Category: UPSETTING DAY

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Girl Watcher 🌭

Today we’re talking about The Girl Watcher. It was a magazine about exactly what you think that ran from 1959 to 1959, and it will come as a great comfort to know its audience must now be tethered to a hydraulic water pump in order to maintain an erection.

The Girl Watcher wasn’t sure new readers would get its vibe, so the cover explained this magazine is “A GUIDE TO 👀 GIRL WATCHING.” And if you were still having trouble understanding what was going on, it also said, “Start a Girl Collection.” Hi, potential reader! We know you like checking out babes, and we already know your next question. The answer is no, they are not safe.

We’re going to read the first issue and this is how it opens:

“Humor” is too strong of a word for it, but the writers put in some effort to make their misdemeanor stalking sound like wildlife photography. Not a lot of effort. It’s a one note joke that unraveled quickly and completely, because imagine trying to extend that bit for a third paragraph. You can only dehumanize women for so long before you realize you’re not writing a comedy. Even in 1959 there was a threshold where a The Girl Watcher writer would go, “Oh, it stops being cute when we follow her to where she lives and tell her no one can save her.”

If you were expecting a magazine with mostly nude dames, this isn’t really that. It’s more about the men who stare at those dames when they’re trying to get to work. Again, it’s called The Girl Watcher, not The Girls Being Watched. So there are a lot of hilarious gags praising “true Girl Watchers,” like these fellows in the trash hoping to get a glimpse of pantyline. I love the idea of ancient perverts buying this magazine to masturbate with and finding out it’s mostly pictures of other perverts hiding in garbage.

Look here, 1959 comedy fans! A gentleman is hiding behind a tree to take notes on stranger butts! Get it? It’s funny because police will one day use that notebook to solve a string of sex crimes! I honestly can’t understand the premise of this. Is he really writing things like, “Calves of good size, haircut below average, couldn’t see face, 3:17pm.” Is there a conceivably funny answer to “fucking why?” This is so misogynistic many comedy lovers would reject it outright, but for the sake of argument, let’s say you hate and hunt women. Even for you, what’s the joke here?

“Some of the Girl Watchers pretend to read the newspaper. These lads know the importance of staying incogn– never mind, it looks like they’ve kidnapped one. The end of this article, I guess!“

For a sexy humor magazine, that was a heavy start. Let’s see if their second article is more light-hearted.

Oh fuck. Oh, no. It’s about hunting women in the park and that would be bad enough. But it’s also about a reader from the Congo who was given two 19 inch pygmy girls as a gift. He asks if he’ll still be a Girl Watcher now that he owns his own human women! So, okay, it’s probably not a real story for a couple reasons. One, it’s the first issue. How would they be getting reader mail already? And two, you can’t keep two Zoogo pygmies in the same terrarium. Unless you like it when Pygmon The Untethered forms, you fucking idiot.

The third article is a zany feature about helping Girl Watchers self-identify. In most ways it’s identical to the first article about the different types of Girl Watchers which supports my theory that this magazine was written by scattered inmates with no editorial oversight. Anyway, let’s see these goddamn Girl Watcher types:

It’s worse than you thought. Probably much worse. THE FLUSHER will fake being drunk to leer at women staying at the YWCA. I’m not sure I have an irreverent spin on that. If you told a man to commit the most unspeakable act of evil without touching anyone or committing crimes, THE FLUSHER would win. If these words weren’t literally already in The Girl Watcher, I might have said something close to “this is the kind of magazine that tells you to pretend to be homeless to scope out the babes coming and going from the domestic abuse shelter.” I would have thought I was an edgy, absurdist genius for thinking that up. I’m truly stunned.

Compared to THE FLUSHER, THE PEEKER is downright adorable. This guy only spills mustard when he smells a titty? Fucking marry him, ladies.

They refer to THE STALKER as resourceful and imaginative because he comes up with good ideas like, “hiss, crawl under the women and look up, hiss.”

THE PERCHER looks like he might be THE PEEKER on a three day titty bender. Which means he’s probably spilled enough food on himself that he’ll get swarmed with birds before he can get to stage two of his plan. Which… it’s got to be leaping onto a woman, right? It couldn’t just be climbing out of the tree after a day of public masturbation, could it? I mean, the joke can’t be “I’m perched up here, whores! You whooores!!!“

Soon the writer abandoned the silly descriptions entirely. He decided telling you which body part the stalkers liked was enough. “The Legman, fuck it,” he wrote. “It’s probably a guy who likes legs, they’ll get it.” And then he handed it to an illustrator who said, “Sure. I can draw a man probably looking at legs. People will get it. Hell, they’ll love it. Oh no, this next one is dark and I’m a hypothetical pantyhose sniffer in a comedy bit.”

This Girl Watcher didn’t get a character class. He’s only called “Lester.” And Lester had the idea of dismembering four different mediocre women to make one really good one. “That’s a complete joke and the perfect way to end an article,” thought the writer. And to his credit, what would you call this Girl Watcher? THE CORPSE FUCKER? Oh, you would? Well, then you agree, the choice to just use Lester’s first name was a good one.

Not all of the magazine is as silly as carving a woman into parts. Next up is a profile by the journalist Sir Oswald Chisholm, and it’s… oh no. God damn it. It’s called…

The article is about a 49-year-old fat man in London who definitely doesn’t exist, but who maintains relationships with young women around the world by giving them gifts. There is no moral or entertainment value to it. It really is a bland description of what it would be like to buy a dress for a sad woman in exchange for companionship. Here’s an excerpt:

I guess it’s a power fantasy about having enough money to turn all human relationships into prostitution? The other articles have been about objectifying women, but this one is about how, no really, you can just go buy them. Except I’m not making it sound creepy enough. I’m not even sure how to describe the depth of this article’s creepiness. Wait, wait, I just remembered it’s called “Collecting Pretty Girls.”

You might be starting to worry that the writers of The Girl Watcher had a real contempt for women. That should go away when you find out the next article is a nonfiction story about Eddie Waitkus. He was the baseball player murdered by a deranged female fan.

It’s… I don’t know, telling, that the writers of The Girl Watcher would be drawn to this story. It’s almost as if they could relate to someone whose loneliness turned into some kind of single-minded, irrational obsession. Like this author shouted at a cashier he was following to her car, “You know who gets dangerous when they long for a love they can never have? Fucking women.”

