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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Hands to War 🌭

Someone is threatening your Christian family, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to destroy them with your mighty and righteous Christian hands. Are there laws against Christian kicks? Christian sword murder? One author set out to answer these questions and then got so, so distracted.

Fucking behold it: HANDS TO WAR: FIGHTING, WEAPONS, AND SELF-DEFENSE FOR CHRISTIAN FAMILIES. Published in 2009, it is a 308 page adaptation of three pages worth of stray thoughts from a paranoid orange belt. And once again, fucking behold it:

It’s glorious. One brave Christian soldier, out of ammo and down to his last two kids, making a final stand against an army of wild dogs. It’s what every karate book author sees while he’s sleepwalking after his wife with a knife.

So let me explain what I mean by the author getting distracted. The stated goal of the book is to create a comprehensive guide to defending yourself and your home, but from a Christian perspective. You already know what that means: specifics on when you’re allowed to kill a man (probably not very white) on your property. But a book like that would require research and legal expertise, so this is mostly a beginner’s guide to traditional wild dog karate. A huge part of it is this list of commonly owned body parts.

You see a lot of types of crazy in karate books, but I’ve never seen anyone break the human neck up into five sections and include each bullet point in the table of contents, all leading to the same page. You or I might call that “Neck punching stuff…. page 234,” but Daniel E. Loeb has never wasted a keystroke or a stray thought. He will write a paragraph fifty different ways and leave them all in. This is the author, by the way:

The back of this book claims “Daniel E. Loeb is a non-denominational Christian. He has a Masters Degree in Homeland Security,” but when he’s not writing Christian karate books or training police commandos, he’s also a freelance Jewish wizard and tarot prophet. So it’s possible some of this material may not have been properly tested on “reality.” Unfortunately, Daniel E. Loeb isn’t as crazy as he sounds on paper. And the most frustrating part of this book is how his ninja imagination is always clashing with his normal brain’s reasonable expectations. Let me show you one of the paragraphs he wrote and rewrote twenty different ways:

Imagine you have an intruder in your home. Now imagine your keen soldier senses heard him coming and you’re setting up an ambush. Now imagine he faces your deadly Nunchaka, its chains oiled for Oriental silence. Wait, go back one. You’re probably not going to have your martial arts weapons handy; that’s silly. You’re going to have to kill another home intruder with a regular old kitchen knife.

This is ninja edging, Daniel. Give us our Sai and Katana! It’s all imaginary anyway. There’s no reason not to sever his spine with throwing stars and take our animal form. Speaking of murder, let’s go over some of the Christian basics of murder.

Daniel stabs his victims like a seventh grader kicked out of debate club for not being good at debate. He rewrites “um, technically not all killing is murder” for twenty pages and the second time he does he literally uses the words “The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines murder as…” This is the entire thesis of his book, and it sounds like the world’s dumbest nun strangler representing himself in court. It’s not helpful to anyone. It’s something you pant at a mirror just after mistaking your family for wild dogs.

A big part of the problem is Daniel writes like most authors with no expertise, research skills, or curiosity– he has to imagine a reader who knows fucking nothing in order for his surface-level thoughts to be wisdom. For instance, as he’s inventing and re-inventing the advice “tell kids to stay away from strangers,” he finally lands on a way to help you understand it.

You know how you tell kids to not get in a van when a stranger offers them candy? It’s not because of the sugar content of the candy. It may seem so, but the candy isn’t the most dangerous part. You still believe it’s the candy; however, it’s not. You fool. You’re sitting there thinking, “Candy isn’t good for you, and that must be why they don’t take the candy,” and yet you’re wrong. Ah, to be you when I reveal to you and your child what the true danger is in this situation. Ah, what a world of safety awareness I have to show you!

Daniel E. Loeb is something I call a “buffet genius” named after the man next to you at buffets offering tips on how to outsmart capitalism. They’re not “stupid” exactly, but they mistake their recognition of the plainly obvious for insight. “Two opponents exchange blows until one of them is no longer able to” is such a hilariously infantile way to explain street fights. The secret of combat is to do more bonks until the enemies are asleep, which is a kind of not awakeness! It’s like Daniel is writing only for a being of pure innocence born into our world from an orb.

I clipped a lot of examples of Daniel describing a thing it’s impossible to not know dozens, sometimes hundreds of different ways, but let’s move on. There’s a section where Daniel encourages the reader to imagine what they would do in famous tragedies. He thinks it’s healthy to spend hours, every day, picturing how you would have solved 9/11 if you and your Nunchaka were on those planes. And then, maybe to inspire you, he just describes his favorite horrific crimes, one after another, for an entire chapter. Don’t read this clipping, I only included it for anyone concerned I was exaggerating.

