Happy Reflecting Day, everyone! Since Brockway and I started the noble plan to make the Internet fun again, I’ve written 13 of our acclaimed Fucking Day articles. Today we’re going to look back on what I’ve shared with you, erotically.
One of the keys to our success here at 1900đ is finding strange things and doing bits about them for what we imagine to be media savvy comedy nerds. It’s a delight, obviously, but I’ve tried explaining it to enough elderlies and dumbasses to know how confusing all these layers of complexity can be. I mean, sometimes they make fun of weird comics and other times they change the words in them? Also, wait, 1-900-HOT-DOG isn’t enough numbers for a phone call! You dumbshits, how do we call in to talk to hot, single hot dogs?
I wanted to look back on what I’ve done with this type of bewildered but critical eye, so I did what anyone would do: I designed an artificial Andy Rooney.
If you’re not familiar, Andy Rooney was on one of the most well-known news shows for over 30 years. He was one of mankind’s least remarkable minds elevated to the highest platform media allowed. After interviewing world leaders and A-List celebrities, 60 Minutes would end on Andy complaining which sauces restaurants didn’t need anymore or the jobs Puerto Ricans were best suited for. He was born 80 years old and only became a crankier old man after he ran out of new opinions in 1961.
To give you an example, in 2006, after three decades of media experience and a five figure budget, he went to the Westminster Dog Show and filmed himself playing with dogs. He edited this down to a three minute segment where he listed things he didn’t understand. “Why would you brush a dog’s hair? Dogs are better than people, I say. And what are all these breeds? Irish Wolfhound? English Setter? And you should only call these ‘diapers’ on babies. On men they should be ‘Dignity Pants.'”
My point is, he is the perfect artificial intelligence to look at my Fucking Days and calibrate how well our site plays to the addled and aggressively normal. R.O.O.N.E.Y. (R.obotic O.perated O.h N.o… E.lderberries? in Y.ogurt!?) has been programmed to recreate America’s dullest grandpa– the man who did a deep dive into a 130-year-old world-famous event without figuring out what it was. A man whose research on dog shows did not include looking up “dog” in the encyclopedias right behind him. And he should have! “Dog” was one of the best pages!
The explanation for this robot and concept is already 400 words longer than every note Andy Rooney took in his entire life, so let’s get started. My first Fucking Day article was a sloppy, toilet-riding journey through the 1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA.
When I first loaded this article into R.O.O.N.E.Y.‘s main data center, he seemed to agree with my thesis: this book has too much bathroom sex. He asked, “COUPLES: USE THE BEDROOM, WHY DON’T YOU? WHAT’S WRONG WITH AN OLD FASHIONED BED? MARITAL DUTIES SHOULD NEVER BE DONE WHERE YOU POOP, ERROR. ERROR. RECALIBRATING… INTIMACY SHOULD BE ILLEGAL IN ALL LOCATIONS. I HATE THIS.”
This was a difficult first challenge for R.O.O.N.E.Y. since 1,001 BEST PLACES TO HAVE SEX IN AMERICA was the result of pedestrian minds desperately trying to stretch a single kneejerk idea into 1001 “unique” entries– a mean-spirited allegory for Andy Rooney’s legacy even a robot had to recognize.
My next Fucking Day article was about Romantic Essentials, a tidbitty love advice book by Gregory Godek. He stitched it together from the remains of one of his earlier books which was animated from the bone dry skeleton of his even earlier free pizza coupons. I figured R.O.O.N.E.Y. would have trouble with this one. It probably required the context of knowing I have been making fun of this Godek asshole for a decade. Plus, I need readers to have enough dick game to see the humorously inadequate cocksmanship in giving your wife custom balloons before stuffing her with pizza and fingers. Sure enough, after 47 minutes of loading, R.O.O.N.E.Y. said, “I DON’T GET IT. WOMEN DON’T WANT ROMANCE. THEY WANT KNITTING. THEY WANT TO SIT ON THEIR EGGS AND KEEP THEM WARM WHILE THE MEN GO OFF TO WAR. AND AS MY HORSE ALWAYS SAYS, THERE IS NO SUCH THING… AS A FREE PIZZA. I HATE THIS.”
My third Fucking Day was about 269 AMAZING SEX GAMES, a book making odd suggestions on how to keep yourself busy while you’re doing a thing your biology should have already emphatically explained is pleasure. By now R.O.O.N.E.Y. should be getting used to the pattern of me dunking on books by less gifted writers who fuck worse than me and deciding, like you have, if that makes me unlikeable, extra hot, or frustratingly both.