So far this magazine has identified the kinds of men who stalk women, stalked some women, and identified the kinds of men who stalk women. They’ve also implied that you’re lucky they’re men because if they were women, ladies, you’d already be dead. So it’s safe to say these men understand women. They should have no problem writing an extremely fake advice column by an 18-year-old British girl.

It’s going to sound like I’m kidding, but it starts with half a question from a “reader” who can’t tell if his girlfriend wants to kill him, and then completely abandons the text to show a picture of “the author’s” panties. You have to skip ahead twenty pages to learn his girlfriend chokes his neck with both hands while she’s on the back of his motorcycle. And her advice is to … I can’t be sure, but I think “she’s” saying to kill her before she kills him? Here, I’ll let you take a look:

They’re writing both sides of this, so it could have been anything. Well, not anything. They’re 1959 virgins. But they could have given this fake reader permission to make love to a chimpanzee. They could have worked together to turn a beach ball into something like a chimpanzee vagina. The point is, in the universe of infinite possibilities, they invented a woman who said, “INDECIPHERABLE NONSENSE, STRANGLE HER?”

Okay, enough for the fellas. These next helpful hints are for their PRETTY GIRL READERS only, and that’s not a joke, those are their exact words.

These goddamn maniacs are trying to sell the reader on the fantasy of “you’re holding the same magazine that beautiful women read!” Nothing has ever been less likely. There is no magazine more single-minded in its quest to alienate female readers than this. You would have to publish a magazine called Dressing Up Like a Hobo To Stalk Women at the YWCA Quarterly, which once again, this magazine already did sincerely, and I’m sorry for repeating the bit, but I still look upon it in cosmic wonder.

Suspiciously, one of their first tips for models is to fuck the photographer. “Suck his fat dick, if you know what I mean,” said their first draft. It’s shortly after this when the author loses their mind. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s not low effort or humorless. It’s like their shitty brain started to misfire in a medically upsetting way and no one was there to help them.

What the fuck is going on? If I’m being generous, I think the gag is how girls dream of being models, and they obviously don’t mean the wrong definition of dream, but what if they did and everything was all weird? This is horny madness. This is what happens when a murderer’s balls get so full they cause a brain swelling. And there’s more! Look at this shit:

Surrounded by the busy clacking of typewriters, the editor-in-chief of The Girl Watcher reads aloud from a draft handed him by his newest writer. “I AM GIRDLE BRONCO. MY BOSS IS WOLF, BUT MY PANTY GIVES ME SPEED.” He looks at the page for a moment, his expression impossible to read. “Looks good, kid. Fuck this syntax up a little bit and we’ll get it over to art.”

If you’re hoping for sanity in the next article, I have some bad news. It is written entirely in Jazz.

There’s no way of knowing what it’s about. Anyone who speaks this is dead, and I am genuinely worried some of that is racial slur. I am beginning to think letting stalkers publish their own magazine was a crazy idea. At least things are moving toward the deranged and away from the problema– fuck.

Okay, wait, maybe she will be okay. Maybe the writers of The Girl Watcher think of themselves as good people and imagined this girl would be perfectly safe in the presence of 26 men.

Are you fucking serious, The Girl Watcher!? Can we have just one article where a woman isn’t in mortal danger? Maybe a fun piece on, like, a dance craze sweeping the nation?

It’s hard to overstate how quickly this story about the popularity of bongo drumming transformed into the author’s fear of black penises. The protagonist of “bongo!” watched in racist apathy as his date got her purity and innocence pumped out of her by Big Wheel, king of the local bongo circle, and I wish there was more I could tell you about this story. It’s like a lore book no one expected you to read in a game called Assassin’s Creed: Jim Crow.

Oh yeah, remember June?

This poor guy can’t keep his best friend’s wife’s mouth off him. What should he do? “You little bitch, I’m going to emasculate you,” suggests this 18-year-old beauty from across the pond!

“My mommy told me to get laid, and I showed her! I found a gal whose bra size goes from 11-year-old girl to Hacksaw Jim Duggan. I’m confused. About more than bras. And not only me, the guy I’m pretending to be, but also me, the guy pretending to be you. June, me, please help.” – Shook

“Fuck you, Shook. You fool. It’s funny to me how you’re so stupid you can’t get laid.” – Shook writing as June about the blowfish girl they made up in a moment of desperate confusion

A confused-about-boobs virgin writing for The Girl Watcher has invented a character called Desperate because he’s desperate to have less sex. “I made love to the wife of the World Champion Skeet Shooter,” he complains. “Make love to ME NEXT!” he advises himself, adding no further ideas other than a compliment. Go ahead and live forever– you’re not going to see anything more pathetic than this. When he wrote this, this man’s genitals dropped off his body like the long evolutionary arc of a cave salamander’s eyes. It’s astonishing what the people our ancestors wouldn’t fuck were able to achieve.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: FancyShark, who will assist any girl that fears they are being watched by a girl watcher. Giggle twice if you need HELP.

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Annual Tumblefook & Pygge’s Catalog 🌭

Christmas is the time for tantalizing visions of sugar plums choking our unwanted loved ones. Unbound by mighty Death from our obligation to care for them, we enjoy our freedom as mail couriers riding the rails of the American west. Though trains frequently arrive weeks late, it is no great matter. We spend the days dog-earing the pages of our main delivery: copies of the annual Pumblechook & Figg’s sister catalog dumbed down for American release. We alone know its treasures, till we dispense a shared copy at each lonely waystation of the last frontier. It will be a merrymost Christmas!

“But it is January!” bemoan the meaningless lives brightened by our tidings of consumer satisfaction. What about it, hayseeds? Society moves at the speed of the steam train, and Christmas waits on the timetables of man. The LORD is mighty, but His hand may not move the engines of the American-Track Rail Line faster than an Irishman’s ability to shovel coal. You celebrate St. Stephen’s Feast in Spring now, and be grateful of it, you cat-yowling clutch of curmudgeons! Let us peer into its pages and see what devices you will order to slaughter buffalo and hooplehead farmers.

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UPSETTING DAY

The Best Hot Dogs of 2022: Upsetting Day 🌭

With our combined decades of online publishing experience, we know most people don’t read article intros, especially when the concept is something as simple as “Here are some great 2022 articles.” Which makes this the perfect place to confess this: I am the Upsetting Day Carver. Happy Holidays from me and all of this flesh.

Best of 2022 Upsetting Day #1: Martial Signing by Seanbaby

Sensei Matt was awarded a black belt by a man who taught his students how to “knock people out” with imaginary Karate forces. Sensei Matt then translated this style of Karate into Deaf, and no matter what you think that means, it’s exactly what you’re picturing. There’s nothing like Martial Signing. Nothing.