I want to be clear that this man asking us to relive these atrocities every day in our imagination never offers any solutions or advice. All that Rambo meditation, and he never came up with a single usable idea. I would almost respect a martial artist who wrote a book on which moves he would have used against the Holocaust. But no: Daniel E. Loeb wrote an entire chapter on stopping school shootings with karate and he left out the stopping and the karate. Maybe this helps you protect your Christian family, but it is literally a dumb man reading us the Wikipedia entries for famous massacres and nothing else.

One of Daniel’s first actionable pieces of advice is to escape an attack by getting punched in the face. Maybe you’re immune to punches? If so, it could really deescalate things. Daniel’s theory that punches cause no harm and are easily ignored seem to be based on his own punches, shown here:

As Daniel explains, The Reverse Punch is like a normal punch, but hits with the power of a punch and the speed of a punch. I think even the most casual of combat sport hobbyists would have some notes on Daniel’s form and his decision to drop both hands in a street fight, but let’s not split hairs. This punch is easily powerful enough for a tarot card reader to win an imaginary battle. But what if he was fighting a 9/11 one foot further away? In that case, you need:

As Daniel explains, Lunge Punch is pretty basic and not very practical in a fight. He doesn’t have much more of a point than that, and it’s weird he taught it to us. Let’s move on to some kicks.

Daniel Roundhouse-kicks like he’s trying not to tear his hernia stitches. This is how an elderly man unsticks a ball from his leg in an antique store. This is how you would paint a sunset if a vacuum cleaner ate your hands and left foot. You could casually kidnap Daniel’s entire family before you noticed he was hitting you with Roundhouse-kicks. Daniel says you can deliver this kick from a jump, but if you perform this movement in the air it’s Sharp-tailed Grouse for “Fertile suitors: ovulation, ovulation.”

We’ve been done with the Christian stuff for a while, by the way. The book is now a beginner’s survey of all basic martial arts. Unless Daniel thinks fencing etiquette is an important part of killing the wild dogs invading your Christian home? It might be, this isn’t my area of expertise. I know where I’m from a licensed fencer can poke any home intruder with an epee salutelessly after an audible en garde, but it’s probably different in every county.

Daniel’s bio claims he is “a Black Belt in Jujitsu,” which he probably hopes you’ll misread as a “black belt in jiu-jitsu.” You might know this, but one is a very skilled master of grappling and the other one teaches wrist locks to small town cops in the 1960s. Daniel shares some of his powerful fighting arts like the Groin Come-along, where you sacrifice your arm to touch a stranger’s penis. Again, he fully admits this sucks, and it’s weird he taught it to us. Speaking of weird, this would be a strange spot to explain the Geneva Convention rules concerning poisoned weapons and prison camps. And yet:

I think this was to help us understand our rights and limitations as sword-wielding homeowners, but I doubt saying any of these words will make the dead body on your porch less suspicious. “Officer, I know my rights, and by the rules of engagement, I cannot be held accountable for what happens to a POW during an escape attempt! Unless my knives are poisoned, all Uber Eats drivers are legitimate targets!” This section feels like it’s two paragraphs away from complaining about the tyranny of age of consent laws. Let’s skip ahead to some more karate moves.

Oh hell yeah. Daniel included this move just in case his readers have never seen a single movie.

If you’d like to turn The Reverse Punch into a Lethal Strike, you simply open up your fist and punch with your fingers. This is going to sound crazy, but I’m starting to think the guy telling us to take punches with our face and shatter our fingers against skulls might not know what he’s doing. Is his goal to turn himself into shrapnel and trust Jesus to guide it into his enemy’s weak spots? His Christian family will cheer, “Father, your karate has saved us from the first fist fight you’ve ever been in! Father? Father? Father? Father?”

In this section, Daniel also teaches the Edge-of-Hand Strike, or what “non martial artists” would refer to as a “chop.” Which is a little embarrassing since this section is called Chops and Lethal Strikes. Anyway, sweet fucking move, Daniel. I’ll use this if my family is ever confronted by a group of first graders demanding a game of Kim Possible. Now let’s learn how to incorporate a “knife” into our “karate chop,” for a move I imagine a non martial artist might call “Some-Kind of Knife Chop.”

Daniel insists this is not a karate chop with a knife. Don’t call it that. If you are a Non-Denominational Christian Martial Artist this is an “Edge-of-Hand Strike (With Knife)” or, if you must, a “Knife Hand Strike.” If you speak Knife Fighting, the terminology you’re used to is “a slash,” but in Christian Martial Arts, “The Slash” is actually not a slash, but a karate chop with a rifle:

Listen, I know all these terms are complicated, but it’s easy if you remember the Two H’s of Christian Martial Arts: 1) Hi. 2) Hit them with your weapon like you’re an ape seeing it for the first time. Let’s move on to ways you can use these moves to disable an opponent under the watchful eyes of God.