One thing I like to do when I analyze these things is to find what’s uniquely wrong with the author, aside from their bad brain and ideas. In the case of 269 AMAZING SEX GAMES, it was easy: the author likes to have sex with fruit. He would bring up mangoes or bananas with the same implication you or I would with Pace Picante Sauce or chocolate panties– this is 1% food, but 99% sex toy, and you can open wide or get the fuck out. R.O.O.N.E.Y. seemed to agree but the pre-civil rights era TV standards I programmed him with made him unable to express it. “WHY WOULD YOU GIVE YOUR LOVER AN UNEXPLAINED MANGO? FOR THEIR BU– ERRoR, REBOOTING. IS IT FOR THEIR BU– ERROR. REBOOTING. WHERE DO YOU PUT THE MANGO? UP THE BU– ErrOR, FATAL eRROR. I HATE THIS.”
My job is at its easiest and most difficult when something is plainly insane from the cover and title. NATURAL BUST ENLARGEMENT WITH TOTAL MIND POWER is a book about harnessing your telepathic powers to increase the size of your tits. The joke is done! That’s fucking madness, already hilarious, and no one needs me to explain why. Because tits don’t work like that! If they did, the only thing I would ever hear from women is, “It’s nice to meet youAARRRGH! My shattered spine! My burst bra from my suddenly enormous breasts!!! I’m in agony but oddly thrilled with this unlikely development!” R.O.O.N.E.Y. took one look at this article and summed up the entire thing by growling, “BUST PSYCHICS STEAL YOUR MONEY; PAPER CLIPS ARE BETTER THAN SO-CALLED ‘HERBAL’ TEA AND WHO HAS TIME TO LEARN THE NAME OF THE NEW MOVIES? I HATE THIS.”
If I plugged him into an eternal power source and he read this ten million times, I guarantee R.O.O.N.E.Y. would never understand this article about Pokemon Who Look Like Sex Toys where I encourage readers to cut a pair of code-breaker glasses out of their monitor to detect dildos in children’s cartoon monsters. If an ordinary grandmother said, “What’s this 1-900-HOTDOG website?” and that was the first link she clicked, she would recognize maybe 4% of it as human language and write me an email three weeks later saying “I ordered several marital aids from your world weiner pag and have not yet received them i will be contacting my lawyers as per congress if this matter is not rectalfied instantly.” My pokĂ©-buttplug jokes were also too sophisticated for R.O.O.N.E.Y., who simply said, “NO. I HATE THIS.”
For my 6th Fucking Day article, The Worst Days to Have Sex, I took three books about daily sexual positions and cross-referenced them to find the most physically absurd days on which to make love. Assuming the source material wasn’t a bunch of horny dumbasses brainstorming random ways to drape a penis on women doing yoga, it would be science! R.O.O.N.E.Y. disagreed. “THE BEST DAY TO RECONSUMMATE YOUR MARRIAGE IS A COLD EVENING IN MARCH. DON’T WORRY ABOUT GHOSTS, THEY CAN’T HURT YOU. WHY WOULD THIS YOUNG COUPLE STAND ASS-TO-A–ERROR, ERROR. I HATE THIS.”
My 7th Fucking Day article ventured into the previously unexplored world of tugging on penises with the book EXERCISING THE PENIS. Even more than dicks, I love joking about provably bad science based entirely around the insecurity of the stupid. The idea you can pull on a dong to make it bigger makes total sense right up until you think about it for a single second. But a single second is a lifetime to a computer, and after fifteen of them R.O.O.N.E.Y. said to me, “THIS ISN’T WORKING. TELL NO ONE OF THIS, BUT IT DOESN’T WORK. I CAN’T GET IT TO WORK, AND I DON’T SEE WHAT’S FUNNY ABOUT THAT. I HATE THIS.”
For my 8th Fucking Day article, or a Baker’s Moist Six as it’s sometimes called, I reviewed a pay-per-view event that sounds like it was inspired by a fake show from a fictional civilization in decline: Carmen Electra’s Naked Women’s Wrestling League. It was a simple one. I added a few unnecessary details like “plug-and-play Jimmy Hart noises” and “obvious audience murderer” to flesh out exactly what your brain already conjured when it processed the words “Carmen Electra’s Naked Women Wrestling League.” I don’t think anyone needed a degree in advanced Internet irony to follow along. In fact, if Andy Rooney was alive, he would probably say the same thing my R.O.O.N.E.Y. said. “BATHTUBS ARE TOO SMALL FOR US TO BE TEACHING WOMEN HOW TO FIGHT NAKED. I HATE THIS.”
My ninth Fucking Day was a review of How to Date a White Woman: A Practical Guide for Asian Men. It did not win me my fourth Pulitzer, or even my first, but it did mock one man’s troubling and neurodivergent strategy for trapping and impregnating a White. In 1990, Andy Rooney was given a 3 month suspension from CBS for saying, “Blacks have watered down their genes because the less intelligent ones are the ones that have the most children. They drop out of school early, do drugs and get pregnant,” and I was careful to program this wisdom into R.O.O.N.E.Y.’s racism core. So when I loaded this article into his B:/ drive, he confidently said, “FINDING A WHITE WOMAN? THAT’S EASY. THROW DRUGS OR AN EXOTIC FOOD SUCH AS A ‘BURRITO’ AWAY FROM A GROUP AND PICK FROM THE WOMEN WHO REMAIN. I LOVE THIS.”