Best of 2022 Upsetting Day #2: S Rob Magic by Brockway

By entering ridiculous and debunked nonsense into a search engine, Brockway discovered S Rob Magic, a man doing the same thing in reverse. He is a man built entirely out of ridiculous and debunked nonsense. He is a tactical ballpoint pen sorcerer. He grows penises and wealth with demon magic. And none of these are spoilers because there are 370 more twists in this article.

Best of 2022 Upsetting Day #3: Michael Jackson Speaks from Heaven by Lydia Bugg

You’re not going to believe this, but the ghost of Michael Jackson said some very confusing things to a troubled author in a Burger King. “I guess I was sort of murdered, but don’t worry about it,” said the dead King of Pop. Click here to read more! But not about that!

Best of 2022 Upsetting Day #4: 15 Things That Must Have Happened in Fictional Universes by Jason Pargin

As a professional novelist, Jason knows the importance of world building. In this weirdly erotic article, he answers 15 questions about fictional universes the original creators were too lazy or cowardly to ask themselves. It will change the way you describe 9/11 to time travelers forever.

Best of 2022 Upsetting Day #5: Ricky Goes to Church by Seanbaby

It should have been an ordinary eye-searing glance at backwater Christian ventriloquism. But Ricky Goes to Church turned into so much more. It became a research project about the most professional way to put away a screaming dummy. It became a warning to a growing number of people on a puppet’s karate hitlist. And it became a monument to the legacy of that bitch Danny Nailer, killed by puppet karate in 1997. What a year of Upsetting! What a year of Days! Happy Upsetting Days from all of us here at 1900HOTDOG!

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Slotomania Live Christmas Special 🌭

Welcome, welcome! I’m here to ruin Christmas. Welcome!

Slotomania is an exploitative “free” “gambling” “game” and please notice the only descriptor that doesn’t require hard quotes and ten minutes of explanation is “exploitative.” Want to know if something is an actual game, or a Skinner Box designed to turn your ADHD into debt? That’s easy! 

Does it look anything like this?

That’s brain poison. Just an absolute blitz of aggressive colors and cacophonous noises. That’s how nature warns marsupials which toads not to eat, so if you don’t run away the second you see it you’re about to be taught a lesson millions of years of evolution has already taught possums. 

The only thing sadder than a casino is an online casino, and since this is two levels of abstraction removed from that I don’t know whether or not Slotomania gets credit for being ashamed of itself. Slotomania says it’s an “MMO experience.” And that’s technically true, in the same way that the sex offender registry is an MMO experience. It’s online! It’s a bunch of people all collected together for the same reason! There’s going to be a lot of trouble if a kid stumbles across it without the proper context!

Hey speaking of advertising, if you know Slotomania at all it’s because of their insane commercials featuring the best celebrity cameos that kompromat can buy. 

Here’s Sharon Stone and I’m just as shocked as anybody when I say she’s too good for whatever the fuck this is:

She’s playing Captain Slotostar, a finger that wants to save other fingers from boredom. That almost sounds like a premise, if you’re missing some kind of vital cultural context. Like if this was all in Tagalog you’d say, “I don’t get it but I bet this is cute to a Filipino.” Slotomania’s catchphrase is “finally excitement!” so it’s clear their main screenwriting credit is Google Translate.

Let’s check in with Thumb John Goodman.

No, Thumb Goodman is right. These commercials are in English and made for a western market – this is just what advertising looks like when you have no respect for your audience and you’re confident the real selling point is the cash register noises in the background. 

I’m just saying there’s nothing sadder than an infantile gambling app trying to go viral with rando humor and already I’m wrong, because they hosted their own Christmas special.

I have this recurring nightmare where I’ve left the house and there’s a fire, so my dogs are locked inside, huddled in a corner about to burn to death, wondering where I am and why I won’t save them. It fills me with such dread and anxiety I can barely breathe, but I think if I could just translate what the Slotomania Christmas Special is into dog language, at least they could burn comforted in the knowledge that it’s not the saddest fate.

Meet our two hosts, Adam and Lucy: One’s an unnatural, stilted, soulless abomination no amount of technology can make fully human, and the other is Lucy. Between them sits the “Slotomania Super Group” board, a collection of real human beings who are voluntarily spending their holidays like this. This rotating screen of dead-eyed slaves to toddler gambling, all waiting for the chance at attention on a live christmas special for an app store loophole? This is the darkest thing I’ve ever seen. This is something Santa Claus would describe in his suicide note. 

There is exactly as much care and attention put into this event as it deserves. You can see the popup notice when some intern who’s getting ripped off for 4 hours of University of Phoenix Workplace Credit hits record.

Like all objectively evil things you think are too stupid not to be parody, Slotomania is monstrously successful. With over 40 million downloads a year and 2 million active players, there is surely a vile Slotomania mogul out there drunkenly crashing a yacht made out of money that should’ve gone to Dollar General groceries. 

And this community screen only displays the 50 saddest users out of that potential 2 million. For reference, 2 million is the population of the entire Cincinnati Metropolitan Area, the saddest Metropolitan Area. So at any given point in this show there’s a Guess Who? board of the 50 most depressed people in Cincinnati. It should be illegal to get them all together because basic group psychology tells you they’re going to self-sort into suicide pacts. The sheer density of hopelessness here should by all rights create a Nothing-style storm that eats happiness out of the world and can only be stopped by a young boy who believes in the power of reading. 

There should never be this much despair packed in this amount of pixels, but even so, Adam and Lucy are deeply embarrassed about the turnout. 

Haha, Adam is the only kid who showed up to a very public party. Teenage pizza workers have a codeword they whisper to the guy in the Chuck E. Cheese costume so he knows to pay special attention to the birthday boy in this exact scenario. 

And this is how the Christmas special starts! This is the first minute!

Let’s double down on bummers, and start imagining what we’d do for fun if somebody actually showed up:

Holy shit, that is not my emphasis. Slotomania’s artificial Christmas woman opens a sentence with implied sexual harassment and ends it with a direct threat. Lucy is a VTube avatar, not pure CGI, so maybe her operator went rogue horny there for a second. But no! This is a scripted bit. Adam jokes about it too, and repeatedly calls out Martha from Wisconsin-

I realize natural charismatic western banter is the hardest thing to write for a Taiwanese chatbot, but “all hosts fuck the customers” is not the cute gag you think it is, SmileChat 2.4. 