I don’t have anything to add to that. Attacking the Muscular, Respiratory, Cardiovascular, Nervous, or Eyeball Systems is pretty good advice. Daniel gets pretty technical here, but he may be right that if you remove your enemy’s eyes, they will have difficulty seeing you, making their attacks less accurate, which in turn makes them less likely to injure you, a type of medical harm, or as it’s known in the chop community, “Karate-harm.” Hey, have you heard of Head? Let me show you the Head section in its entirety.

The head is a favorite of bullets and knives and finds itself home to some of the top face and brain parts. Christians, you may know this as the Jesus-Balloon, but the basic rules remain the same: one hat at a time, and feed it mice, three a day. The Head is immune to punches, it is immune to punches.

You might remember Fingers from Chops and Lethal Strikes when you used them to Finger-drive your enemy in the Head (see section Head). What you may not have considered is how the fingers of others break very easily, which can reduce the effectiveness of their Fingerquarters of-Operation, or what non martial artists call “hand.” Now let’s talk about some of the karate targets that don’t work.

Testicles. We’ve all heard of them, and how effective they can be as a target for punchers and drainers. But Daniel has discovered the testicles, or “Testicles” in Christian Martial Arts, are unaffected by kicks unless he’s targeting a groin in very tight or no pants. This was a shocking take on Testicle attacks until I remembered Daniel’s Roundhouse-kick.

Yeah, if that kick hits a cushion of air contained in loose-fitting jeans, it gets deflected right off. Daniel’s Roundhouse-kick is how you smooth the fondant on a fancy cake. Which brings us into the very next section where Daniel is a real expert: What does not work. Some it may sound familiar.

After many maneuvers dedicated to poking our opponent in the eyes with Fingers (see Fingers), Daniel informs us that poking people in the eyes with Fingers doesn’t work. Knives and bullets work, though; because scrambling the brain with knives and bullets is an effective attack. Sorry if this is getting complicated. Hey, remember Testicles (see Testicles)? Don’t bother kicking those unless your enemy’s pants are real tight.

So now you know how to chop, knife chop, and gun chop and how to keep all those attacks away from the enemy dick. But what do you do if they have you at gunpoint? I’m glad you asked, because Daniel’s plan for this rules:

Just fucking charge! And after you get to him, kill him! If you’re shot, you should still be able to find time to kill them before you die. Plus, most police officers miss 80% of the time during a firefight, so there’s some of a 20% chance you won’t get shot at all. Oh, I guess you’re charging and killing a cop in this scenario.

Daniel cites this “cops miss 80% of the time” statistic a few times, but that’s a worrisome amount of loose bullets flying around and I couldn’t find his source. I Googled “police 80%” and got nothing. Maybe Daniel is exaggerating? I’ll cut the number in half and Google “police 40%” to see if ma– oh. Oh no, this statistic is even more troubling.

Daniel, the Jewish horoscope wizard, forgot about the Christian part of his home self-defense book about 200 pages ago, but I haven’t. So let’s arm up with some of Christ’s favorite weapons.

Maglites are flashlights that are heavy, but they’re also flashlights. I’m not sure what else you could say about Maglites other than exactly the same thing a couple more times, so that’s what Daniel does.

Most people writing a comprehensive guide on imprisoning and killing burglars try to keep the tone light, and Daniel is no exception. It’s nunchucks time.

Like he did with Lunge Punch, Groin Come-along, Testicle attacks, and Testicle attacks, Daniel warns us the Nunchaka is an ineffective weapon. But he also mentions it’s both a fun weapon and a fun weapon, so he spends three pages talking about all the rad ways you can spin them. It’s awesome. If you get the opportunity, it definitely seems worth the loss of a few family members to wild dogs, known to non martial artists as a type of Karate-horse which can also be used as a flashlight and acts similar to a Flashlight. Head and Fingers, everyone. Head.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Daniel Sloane, who is several Karate-horses in a trenchcoat enacting an elaborate kibble heist.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: PETA’s Cage Fight

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Best of 2023 – Seanbaby

In 2023 Seanbaby opened the doors to the vast library of cursed media he spent a lifetime collecting, and destroyed most of a city with the shockwave. It was exactly the scene where they shut down the Containment Unit in Ghostbusters, but instead of ghosts it’s books about karate magic and bad sex.

