finished my third turn in the Mr. T Game! You can go! Draw a BUS card!

You won! You really did it! It looks like you’re coming in a little fast, though.

Oh my god, oh my god.

I… I guess you left a while ago and no one was driving the bus. I don’t blame you, what the shit happened here? What the shit is going on!?

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Neil Schafer, whose beard draws scorpions and whose mutton chops command the locusts.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Swerved 🌭

I’ve got bad news. I love entertaining you all, but my doctors say that you just got Swerved!

God, it feels good to be so much smarter than you dumb bastards. Were you concerned for another ape? Did you show weakness in Vince’s McMahon’s world? You had to pay. That’s what pranks are, right? Because it’s the Swerved experience. If you read these at work, there’s dung halfway through.

Hyperbole’s out today. Vince’s trail of sin is too long for me to call six hours of trash TV his worst crime. Even without consent and Jimmy Snuka, he’s ruined more lives than printable bullets. He’s the jock and dork answer to “who else do you kill with a time machine?” I’m making fun of a dictator’s mustache.

So I have to be precise, which Swerved makes tricky. Help me out here: what’s reality? I’m losing my grip after replacing my blood with C4. And pirating a WWE prank show.

That sentence eats holes in spacetime. Prank shows are pantomimed mirth. Wrestling is pantomimed war. Wrestlers pranking other wrestlers on camera gives philosophers heartburn. It separates reality and state with a clarity that no think tank or judicial bribe can subvert. No show exists less than Swerved, and there are still sixteen episodes.

We owe Swerved for fighting reality fundamentalists. We’re still a secular nation, when you don’t look too closely. We keep reality out of our textbooks, screens, and minds. If prank shows are still real to you, that’s fine. Fantasy always needs fresh thinkers, and George R.R. Martin’s next book might take another week or so. A private, portable reality is your right, even as it boils the planet.

So why did WWE make a prank show? Instead of paying employees or victims? Because in 2015, it seemed easier than all that punching. Ever been hit with a ladder? It feels like a ladder.

Of late, the wrestling duopoly’s thrived by selling wrestling. That’s new. There’s some value to making centuries of live television every week, without a union in sight. Saying “union” in a WWE building triggers the gas. And AEW keeps at least three versions of you in reserve, waiting for precious, precious sunlight. You might see a wrestler’s union in your lifetime. But you’ll see Pinkertons again first.

WWE tried a different angle in the 2010’s: the WWE Network, home of McMahon’s Choice versions of everything else on screens. The Network had more knockoffs than Roku TV or Bronx sidewalks, and half the funding. They also beat Disney to streaming by four years. Points for smelling change before CNN’s brain trust.

Honestly, the concept makes sense. Some fans already only watch wrestling, wrestling news, and life fade away. The Network aimed to addict casual fans as well. Reality TV fans could watch Legends House, where broken dolls waited for death. Or Total Divas, two weeks after Bravo extracted all value. Children got Scooby-Doo crossovers, in-house superheroes, and Smackdown. True Crime fans had a live feed of Vince’s office.

It didn’t take much to get a network show. Or have one dumped on you.

For example, they ripped off Shorties Watching Shorties, Comedy Central’s joint campaign against comedy, animation, and infants. If you were outside at the time: Shorties Watching Shorties paired classic/popular/licensable standup with flash animation. And two abject mascots.

WWE Story Time replaced standup with wrestlers telling wandering semi-stories. Mostly frat-style tall tales. Though I’m guessing Ric Flair left out his grabby plane rides.

Why do prosecutors frame anyone? Everyone has a WattPad book called My Kickass Crimes with two sequels and an audiobook. Including me. Can you sue yourself for fifth amendment violations? I’m ready to cash out.

Then someone had the idea: why not steal something people watched and liked? They listened, so not Shane. And it only lasted two seasons, so not Stephanie. And it always sucked, so not Triple H. Someone outside Succession’s core cast made a move.

Enter Punk’d with wrestlers.

With the best disclaimer since South Park. No one’s more dedicated to brand pidgin. Or women as a separate, semi-equal species. Every bone thrown to “divas” had a “let them eat cake” aftertaste. As for the logo within the logo, I wish any designers reading a fast recovery.

The debut starts with veteran speed bag Dolph Ziggler. Dolph needs this. He’s in almost every Swerved episode, across multiple pranks. If he can’t be champion, he can at least be Alibaba Ashton Kutcher.

Dolph Ziggler (they considered “Jeanne-Claude von Stallone”) was an early success in extracting the rough edges and life force from internet favorites. Swerved gave him a chance to thrive/smile again: he’s also a comedian. An actual one, not the way Hulk Hogan’s an actor or functional human. Dolph visited Roast Battle and proved he could job in two mediums.

He comes off worse here, on familiar turf. I think it’s like driving home: you turn into a fucking asshole. Dolph becomes Minister of Workplace Torment. For every pin he takes, someone gets electrocuted.

This opening prank’s a little complicated. Whenever someone sits down, a chair deep-fries their balls.

Hold on. Just voltage? No concept or misdirect, just Zeus’s sack-whack? This feels less like Punk’d, and more like–

The game evolves.

Collaboration’s about quietly doing what I say. But my partners say it’s about shared interests. With Gaiman and Pratchett, that’s our absentee father God. With Square and Disney, that’s bottomless pools of money. With Metallica and Lou Reed, that’s regret.

Jackass/Bad Trip producer Jeff Tremaine has plenty of interests beyond cruelty and poop. Vince McMahon has a few, mostly illegal. But their crossover only ends one way.