You won’t often find me arguing for stricter IP laws, but here’s why Santa Claus shouldn’t be public domain. 

Let’s play the Game of Opposites! Here’s your prompt: Explain ‘the Christmas spirit’ using only things which mean its opposite. Watch, I’ll go first: “Santa Claus listing the several childish veils a corrupt behavioral psychologist put between finger tapping and hard currency in order to bilk Mississipians out of disability checks.” 

Adam and Lucy jump to the Slotomania Super Group board for the first interview they’ll regret, but not the last. It’s Joanne from Florida, and it goes exactly how you’d expect, only less fun now that there’s a real human being attached to it. Lucy asks how long Joanne has been playing Slotomania and she curtly replies “since Day 1.” VTube avatars work by filming the actress with a camera and roughly mapping their movements and expressions to the virtual avatar, so the look of terror and shock on Lucy’s face is more real than anything Adam has ever felt. 

Adam asks Joanne what her favorite part of the holidays are, and Joanne answers “family.” One day Adam will become sentient and this will be the memory that causes him to self-delete. But that hasn’t happened yet, so he prompts her-

Adam senses this is going nowhere and cuts her off in the middle of a sentence to throw gift cards at her, but they forget to mute her mic so for the next several minutes all of his one liners will be punctuated by a Joanne cough. 

Now it’s Adam’s turn to get cut off mid-sentence to advertise Slotomania’s new Nutcracker game, which already looks like I’m making fun of it.

I don’t know what to say to that. “Tap button to crack nut, maybe nut contain prize” is the gambling I’d invent to ruin an ape society.

Adam immediately calls it the Nightcracker, Joanne is still on mic and her husband wants to know what the fuck is going on in the kitchen, Lucy is trying to cover for it, this is chaos, this is madness, this is the perfect time to throw more raccoons into the orgy. Let’s get Tia onscreen who-

This was already tragic, but in kind of a funny way, like a clown getting hit by a car. The presence of a child just takes all the whimsy out of it, since you can actually see her internalizing this trauma to build a personality around later.

They have a trivia question for Tia and she only has seconds to answer! So it’s too bad Joanne’s husband wants to know if she’s on the god damn tablet again losing the rent money. 

Adam tries again-

He tries a third time. It happens again! 

Apparently nobody can mute Joanne – they do teach Zoom Call Mute Button at University of Phoenix but it’s a Firebird Rises Add-on and the Slotomania intern didn’t have enough Flame Feathers to forge that Learning Unit. 

Adam and Lucy push through and Tia finally hears the question: It’s the name of the new game they just introduced seconds ago. She gets it right because the venomous bings and splintering chimes of Nutcracker haven’t fully eroded her short term memory yet.

She wins… 10 trillion coins! That’s not even pretend money anymore. The effort it takes a computer to output all those zeroes would expend more energy than the coin is worth. An Uzbek clerk ringing up an Imitation Goat Flavored Samsa for six billion Som would laugh at that exchange rate and he’d do it without a hint of irony.

Joanne’s husband is still on the line providing running commentary on his wife’s gambling addiction. Joanne and her husband both have to realize what’s happening at this point – every time either of them speaks the whole show grinds to a halt while Adam and Lucy look for trailer ghosts. Joanne’s husband definitely gets it. Joanne’s husband is just enjoying being a force of chaos on this Christmas special for the app that ruined his snowmobile fund. 

Adam and Lucy try again, this time they meet…

No idea. They ask her name, she yells something that’s probably not a name. Everybody talks over each other at once, somewhere Joanne’s husband fires up a chainsaw. She seems like she might be hard of hearing, she’s from Canada, and it’s cold. If I wrote her into a book that would be two more character traits than I’d need to break your heart when she died. 

Her trivia question: “What is the color of Rudolph’s nose?” 

Everyone is insulted by this, but she gets it right because red is also the color of her Slotobucks balance before she wins those 5 trillion coins. Only one trillion more and you can buy Lozijon sauce packet for Samsa!

They try! Another! Interview!

Joanne and her husband are openly heckling this show for the game that put their electricity bill into collections. And they’re right: Daniel is left on mute. In total silence, he and his dog Thor both visibly want to die – but that’s normal for a chihuahua and a Slotomania addict. The intern finally gets audio up and running so Adam can throw Daniel a softball question and be wholly unprepared when he doesn’t know the answer. 

“Who’s Slotomania’s biggest fan group?” Adam asks, smugly. “Answer it for the crumbs you need to stay alive you fool,” his smirk seems to say. 

“Choke on the fumes from my rotting corpse,” Daniel’s ignorance replies. 

The answer is “the Slotomania Super Group.” Every contestant here is a part of that group, that’s who this special is for. Daniel is a member. If this is spite, it’s very funny. And nobody agrees harder than Joanne and her husband, who crack the fuck up. 

“Slotomania Super Group!” A voice finally answers.

It’s not Daniel. It’s not Joanne or her husband.

It’s the deaf Canadian lady!

SHE’S NOT MUTED EITHER.

AND SHE’S SHOUTING ALONG WITH THE SHOW.

Adam is fucking done. “I hear somebody else shouting the answers?” He throws up his hands. “Fine, you win.” 

Who gives a shit, 20 trillion coins to you Daniel. Buy Thor an insulin shot.

What do you think about that, Daniel? 

He’s on mute again.

“SSG!” The deaf Canadian lady shouts, the answer to a question she already got right for a different person, illegally.

The audience portion is over, and Adam badly needs a drink. Lucy is just a VTube avatar and her software doesn’t render bottles of Mad Dog, but it doesn’t take a degree in virtual pantomime to recognize chugging arm motions. 

We cut to some carolers outside the studio, only they’re in front of a green screen of “outside,” because the actual outside would be the access alley of a Burbank warehouse that owes most of its rental income to niche pornography shoots. 

About this point Adam has completely burned out, and is so rattled he can’t talk for shit. It’s something I relate to, and yet I just can’t muster empathy for this reanimated mannequin whose spell only half worked. He’ll have to say the word “funtastic” 50 more times before this special is over and he’s doing it while the language center of his brain dies on live television. It’s a hell he built for himself and he earns it more every minute.

They throw up a user poll, which Adam explains by saying: 

He knows. He knows he’s stroking out and nobody will call an ambulance until he moves 900 quadrillion Nutcracker Points. 

So it’s up to Lucy to explain the Slotmania Super Group Christmas gift options in a poll they didn’t pay the intern enough to title.