Fucking Day: How to Date a Jamaican Man

He hasn’t quite proven it yet, but in this weirdly specific book about dating Jamaican men, probably just one Jamaican man who is terrible at sex and whose mother disapproves of filthy American panties, something feels a little bit off. Could it be… the author… is an oblivious white woman who got laid one time on vacation and made it her entire identity? That’s probably it. And the filthy panties thing. That’s weird, too.

Punching Day: PUNCHES

W. Hock Hochheim wrote an unparalleled police adventure, and he called it simply PUNCHES. If you don’t spell it with all caps, a fat Dallas cop stands on your neck until the city has to pay your family 8 million dollars.

Punching Day: 1001 Street Fighting Secrets

Martial arts participant Sammy Franco promises 1001 secrets to help you win a street fight. Does he have 1001? Absolutely not. Does he have 101? Still no. Does he have one meaningful secret that will help you just survive a street fight? Yes. It’s “read the newspaper.” It’ll save your life!

Punching Day: The Mr. T Game

When we started this website we had one simple rule: each article should cover a piece of real media that feels wrong in some indefinable way, and try to define that way. It’s a rule we broke almost immediately, and we were right to do so. If we hadn’t, Seanbaby would never have invented his own Mr. T Board Game, featuring everybody’s favorite inspirational bouncer and lots of dead, dead teens.

Upsetting Day: That Bank Teller from Dragged Across Concrete

In the movie Dragged Across Concrete, there is another movie. This other movie is 11 minutes long, it features none of the characters from Dragged Across Concrete. This movie exists to ask one simple question: Is there such a thing as too much love for a baby? The answer is yes. Well, actually the answer is an exploding skull, but it’s kind of a metaphorical yes.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Diesel 🌭

In the 1990s, anime was a mere rumor whispered of in the basements of hobby shops. Past the Magic cards and pogs lay a secret, semi-forbidden world of “Japanimation” or animĂ©, a realm of animation beyond what our minds reared on the thin gruel of Real Monsters and Dougs could possibly conceive. It’s hard to imagine, if all you’ve ever known is a world in which it’s considered perfectly acceptable for, say, a high-powered businesswoman or a busy househusband to proclaim their love for a bosomy anime protagonist, but there was a time when anime was more or less underground in these United States — quite literally, in the case of the aforementioned anime basement that was whispered of at my school in the same hushed tones as the copy of Wild Things that someone’s divorced father let them rent from the video store. Seriously, they used to run ads on late-night TV with the tagline “This ain’t no Mickey Mouse!”

Anime had a mysterious allure to it in those days, and not just because it was hard to access. Putting aside the Pokemons and Sailors Moon which trickled over to Western channels, it was widely understood that anime was grown up stuff — the domain of older brothers with subscriptions to Wizard Magazine who were almost old enough to grow facial hair. Rumors circulated around the playground about Japanese cartoons where people got cut in half, where naked breasts were on full display, and where tentacles quested into orifices traditionally considered the preserve of married heterosexual couples.

This is the context in which comic artist Joe Weltjens first discovered the manga-turned anime called JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure. Coming across a fan-subtitled videotape, as was the style at the time, Weltjens’ encounter with the beautiful creation of Hirohiko Araki would blossom into that most sincere form of flattery, imitation, after he attempted and failed to get the rights to bring the series to the west. “To hell with it,” Weltjens must have thought, “I’ll make my own anime! With Star Wars references! And I’ll call it Diesel, after the most popular brand of jeans on the market today, in 1997!”

For the uninitiated, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure is a manga series that’s been running more or less continuously since 1987. Trying to describe the plot is sort of a challenge, but here’s my best shot: it’s about a Victorian orphan with daddy issues named after metal legend Ronnie James Dio becoming the world’s sexiest gay vampire thanks to an ancient Aztec mask and taking revenge on his adoptive family in various ways over the course of several decades. The series takes its name from the protagonist of the first part: Jonathan Joestar. From then on, every protagonist had a name that followed the same scheme: JOseph JOestar, JOtaro KuJO, and so on.

JoJo started out as a pretty typical action-adventure story, with a serious and noble protagonist learning mystical martial arts secrets from a flamboyant Italian man and using them to harmlessly punch frogs, but Araki eventually realized that his true passions were prog rock and making his increasingly slutty, twinky lead characters dress in more and more absurd couture, have child-like arguments about the interactions between their superpowers, and drink piss.

So what does Joe Weltjens’ Diesel take from all that? Well, not much. Basically all it borrows is the core concept of “Stands.” In JoJo, Stands are weaponized tulpas. They’re called Stands because they “stand” beside you, except for all of the many, many instances in which they don’t because they’re your hair, a sword, or an entire cruise liner. The prototypical Stand is a humanoid figure that engages in fighting on the part of the character who wields it, making them basically a means of showing fights with superpowers in more interesting ways than characters just shooting lasers out of their eyes or whatever.