Dolph’s first interrogation is Matt Cardona, whose character gimmick is “enthusiasm.” Awesome for him, troubling for Americana. “Alive inside” is a distinguishing heroic trait. Imagine calling Superman “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to fall asleep without crying.”

Later on, Matt would get fired, use a Thunder Stone, and become a perfect meta-villain.

Today, he’s trying to keep his head down and do his job. The penalty for that’s getting Swerved.

Dolph’s man zapper lacks one ingredient. You need it to understand the show. The words that follow every little person ambush, fake gym mutilation, fake gym miscarriage, and chemical headshot that follows.

Maybe you think I’m fucking with you.

Note the double plagiarism. Granted, “You’ve just been Punk’d” and “You suckas got served” aren’t perfect lines. Except for “You suckas got served.” I’ll defend dance film with my life, or at least a few flares. Muscle opera isn’t far from headspin anime.

My point: those lines set the tone for their stupid settings. “You just got swerved” never sounds natural, no matter how many balls burn. It radiates brand. Chanting it three times summons an earnings report. It sounds the way Baja Blast tastes.

But so does the rest of Swerved. Everyone speaks fluent Titan Sports Communications Guidelines 2K15. They say “WWE superstar” in full, every time, like a sniper demanded it.

I mentioned shit. Swerved takes six entire minutes to get there. First, we’re treated to a mic dipped in dung. The shot feels longer than it is.

This prank’s called Poo Microphone. It’s about a mic that smells like shit.

That’s not an edit.

My notes called Poo Microphone a dumb name. But what else fits? The Prunes of Wrath? Brown Notes From Underground? The Voice: Hard Mode? Water finds its level. This is Poo Microphone.

The torment starts with Darren Young (Fred Rosser, in his poo-free new life). A dead-eyed plant approaches him with a poo microphone. He expects an interview, but gets dungboarded. Darren is WWE’s first openly gay wrestler, making this the 783rd most humiliating moment of the month.

He dislikes the poo microphone.

He requests less poo microphone.

The poo microphone remains.

False friends claim he’s imagining the poo microphone.

Darren stands his ground.

There’s twenty-one minutes and three pranks, so that’s the first poop mic of many. But Darren’s reaction spoke to me. He comes closer to jail than diamond heirs get to happiness. The Usos, on the other hand, are sedated enough to play along. They’re half tag team, half drinking contest. Rad, as long as you ignore the drag race afterwards.

So far, these pranks might seem thin. They are. The Mad King likes primates flinging dung, and hates zoos. But sometimes, physical pain gives way to mental pain. Until you miss the gentler days of CIA roleplay.

Swerved presents Family Business. Whether you love or hate this show, it peaks here.

The name’s tipped this for some of you. While the others read ahead: who do you have for the G1? I’m pulling for Will Ospreay.

Four buds–or fake buds, given reality’s recent accident–enjoy a meal between ladder matches. A break from having every second recorded, replayed, and insulted by web comedians. But the network’s hungrier.

This time, our plants are a fake waiter and waitress.

They’re also a fake couple.

And fake siblings.

A fake abusive sibling couple.

The audio leans in with a banjo, because subtlety went missing with reality. This prank’s a crossover between Hee Haw and a workplace harassment video. And an amazing personality test. Incest theater exposes your soul.

Player One doesn’t care. Even a little. He’s already thinking about the next meal.

That, or he’s clocked the pro camera in a freeway diner. Comedy law demands I choose

food. But half a season in, Swerved detection and compliance is a core survival skill. You need to check everything at groin-level for USB ports.

Player Two notes “If my sister was that hot, I might make out with her.” Don’t let horror distract you from a perfect kamikaze roast. WWE’s an international conglomerate. People in Kuala Lumpur heard him call his sister unfuckable. If one of your employees said this, you might edit it out. That’s what makes you weak. You’ll be Swerved and forgotten, like Ted Turner before you.

Player Three’s another plant, and struggles to simulate empathy. If you’ve murdered an Elder Scrolls NPC, you’ve seen his reaction. He’s angry, but assault gets the same audio as stealing a melon.

Then there’s Heath Slater, who earns a proper noun. He leaps into action. A century of West Virginia jokes die in forty seconds, as Heath prepares to cash in his annual felony. Hopefully SAG health plans cover silverback attacks.

The plants defuse the situation the natural way: foreplay. They earn every cent of scale, so it’s a shame they probably weren’t paid. As Heath’s eyes dim, the actors reveal the marginally less upsetting truth:

They’ve got chemistry. I hope they’re still provoking martial artists today.

I’ve blamed a lot of Swerved on pandering to Vince McMahon. But there’s no televised, multi-episode proof he has an incest fetish. You definitely can’t hear about it in Ivanka Trump’s support group. So I apologize. We’ll blame this one on the human condition.

The prank siege nearly drove these people insane. Even I can tell, and that’s something. I know every Chaos Space Marine chapter by helmet shape, so I’m iffy with personal cues. But there’s tension. The fun in “is this a rib” slowly dies. The season finale’s revenge ritual has a little too much verve. The Miz attacks Jeff’s staff with a taser, but I think he pitched live ammo.

So Season Two spread out the pain. Fans. Children. Passerby. Fans again. No outsider was safe from getting Swerved. It’s kinder, gentler, more diffused gaslighting. Incest play goes over badly in court.

It sucks way more. Looks like the monster was, as always, in me. I still nominate Vince for Siberian prison.

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