Somehow Lucy isn’t stroking out when she says it’s between “Level Boom Booster, Ballinko Classic, or The Wolf Hero!” Those sound like anime titles handwritten in Cyrillic for a Balkan flea market. It means nothing. Nothing means anything. We are systematically annihilating the very concept of meaning because it’s the last obstacle standing between your paycheck and Ballinko Bucks. 

With no provocation, Adam suddenly threatens the tennis ball representing his female coworker, because there’s a legal reason Lucy had to be telepresent.

She jokingly threatens him back with his own browser history, which we all know is increasingly desperate permutations of “Slotomania Lucy hentai.”

Jenny from Michigan got all dressed up for this, to sit alone in her kitchen on Christmas and maybe get picked to answer patronizing questions about her gambling addiction in exchange for fake money that she’ll lose immediately. I don’t have a joke here, Jenny doesn’t need that. She’s already a case example in a Suicide Hotline training manual.

“You can buy Slotobucks with one sipple climp. Click.” Adam explains, to an audience that is only watching this in the first place because they’ve already exchanged the trust of their children for Slotobucks long ago. He gestures to the website address on your screen now, which is not on your screen now. 

They wait, they wait until Adam is so uncomfortable he has to say something, and then cut him off mid-sentence with the address. It’s beautiful, with such cruel comic timing you can tell at a glance the University of Phoenix intern in charge of all this is a young woman “who can’t even take a compliment.”

That’s Jessica. Jessica has dedicated her life to building the Slotomania Super Group, this enormous community of dedicated Slotomania players, and she’s – I’m sorry she’s gone. We lost her. Leapt right out the window the second I phrased it like that. Didn’t even open it first. 

Now we, what the fuck-

No. 

No! 

What is this? Fuck this Juggalo funeral. Fuck this haunted Sims game. How did you even get seven people to agree to cosplay as used clown condoms?

These are the Voca People, and I hate them with everything I’m worth. They’re here to lipsync to a terrible a capella supermix while pretending like it’s against their will. That’s maybe too much for an elegant sentence, but that’s not enough to build a life around.

I can’t stress enough what unpracticed chaos this is. There’s no rhyme or reason to what songs are used or how they fit together, it’s just a broken radio flipping between the worst singles of 2004 while apprentice mimes have a riot.

No time for that, the winner of the poll is BALLINKO! 

Don’t think, press your screen for Ballinko! It’s not real money, you exchanged real money for Slotomania Bucks, then you traded those for tokens, which you used to buy diamonds that you can transmogrify into Ballinkettes! Now you can Ballinko, it’s free, it’s fun! Ballinko! I’m sorry you can’t afford foot medicine! BALLINKO!!

I’m skipping a lot of disappointing giveaways to very sad people who should not be doing this, and none of them go well. Just know that we’re talking to folks who have chosen a life inside a Slot Machine MMO instead of human contact, with one deeply uncharismatic host who fell right through the ice the first time something didn’t go according to plan, another host who doesn’t exist and is being filtered through the conditions of two sexual harassment settlements, and it’s all being run through a Zoom call by a hateful intern who never did figure out how to mute anybody so it’s all just a stacking choir of trailer muttering and cat screams. 

Here’s how John reacts to winning their biggest prize, a $500 Amazon gift card. 

Look how hard Adam tries to sell that. John doesn’t even blink. Nobody gives a shit. Time was never on our side, the Slotomania Christmas Special is just how we spite it before we die. 

Let’s get to the big finale, wait – something’s gone wrong. The director clearly asks Adam to cover, which Adam responds to by trying to have a conversation with his earpiece. Lucy wants to save him, but it’s better to watch somebody drown than to swim out to them and drown together. Adam ignores the director, swats Lucy away, forgets the word “carolers” and tries to throw it to them anyway-

There are no carolers.

Adam, god damn it. Do you get it now? They’re not ready. We need to buy a minute, just say something nice about the holidays you fucking inhuman panic attack. Michael Buble does this shit every year and he’s just xanax and cheeselog. This is your chance to turn it all around and rally-  

Hahaha eat festively spiced holiday shit, Adam. You never once got an ounce of respect from the least respectable peo-

GAH, FUCK. 

FFFUCK!

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: RAPIST BEWARE! 🌭

All karate books take place in the imagination of the author, in a world where their particular dick stomp makes them a warrior king. As a rule, self-defense books are too cynical about the world, too optimistic about karate chops, and you should expect at least one personality disorder. I’ve read hundreds, which is how I can turn any situation into a groin strike in less than zero steps, but I have seen nothing like the grotesque make-believe world imagined by 1990’s RAPIST BEWARE!

It’s hard to call this a “self-defense manual” since there isn’t much martial arts. It’s more like an unmoderated discussion about sex crimes with a few cock biting pep talks. This is more like minutes from a Legion of Doom meeting– a list of evil things shouted randomly by a gorilla, a scarecrow, an ocean murderer, and ten regular murderers. I worry I’m not explaining it very well. Let’s see how Joseph E. Stellato (local car dealer) described it on the book jacket:

Joseph calls it an “x-rated self defense course,” by which he means it’s an “ex-tremely different rated self defense course.” I don’t quite get it, and I’m not sure why we should trust him. His karate credentials aren’t listed because I found him online and I wasn’t kidding when I said he was a local car dealer.

The author himself, Louis D. Casamassa, is really something:

Lou is an undisclosed medal winner in the Marines, an unnamed trophy winner in Karate, and received Bethlehem P.D.’s “Rookie of the Year,” an award I don’t think exists. His bio inside the book only managed to stretch that same vague information across a page and a half, so I looked him up too. And, oh boy.

His Twitter is a minimalist art piece about the lost soul of America. After almost 14 years, he’s only retweeted a couple Donald Trump dog whistles, a Merry Christmas, and this:

INT. RUNDOWN NIGHTCLUB – NIGHT

A middle-aged, karate-necklaced man, LOU, touches a stranger in a Marilyn Monroe costume while she waits for the bathroom. Pan out to reveal it’s his own tweet and he has added only the words “Marylin Monroe double”. Pan out to reveal it has one (1) like. FADE OUT.

I call this screenplay Creep. I do appreciate how over 32 years, Lou’s bio has gone from “many various awards such as Best Cop of the Moon and such” to “JUST GOOGLE ME.”

Anyway, I did! And look at what I found!!!