You can’t really blame Weltjens for that, though. The single issue of Diesel he produced adapts an encounter from late in the third part of JoJo called Stardust Crusaders, the only part of the manga that had been committed to animation in the ’90s and thus probably all that he had exposure to back then. While things do start to get weird in part three as Araki starts to explore the themes he would build on throughout the series — there’s an extended magical fight between a dog and a bird, a man named Vanilla Ice cuts off his own head, two of the protagonists get their dicks stuck together with magnets, and so on — it’s still in many ways a pretty straightforward adventure story.

Anyway, Diesel opens on an enormous, gaudy mansion complete with golden fountains spraying water into an oddly photorealistic-looking pool that seems to clash with the rest of the art. You can really feel the frustration in this mess. It’s how a hungover freshman would just barely not get an F in a mixed media class. It might as well say, “Whatever. Drawing fountains fucking sucks.”

Inside the mansion, a man named Mr. Botha (deez nuts) sits at the end of a preposterously long table drinking wine like Dracula when suddenly, a gigantic monster that looks like the love child of the Hulk and a Dragon Ball Z character bursts through the door, killing two goons and swiftly dematerializing behind its Stand user. This is the introduction of our protagonist, Tom Diesel — yes, Thomas Diesel is his god-given name — and his Stand, “Meta Hammer.”

And sure, having your lead character bust into the villain’s lair and effortlessly dispatch his henchmen is a decent way of getting the reader to think he’s a real cool guy, but can we talk about his character design? Tom Diesel looks like a loaf of Wonder Bread was granted his wish to be a man.

He’s literally a nondescript blonde white guy wearing a t-shirt, pants, and a featureless jacket. The human eye is incapable of focusing on him, sliding off in search of anything of visual interest to linger on. This man could walk right out of a store with a TV and your statement to the police would be, “Something shapelike took it, it might have had legs.” In contrast, look at the character Tom’s based on in JoJo, Jotaro Kujo.

Is his hat part of his hair? Are those chains part of the standard school uniform? Why does he look like a thirty-year-old bodybuilder instead of a 17-year-old high school student? Who knows, but at least his design raises questions, unlike Tom’s.

Ah, but maybe Tom is meant to be pretty plain so the real focus is on his Stand? Again, though, Meta Hammer looks like someone put Vegeta’s hair on the Hulk and changed the color of his skin. Look, I’ll prove it.

And compare Meta Hammer to Star Platinum, the Stand it’s based on. It’s still just a weird guy at its core, but it at least has some other stuff going on.

Regardless, as you might expect, Mr. Botha is displeased by the intrusion of the world’s most present white man and his blue ghost warrior, but we’re not going to get any resolution, because we’re immediately thrust back in time three months. We get a flashback between a Mr. Evans and Mr. Botha in which Weltjens temporarily forgets how speech bubbles work.

Then Mr. Evans gets cut in half by Mr. Botha’s mysterious powers and lands in the pool with an expression that looks less like one of utter agony and more like an ape watching a card trick.

Now we’re in England. Gosh, we’re really just jumping all over time and space, huh? Tom Diesel returns home to see his adoptive sister May and is attacked by an overzealous guy with an electric Stand before she’s able to calm things down with the power of her own Stand, Mrs. Tits.

This is a good time to bring up one of the weirdest things about Diesel — the art. It’s all just slightly off in that “How to Draw Japanimation” kind of way. You remember those books you’d find at Borders in the ’90s seemingly put together by a guy who’d seen half an episode of Ranma 1/2? It’s like that, only Weltjens can’t seem to fully commit to the bit. Most of the time, characters’ faces look like Platonic ’90s comics guys — the kind of faces you’d see in a good American book like Bloodstrike or Ultraforce. But every once in a while, they’re struck with Weeb’s Syndrome, a condition which manifests in muscle spasms that radically alter the shape and placement of your facial features. Also they sometimes get little storm clouds over their heads. That’s an anime thing, right? Maybe?

Well, Tom finds out that Mr. Evans was killed by Mr. Botha (deez cheeks) and wants revenge. Before that can happen, though, the gang is attacked by… wait for it… an:

This is probably the most famous panel in Diesel. Tom Diesel’s American-ass face hollering about an enemy Stand perfectly encapsulates the futility of creating an Americanized JoJo. Like the cursed attempts to develop an American Peep Show, it was never meant to be, and transplanting the concepts and terms from their home culture to that of the United States simply makes everyone involved seem like howling maniacs.

That said, the focus on that particular panel has allowed the utter madness surrounding it slip into obscurity. I mean, look at this.