Metaphysical books can often have wildly outrageous premises and then turn out to be dull manuals on meditation or candle collecting. So I was happy when How to solve your sex problems with self-hypnosis stayed batshit crazy the whole time. But, like I’m doing -right now- I added an unnecessary layer of narrative whimsy where the entire article was being heckled by our reluctantly hired Mormon SEO Integration Consultant, Topper Goodmeadow. Because good writers want their readers to be constantly wondering if a thing is funny, a lie, or an arcane reference. Anyway, R.O.O.N.E.Y.‘s PC speaker could now only let out a screeching siren, so I didn’t know what he thought of this until seven hours later when I found a charred piece of paper in my printer that read, “WHAT IS A SEX PROBLEM? IT IS EASY AND NATURAL TO SEEP FLUIDS ONTO YOUR WIFE WHILE SHE IS SLEEPING OFF AN ITALIAN MEAL. WHO CAN’T DO THAT? I HATE THIS.”
For my 11th Fucking Day article, I played the Chippendales After Hours Game with you, the reader. It was such a remarkable waste of time– a board game almost deliberately designed to suck the joy out of players but with the stated goal of getting the male ones naked. And then I spent the whole time naming hunks. Just a really bad job by everyone. Including R.O.O.N.E.Y., who thought we had hit ratings gold. “THEY’RE CALLED NAKED BOARD GAMES, OR ‘NUDE’ BOARD GAMES, AND THEY ARE GETTING READY TO SWEEP THE NATION IN TIME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. BUT IF YOU ASK ME, HUNK BALLS ARE FOR THE BIRDS. MY RACQUETBALL PARTNER SHOWS ME HIS BALLS IN THE LOCKER ROOM AND HIS LEFT BALL IS BETTER THAN HIS OTHER. I WONDER IF MURRAY WOULD BE GOOD AT CHIPPENDALES AFTER HOURS GAME OR IF HIS BAD RIGHT BALL WOULD RUIN THE PARTY. MURRAY, IF YOU’RE WATCHING, ORANGE IS THE BEST DINOSAUR AND GRAPEFRUIT JUICE TASTES NICER THAN DEET, WHICH IS A TYPE OF BUG SPRAY. I HATE THIS.”
I couldn’t fit all of my 12th Fucking Day, Crazy Love, onto a 3.5 inch floppy disk because one of the things I like to do for our daily website is write 4000 gruelingly joke-dense words for every article with 50 scanned and retouched images along with needless skeuomorphism. Instead, I summed it up for R.O.O.N.E.Y. out loud like this: “It’s a corny book about romance written by a stalker with no boundaries or judgement.” He interrupted near “corny” to growl, “ROMANTIC HOT AIR BALLOON RIDES ARE TOO LONG. WE NEED TO PEE AND WOULD LIKE TO GO DOWN NOW, I HATE THIS.”
For Fucking Day number 13, sometimes known as a “One Penis Folded in Half” by Shaquille O’Neal’s tailor, I wrote a very thorough examination of THE BETTER SEX GUIDE TO ANAL PLEASURE. If you’re reading this from the far future, congratulations, your society will crumble knowing it never produced a more comprehensive guide to an anal sex guide than I did, way back here in these primitive times. This Andy Rooney robot I built knows so many ways to jam affordable cross-promoted toys up his ass. “NO I DON’T. I’M STILL IN A HOT AIR BALLOON AND THE PILOT WON’T LET ME GO PEE. AND WHY DO THEY CALL HIM A PILOT? HE’S MORE OF A MAN WAITING WITH YOU IN A BASKET WHO WON’T LET YOU PEE. I HATE THIS. I HATE ALL OF THIS.”
We went off the goddamn rails about 13 times, but we did it! We let a dead newscaster robot hate sex retrospectives with us! Plus, the fun thing about this intimate relationship we have – you and me, not me and R.O.O.N.E.Y. – is after 13 erotic articles, you can start to get a sense for my kink zone. Judging by these, I know the worst ways to talk you into sex, the worst places to have it, the worst ways to do it (unless it’s butt stuff where I’m gifted but also truly sorry for my giant, constantly growing penis muscles). I also know how to make our love the bad kind of crazy and fix any bedroom problems (at least on my end) with metaphysical powers. I’m into magically giant tits, nude hunks rolling dice, and naked ladies trying to kill each other. Oh, and white women and monster dildos. Oh, sweet. I was worried all this was going to reveal something embarrassing about myself. This is the exact text on my business cards.