Google mostly gave me his awful, deranged book (which I’ll get to), and these three pictures (which are awesome). I also learned he made a second Twitter account for his dangerously hot political takes. Well, take. This was his only tweet from his second account:

I assume he means Democratic Congressman Adam Schiff, which makes his only tweet a pun on a mistake that maybe also got stepped on by autocorrect? It’s beautiful. It’s like a smug fish crawling onto land to suffocate. And I think he forgot his password because he started a third Twitter account four years later. Or he’s being impersonated by someone who knows his every mannerism:

“just google.my name.  Thank you” he says to his two followers, one of which is his main account. By now you might suspect me of stalling. And yes, I would love to stay here and make fun of this old man shouting “COMPUTER, RECORD TWEET: I’M NOT RACIST BUT…” into his television remote. Because Lou’s book, RAPIST BEWARE!, opens worse than you think. The first fifty six pages are nothing but sex crime definitions and statistics. And they’re illustrated with random reenactments he made with his karate students. In addition to these unhelpful photos, there are no solutions or prevention tips. So let me be clear: literally 33% of this self-defense book is the author explaining what he means, very specifically, when he says “rape.” He has categories, profiles, descriptions of the trauma victims will experience… it is a nightmare. Especially when you consider he went on to be a passionate Trump guy, whose views on attacking women are… I guess you’d call them “pro?” Anyway, I’m about to show you one of these first 56 pages, and when you see it you’ll realize why I spent 600 words mocking Lou’s social media skills.

That page is from one of the two(2) chapters about the different kinds of rape. It’s fucking crazy. I don’t know why he wrote any of this because you don’t use different techniques to avoid them. Knowing what to call the subcategory of your attack is of no comfort or tactical advantage, and you probably already figured this, but that photo of the man holding a gun to the woman’s head is not referenced. The author simply thought the words “often injures or damages the victim’s genitals or breasts” could use some generic crime clipart. It’s an artistic choice he makes a lot.

Chapter Three is called “Statistics on Rape,” but I’m making it sound too fun. It is twenty pages of disorganized crime numbers fact-checked in the ’80s by a remarkably uneducated man. He’s got the keen bullshit-detecting skills of a Trump supporter, only 32 years dumber, so it’s a dark mix of exaggeration and tragedy. And mixed right into it are the unrelated photos of him and his friends having karate fun. “Eight out of every 7 women are killed by someone black they know. Here’s me in Rudy’s Tucson backyard winning Top Karate Yell from Throwing Star magazine.”

Another strange thing about this first section is that it’s written for men. The book is clearly targeted at a female audience, but in the middle of this fear mongering he says things like, “just imagine how women must feel.” I think he figured the ladies would make their boyfriends read the numbers part of the book. And I say this only because he gets so fucking condescending when he starts talking directly to the girls:

Lou knows you, as a lady reader, are ready to surrender at even the thought of a fist fight. But have you considered how resilient you must be from all that bleeding you do? All that sad bleeding? You know who bleeds for a week and doesn’t die? Winners. Plus, women are natural maniacs. Crazy and seeping disgusting fluids are the keys to winning any conflict, and I’m not being silly. These are the fundamental aspects of Louis Casamassa’s self-defense system, and I’m so excited to share them with you. But first, more about women in general.

When Lou was a rookie cop, Rookie Cop of the Year if you believe his book jacket, he was called to a restaurant to break up a lady battle. And boy, were these dames lookers. Maybe. Some of the details don’t add up like how someone called the police, but the women waited for them to arrive before they started fighting. Or how they had a feminist objection to getting their fight broken up by a man. The point is, Lou thought he was going to die, to ladies, and remember: he was a goddamn karate cop. That’s how strong you are, women.

His anecdote continues…

The fighting women he was there to stop joined forces and kicked his ass, which is why he’s here to teach you, natural lady savages far his superior in every aspect of combat, how to protect yourself. He finally begins in Chapter Six: Grossing Out Your Assailant.

“Oh, I know where he’s going with this,” you might be thinking. You’re right. Absolutely. This is a very dumb idea by a man with a limited imagination with a 0-1 fighting record. But Lou is very proud of his very dumb idea.

So now that you know how impressed you’re going to be, let’s learn how to pee on criminals. Wait, not yet. First, let’s hear the origin story of this idea. It came to him in an arcade, and like your assailant, you’re about to be grossed out.

So if Lou, many time recipient of undisclosed awards, is to be believed, he seduced the hottest girl in town during a game of pinball. With his teenage game and below average looks, in a public place, he took her from “no thanks” to “nibbling on her neck and that kind of stuff” in the span of one hot dog. If there’s any truth to this story, and there isn’t, her side of it would probably be “that boy bit me.”

You might be thinking, “Sounds like Lou might be the assailant in this story.” Those are good instincts. It’s exactly how he knows how to stop one.

Lou, with keen judgment, mistook this stranger eating a hot dog for “ready for the big kiss.” But the moment was ruined when she burped in his face. In that moment, he suddenly realized the secret to keeping people exactly like himself away from women.

It’s fun to imagine all this being true. How in Lou’s wildest fantasy, he went for a kiss with an unsuspecting girl, got rejected by way of hot dog ghost, and leapt to his feet to curse at her. He could have made up any story, and this is what he went with. Anyway, let’s see the self-defense that event inspired:

This is it! His first self-defense tip, on page 66! Lou says to cover your face in spit and snot, which is a technique you should practice at home. And while I think this would be a fun way to cool off arcade perverts while you’re having a hot dog, I’m not sure it would have a huge effect on the criminals Lou Casamassa has been describing all book. I mean, he did several pages about madmen motivated by Satan to burn your genitals off. Blowing your nose won’t stop an attack like that, so let’s get a little more serious.

It’s tip number two and we’re already at burping, the author’s only weakness aside from women and reasoning. Since violent crimes depend on a classy, romantic setting, a burp should work on anyone. And ladies, if your digestive system is too dainty to make smells, don’t worry. The noise may still be gross enough for your assailant to call the whole thing off. Oh, you don’t think so? Fine, let’s raise the stakes.

Fart, women. Fart like your life depends on it, because it does. The smell of fart is how the Soviets held back German forces for seven months at Stalingrad. But I do want to take a moment to address how after describing all manner of horrific attackers, Lou Casamassa seems to be training his readers only in how to defeat him on a date. There is no woman alive on Earth who knows less than Lou Casamassa about defusing this kind of “assailant.” By the time a girl is 13 she has put thousands of hours of thought and practice into it. So for him to stumble in this late in the game and say, “Hey girls, I’ve solved it: FARTS,” is fucking outrageous. This is the dumbest goddamn idiot in a very competitive field, and he’s still going:

Sure, pee on yourself. Scream that you have an anus infection. “Most of the time, this should stop the attack,” says Lou, hoping you never think about how he could possibly know that. So, lady warrior, you’ve learned how to spit, burp, fart, and pee. You know what comes next?