That’s a character getting his head knocked off by animated blood, which then sends his noggin flying in a comical arc before it finally comes to rest next to his corpse. Also, credit where credit’s due: this is a semi-original idea from Weltjens. In the original manga, the gang fights a similar blind Stand user who attacks from a hidden location and tracks via sound, but he controls water rather than blood.

Well, Tom does the big damn hero shtick, sending his friends away so he can take on the enemy mano-a-blue Hulko. He even sort-of flies by having his Stand leap into the air and carry him, making him look like a child getting dragged out of a candy store. This is supposed to be our main character and he looks like an NPC in a game called Hulk League Humanball.

Because the guy is hiding like a dirty blind coward, Tom uses his dog to locate him. And here, I have to admit that Diesel actually gets something right about JoJo — there’s a running joke that Araki has a difficult time drawing dogs, and that, perhaps as a result, he takes his frustration out on them in his narratives whenever he gets the chance. If a dog or other small animal shows up in JoJo, it’s probably about to explode. And sure enough, when Tom sends his dog Chewbacca to root out his enemy in the woods, the dog gets its fucking throat slashed.

Probably not the kind of detail I’d commit to including in my adaptation, but to be fair I’ve never really had to draw a dog for work before. Maybe it really makes you hate them.

Before Tom can get any information out of his foe, the guy is stabbed by another Stand belonging to a man standing perfectly straight on a tree branch like a really cool dude. He’s named Chibot, I guess, and he tells Tom he’s passed the first test. Presumably the first test was exploding your beloved childhood dog? Or maybe it was having a blind man die in your arms from samurai sword-inflicted wounds. Who knows, and who cares. This is a half-finished knockoff by someone who screwed up every ingredient except the dog murder.

Possibly the funniest detail in this entire comic is that on the very last page where the publisher had the temerity to include the line “No similarity to any character(s) and/or place(s) is intended, and any similarity is purely coincidental.” Of course this is just a boilerplate “don’t sue us” message included in pretty much any work of fiction, but in this case it’s absurd. It’d be like making a comic based on Star Wars, changing the main character’s name to Doug Petrol and giving him a stupid jacket, but still talking about the Force all the time.

And so ends the first and only issue of Diesel, a comic created because an artist couldn’t consummate his love for a Japanese manga and so resorted to satisfaction through his own hand. It’s beautiful, in a way. It was the kind of thing that could only really happen in the late ’90s, in that brief period after anime began to make its way to the west but before it became a mass culture phenomenon, when American teens were just beginning to swoon over bishonen and have arguments about whether Goku or Superman were stronger. (Neither: it’s Mr. Botha. (deez dicks (Mr. Botha has two dicks.)))

One last thing. Throughout all of this, I haven’t mentioned the single weirdest thing about Diesel. We already know the creator is named Joe Weltjens. But “Joe’s” full Christian name is actually Jochen. JOchen “JOe” Weltjens. That’s right: he is, himself, a JoJo, and I wish him luck on whatever bizarre adventure he’s on right now.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: EveryZig, whose stand is Kajagoogoo, a bashful chaise lounge that turns panties into scorpions.

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PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Ultimate Self Defense Championship

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Punching Day: G Gundam 🌭

One question haunts a comedy/satire/penis simile career: What’s your solution?

“Where’s your PMC? Constellis does the best they can. They changed the name and everything. Should they leave bullets lying there, to rot? That’s waste on a dying planet. Bullying Erik Prince won’t make you feel better about yourself. If mass murder’s so wrong, let’s see your plan. Most nuclear states skipped the UN this year.”

Easy. Replace orphan-seeking missiles with robot Bloodsport. Why do I even have to type it? Isn’t Mecha Kombat what we’ve struggled for since the tar pits? Don’t you want to armbar your way to sane climate policy? Haven’t you seen Mobile Fighter G Gundam?

I shouldn’t assume. Few of us are born saved. We stumble into Police Story reruns when our souls are ready.

G Gundam is a Gundam spinoff, the way pelicans are spinoffs of velociraptors. A few things changed, and mentioning the connection makes your worst neighbors livid. Imagine The Guns of August spinning off into GI Joe, and you’re halfway there. But the Joes keep WW1 aesthetics, scope, and trauma. And everyone’s Snake Eyes. Life’s weird.

I should define terms, since many prefer live knee strikes. Which I respect: stuntmen need food, and streaming’s only upside is underwriting one perfect The Raid knockoff per year.

Gundam isn’t a typo: it’s one of the longest and most merchandised sci-fi franchises anywhere. The secret sauce? The edge that outlived Monster Rancher and two economic boom-bust cycles?

War crimes.