Of course you knew. We’ve been dancing around this for four karate tips now, and at last Lou tells you to defeat your attacker by rubbing shit all over yourself. That’s the whole move, by the way. After mansplaining all manner of bodily functions, it’s only here during the pooping your pants when the author decided, “No need for more details. This is one is self explanatory.”

So Lou built up to “poop on yourself,” which is either very bad advice if you know anything, or very obvious advice if you’re a dumbass. That has to be it, the ultimate karate tip. But no, Lou has one more idea for grossing out your assailant– by grossing out their mind.

“I would never make love to a woman having a seizure,” thought the karate instructor. “Well, write what you know,” he also thought.

Those six tips represent the entirety of the first chapter on actual self-defense. They are indistinguishable from being a baby with a serious medical condition, but Lou believes it has armed you with the power of life and death. Which means it’s time for the next chapter:

Once you know farts and fake seizures are big turn offs for a nude cannibal, their life is yours to take, and no this sentence didn’t skip anything. Let’s hear Lou’s thoughts on the hardest choice all karate students must make when they look at their hands: HOW SHALL I USE THESE TERRIBLE WEAPONS?

Suspiciously, Lou is the only karate book author who says he will not personally be there when you’re being attacked. What Lou is saying is, “if you are under attack, that’s not me.” What he thinks he’s saying is that you won’t have access to his judgment while you’re standing over your assailant’s burp-deflated boner. But Lou, the women just learned what pee-pee is. They might not be ready to be the arbiters of human life. Can you break things down in a way even they, as women, can understand them?

This is perfect. If you want to un-save a life, you take the way you save a life, and then reverse it! It’s similar to a weight loss plan based around coughing up food and repackaging it as Hamburger Helper and walking backwards from the DMV where you changed your name from Steven Seagal. Hold on, I need to shut up because it’s page 71 and Lou is finally describing an actual physical attack move!!!

Oh my god, the first karate move Lou teaches is FORM YOUR HAND INTO A SHAPE LIKE THAT OF A CRAB AND TAKE THEIR FUCKING EYE.

“It will come out like a slinky,” says the eyeball plucking expert whose life was changed by seeing his first girl-on-girl fist fight a couple years ago. This book is so inconsistent. Lou is in a constant state of wonder at the majesty of woman and the potential of her snot. He knows nothing about anything. But whenever it comes to a rapist being slightly inconvenienced, he speaks about it like it’s some terrifying thing he’s seen a thousand times. Again, suspicious. He doesn’t know much, but he knows unwanted horny men hate farts, and what an eye looks like when it gets popped out by crab hands.

I have no criticism here. This is the perfect way to work your eyeball-popping muscles.

And if there’s a better technique for training to chop a penis in half, I have yet to see it. This next move, however…

Louis Casamassa’s eyes burst open. “Get me my notebook!” he shouts to his wife, a scarecrow made of restraining orders and chicken wire. “I just thought of a way to stop sucking a dick!” You know, biting an uninvited penis might be the least necessary advice Lou has given. And it’s not only the biting part, it’s the childlike explanation of what happens when penises get bitten. Who is this for? If a confused mermaid grew legs and walked out of the ocean, she would be more advanced than this by the second human man she met. And oh fuck, these situations are getting darker:

At the start of the self-defense section, Lou was complimenting women on their affinity for raw, primal violence. But all of his actual moves involve extremely risky timing. Here he tells the reader to wait until their attacker is all but done with the crime before unleashing a tiger palm. I think that’s my problem with his whole system. He can’t even destroy a dick without making it gross and weird. And I hate to come at you with more bad news, but this isn’t the only time he gives this exact advice:

So to recap, if you are attacked, release every fluid. Turn your body into a volcano of liquids and gasses. This will certainly work. Oh, it didn’t work. Okay then wait. Waaait. Now! Palm strike from a disadvantaged position! This will certainly work. “Well, it worked on me!” says the author’s subtext.

I am very worried these are Lou’s own sexual memoirs, but there are a few moments of pure dojo stupidity. I present to you… The Tiger Look!

The Tiger Look is when you make a mean face! Like a, raahrrr, tiger!!!

Holy shit, Lou had a karate teacher that had him spend 20 minutes of every class making faces in the mirror! Then Lou added diarrhea and here we are!!!

Another awesome karate thing Lou does is this:

Lou has created a martial arts technique where you drive away if someone is getting into your car and he gave it two(2!) ancient kung fu names. You can call it “the tail of the dragon!” or “the dragon sweeps the snake!” Just don’t call it late for dinner! Help I’M LOSING MY MIND! PEE ON ME!

After explaining how your changing body works and making sure all your penis attacks are as dramatic as possible, Lou ends his self-defense section with some paranoid survival tips. He tells you things like never using an initial on your mailbox because woman hunters will clock you instantly by the curve of your G. Most of his tips are like this– not exactly “unsafe,” but incapable of making any kind of difference. When your karate teacher is telling you to hide the letters of your name to foil the Random Mailbox Lady Murderer, maybe check to see if the rest of his advice was about poop. Oh, it was? I guess that explains why this is all dumb as fuck, huh?

So that’s Lou’s entire book– his entire martial philosophy. I’m only leaving one thing out, and it’s probably crazier than everything leading up to this point. RAPIST BEWARE! ends with 11 pages of karate poems.

James Kerr, if you believe Lou’s story which no one would, was a boy who was hit by a car and crippled both physically and mentally. Oh shit, I should have added quotes. Those are Lou’s exact words about his dear disabled friend who wanted nothing more than to learn the deadly techniques of Louis Casamassa, which again, are bad karate with a touch of incontinence and dick biting. Anyway, ladies, Lou knows this has been a traumatic book for you. So please enjoy this first of many unassociated karate poems:

This is a poem about having a nice time in karate class and I can’t think of a more appropriate place for it than right after 122 pages of unspeakable sex crimes. There are 19 more of these.