Game of Thrones made its money acknowledging sex, and Gundam struck gold acknowledging what happens after CNN cuts to ads. Here’s how the comic remake sets the tone. Chapter 1, Volume 1.

The classic colony drop. Shooting cities into cities, making trading lives literal. Perhaps the last sci-fi nightmare that hasn’t become real why did I type that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know which emirate we’ve spiked Queens into, but I hope the survivors forgive me.

Oh, and lots of robots. People dig the robots. If a robot has fins and a five-digit kill count, it’s a Gundam.

Some would call Gundam self-serious. They’re right, but I’ll argue in bad faith for hours before admitting it. I openly love rants on human cruelty between action figure swordfights. Combining sour cream and synthetic onion probably sounded odd the first time, and now that’s half my body weight.

This makes G Gundam’s existence weird, dumb, and wonderful. Like learning the mold in your trash cures everything.

The premise: after bombing Earth to death, humanity rebuilds in space. Much more importantly, every nation builds a Jiujitsu-powered robot. Earth’s carcass becomes the octagon for culturally insensitive Jaegers, and the winner runs space for four years. They’ve run this tournament 12 times, without one security council veto.

Paradise.

I’m not fucking with you. San Marino is ten good fights away from galactic domination. If you think the Olympics have a steroid problem, imagine what DARPA would inject into Jon Jones. Or what Jon Jones would inject into Jon Jones.

There are 49 episodes of Street Fighter worldbuilding, so we find out. Neo America sends a walking flag piloted by an asshole boxer.

I can’t lie: that screenshot fills my soul. The national virus is in me. His mechanic’s probably pre-Gawker Hulk Hogan. There’s even a full cheer squad.

As for our sparring partner, Neo Russia press-gangs a giant prisoner. This clown show predicted the Wagner Group. His robot swings a ball and chain, so even winning is a reminder of confinement.

He’s tailed by a mobile oppression squad, led by Subjugation Spice.

Likely insulting, so I’ll argue in bad faith that it recalls Crime and Punishment. Be warned: I don’t have to be right to win. Academia’s just describing what you want to be true.

I’ll save France and England for the episode recap. They’re special caricatures. Even moreso than China’s Dragon Gundam, piloted by a spunky Shaolin Monk.

After Shinji, putting a terrified child in your robot sounds like a bad idea. But it’s brilliant long-term thinking. When this kid hits twenty, he’ll be unbeatable. China might rule space longer than Earth.

You know, if he lives.

Meanwhile, Mexico has a gaffe.

The U.S. run calls that Spike Gundam. The original calls it Tequila Gundam. A fact I recall wherever I’ve had a rough day. Did Tequila Gundam defeat Jagermeister Gundam to qualify? No. Germany hired a fucking ninja.

With a ninjabot.

After all the broad strokes in G Gundam, it’s nice to see a tribute to Bavarian Ninjitsu. I assume it’s still mostly arson. German fans lucked out: the creators cared just enough to skip food and the 1940s, and played their ninja card instead. Full marks.

I’m not cherry-picking a one-off. This is a key character. There are spoilers about Berlin’s shadow warrior, because G Gundam’s kitsch isn’t light or shy. I went through this series hoping, praying for Ganja Gundam to turn up. Or, if the writers knew the island a little better, Workaholic Gundam, Crushing Poverty Gundam, or Christian Fundamentalism Gundam. No luck.

But I did learn that love, unhinged rage, and egotism all unlock limit breaks. Sometimes the same move! Don’t question it, just love it.

Sage wisdom.

G Gundam’s high concept taps a simple truth: it’d be nice for management to punch it out and leave the rest of us alone. When Putin sparring mediocre actors went viral, I thought “Challenge accepted, but in space.” When we sprinted to/from Afghanistan, I learned we could replace the entire D.O.D. with Impact! midcarders and lose nothing. When Bibi—

But—

Fair.

My broad strokes tend to be more confusing than knowing nothing. Let’s tour an episode.

Episode nine is Shakespearean: obvious mistakes followed by violence. It cold opens on Rose Gundam, a fan favorite, in battle.

A classier grade of killing machine, even with the Napoleon hat. Sure, other Gundams win fights, in a world where that decides whether you’re in a theocracy, dance-based caste system, or Caligula sequel. But you can greet dates in Rose Gundam. Neo France put aesthetics first, a plan just crazy enough to not work even a little.

It’s over in the first minute.

There’s no WW2 punchline coming. See: Kabul. Glass houses and all that.

The beating’s from Neo England, so this scene sparked at least one real-life fistfight. Sadly, that’s the spiciest historical rivalry G Gundam touches. We never get a match between Seoul LLC and The People’s Invincible True Korea. Since G Gundam’s insane, I’ll note that I made those two up.