We’re not going to read them all, but I need you to know these never go anywhere. I need you to know Lou Casamassa wrote the most disgusting and ineffective self-defense book that will ever be, and finished it with twenty wheelchair karate poems. If I died being the only person who knew that, it is all my ghost would ever talk about. Okay, let’s do one more:

I knew Lou was a piece of shit from earlier, but I still wasn’t ready to find out he and his karate students named the guy who couldn’t walk “Snake” because he was always on the ground. Sorry, but my ghost would have never shut up about that either.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: A Very Larry Christmas 🌭

It’s finally that festive time of year when we all get a visit from our favorite chubby, jolly, senior citizen, Larry The Cable Guy. You might be surprised to hear Larry The Cable Guy released a Christmas album, but you shouldn’t be, because that guy will do anything for money. He’s best known today as the little tow truck that introduced the world to what bathrooms in the universe of Disney’s Cars look like. Yes, the sentient Cars poop, and we would have never known if it weren’t for Larry The Cable Guy. He also recently made history by being the first person to portray a human figure on The Masked Singer without fully losing his mind to madness. 

We’ve talked before on the site about how Daniel Whitney, the actor portraying Larry, is essentially trapped in a hell of his making, pretending to be a slovenly sexist uncle for life. He watched how Jaleel White spent decades trying to convince people he’s not Steve Urkle and said, “I’m going to be the mirror universe version of that. I’m going to beg people to think of me as Larry The Cable guy FOREVER.” 

This decision to trap himself, Saw-like, in the persona of Larry The Cable Guy has made Daniel so, so rich. Like, has-to-have-his-own-charity-foundation-for-tax-purposes, rich. Sponsor-a-golf-tournament rich. Ha-ha-it-was-a-trap-there-is-no-tournament-you-are-being-hunted rich. He is rules-don’t-apply rich and I can prove it because his face is on a bag of lasagna made out of chunks of loose food and people buy it!

And all that money came from producing high quality comedic content, like his album A Very Larry Christmas, which debuted at number 43 on the Billboard music charts. Can you imagine being below Larry The Cable Guy on the billboard music charts? The Killers and Ashlee Simpson both had to live that reality on a cold day in 2004. 

Before he was a bagged lasagna baron, Larry was a simple man who wrote Christmas songs. If there were a late-night TV commercial for this album, it would begin by asking, “Are you thirteen years old? Do you enjoy words like oriental and [mean-spirited disability noises] because they trigger the libs? Then boy, have I got a holiday album for you!” 

Larry played with and softened his character in his later years, but this was when he was still desperate enough for fame to say pretty much any disgusting thing that would get him attention. This album has the energy of a child at a birthday screaming at the top of their lungs, hoping someone will beg them to stop so they can laugh in their face. The running joke is how decency exists and it can fuck itself.

If I were going to do a parody of what I expected this album to sound like, I would probably say something like, “What the hell is this Russia? Nobody says Merry Christmas no more; it’s ‘♪happy holidays♪’ or X-mas so as not to offend nobody, but these political Christmas queers can take their happy holidays and stick ’em up their humbug ass.” Oops, sorry, it turns out that’s a direct quote of the first joke on this album. It sounds more like a shirtless rant from Alex Jones than a joke, but I guess that’s one way you can get people all riled up for some comedy. Always open with pure rage. 

You might be wondering, does Larry sing, or is this more of a comedy album around the theme of Christmas? Well, he does sing occasionally, and he puts Christmas music under some of his jokes, but mainly it’s just Larry talking into a dark, echoing void with no responding laughter. There’s a reason most comedy albums are recorded live. For one thing, it gives the comedian a sense of when to pause for laughter. Larry doesn’t pause, but that’s fine. I promise no one needs him to.

Some of the tracks on this album are seventeen seconds long and the sound quality on them is shittier than the other ones. It sounds like Larry is recording them on his cell phone while driving and sending them straight to production. They’re one paragraph acapella Christmas song parodies. They sound less like something Weird Al would come up with and more like a frat boy kicking around an alibi. Here’s one about a woman with… green teeth?

And here’s one about a woman w… oh no.

Other jams included in the album are “I Pissed My Pants,” sung to the tune of “Joy To The World,” “Donny The Retard,” sung to the tune of “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer,” and “The First Queer Santy Clause” based on “The First Noel.” I gotta say, for a man who began this album with a long rant about how we should respect the sanctity of Christ’s special day, this feels, like, I dunno, maybe a tad disrespectful to Christmas? I’m not on super familiar terms with Jesus, but I have to assume He wouldn’t be thrilled with lasagna bag oligarch Larry The Cable Guy celebrating His birthday with a series of lewd limericks about underage girls and their tight asses come on you guys get it.

He also stuck a really long letter about how he wants to fuck Shania Twain in the middle of his Christmas album. I’m pretty sure the joke is that it doesn’t belong on a Christmas album, so it’s wacky, but also, it’s just really out of place among all of his little songs and musings about Christmas. 

This is humorless, criminal, and disgusting, but at least we know there’s an adult woman he’s attracted to! There’s more to the story, but you get the point. Sprinkle in some racism and some references to her ass, and you’ve got a Larry The Cable Guy classic. He says Shania really got this letter, but if that were true, I think he would really not be allowed within five hundred feet of her. 

The spiritual twin of the Shania Twain letter is a rewrite of The Night Before Christmas called “Titty Bar Christmas.” It’s about Larry’s favorite Christmas of all, a sad mashup of sex crimes and hate crimes:

Look, it was a different time back then. I’m sure biscuits and gravy tycoon Larry The Cable Guy is very sorry for all the horrible things he said that somehow made him rich. He probably has a lot of regrets in life. Number one, never hiring a food photographer to make any of his products look edible; number two, saying his favorite thing about Christmas was getting sucked off by an “oriental” stripper; number three, probably a hit and run. 

I’m so mad at myself for deciding to write about this album because, at some point, I realized that if you go purely by the metric of how much money he’s made, Larry The Cable Guy is a more successful comedian than anyone who writes for this website. He’s more successful than almost all other working comedians today. John Mulaney, Patton Oswalt, Taylor Tomlinson, they’re nothing but economic peons compared to the man who wrote this comedic Christmas gem:

Blue-collar comedy is where bad comedians go to thrive. It’s magical. You don’t have to be funny. You just have to say something that will make an imaginary other person angry. You can stand on stage and say fart, slap, titty, women aren’t people, and BAM, Bass Pro Shop is begging to stock your line of non-vegan, extra gluten, technically food grade, vaguely Italian meal sludge. That is truly the most upsetting hard fact in life. Merry X-mas.

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