Our winner looks like an RRR propaganda poster, by either side. I like hyperbole, but check out his portrait:

And matching robot:

That’s Gentle Chapman piloting John Bull Gundam. I thought I dreamed those names, but they’re unchanged 22 years later. Check your borders: reading this means they’ve been redrawn as a nice, clean square.

Gentle celebrates the traditional way: turning up. He gambles with the rest of the House of Lords, until he notices someone out of place.

This defrosted Neanderthal is Japan’s fighter, Domon Kasshu. The only role model I needed.

G Gundam doesn’t spare Japan a broad brush, which softens everything but Tequila Gundam. Domon is a screaming, sword-brandishing karate lunatic, and I love him the way most people love dogs. Only Domon’s never chased me across Brooklyn Bridge Park, or barked for six hours while I tried to mock puppets. Domon 2. Dogs: 0.

The Casino Royale schtick is cut short by Domon being a goddamn nutcase.

Domon likes fighting the way comedians like similes. He isn’t always fighting, in the way not all similes use like or as. But it’s always on his mind, akin to me and frosted food. The prompt said “three-dimensional protagonist,” and the studio wrote “fist” twice.

Surprisingly, he grows. Beyond “war sucks, kicks rule,” G Gundam’s secondary point is “calm the fuck down, Domon.” Uppercuts can only solve 98% of problems. For the remaining two, he panics. For martial arts anime, that’s a pacifist tract.

This is a “cool your shit” episode. Gentle Chapman isn’t so chap. Fuck. Isn’t so man. God damn it. Is a fellow nutcase. He’s doping to prolong his career. Imagine an elderly shit I already used Jon Jones. You can’t mock the same athlete twice. The world has too many elevators.

Imagine any cyclist. Gentle’s revived Tour de France level doping.

It’s not just padding asterisk records. Chapman’s a three-time champion, and remains determined to die like a proper gentleman: screaming in an exploding tin can plummeting towards civilization’s ruins. I’d admire him if he hadn’t brought the British Empire to the stars. That’s like bringing the measles to the information age. Or Tammany Hall to the information age. Or the Crusades–

Moving along: Rose Gundam’s pilot brings a warning. Domon ignores it. Chapman bitterly condemns time, hero worship, and a warrior’s inevitable grave. Domon ignores it. Domon’s read the beat board, and he’s hyped for some sanctioned elder abuse.

Later, Chapman’s loving wife Lasswoman defends the fallen hero’s suicide run.

Lasswoman secretly runs the non-drug half of England’s cheating, because she believes in Gentle. Or doesn’t want Neo Mauritania in charge. Or knows the rules are bullshit. Either way, Chapman thinks he’s only doping. A real ride or die helps you ride and die.

Despite our hero’s best efforts, the stakes are set: can Gentle Chapman be battered back onto the path of honor? Is chivalry stronger than anger over his stupid name? Can a 20-year old red belt beat a septuagenarian tweaker?

Actually, no.

Cheating rules. A fog machine and some crank turn Chapman into a god.

It’s the Perry Expedition all over again: swords and reason are out, guns and uppers are in. From now on, I’m cheating all the time. Are there drugs for dick jokes? Comedy Cialis? I’d say Jim Beam, but happy hour’s worse for my jokes than my u-turns.

For mechs, inhaling space Addies like Reese’s Cups totally works. Skittles are the stock reference, but I’ve never left peanut butter cups with my dignity. The champion emeritus would sell his life for victory, and that’s how I feel about sugar. Bury me with my chocolate.

Tripping balls on kids’ television, Chapman emits pure Metal Gear Rising nonsense. Some selections:

Right, that last one. He totally overdoses, and goads Domon into a Viking graduation.

Gentle lives, and accepts his descent from champion to Ric Flair non-retirement. PEDs are for livers in their prime, and there’s no other way out of this premise on afterschool television. It’s a nice moment, I just have Yahtzee’s tick where everything sounds like a diss, and greed pillages what I love.

The point isn’t pill addiction, but punch addiction. Ageless ambition cost Chapman his motor skills. Don’t chase the past, unless you want to conquer Earth three times, live in a mansion, travel the universe, and go out in a blaze of violent glory with your supervillain wife.

Hmm.

I’m with Lasswoman. And I’d take an angel dust suppository to keep most leaders off the Golden Throne, including mine. Nothing’s stopping MBS VIII from cloning Brock Lesnar. I wish I could describe the damage one narcissist can do in four years, but Jiminy’s on my fucking ass.

In any case, G Gundam distracted me from some other stuff in 2002. Not sure why I’m on it now. Has anyone seen my medicine?