Category: UPSETTING DAY

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Poopsie Slime Surprise 🌭

To explain to you what Poopsie Slime Surprise is would require me to understand them, and I can’t even pretend to do that. For some reason, around six months ago YouTube thought I might be interested in a video of cartoon unicorns in diapers and crop tops singing about how much they enjoy shitting. This is not the worst thing YouTube has ever recommended to me, and since it was not a man yelling about the Star Wars, I clicked it.

I became obsessed with understanding Poopsie Slime Surprise. What was it? Where did it come from? And most importantly, what rules and principles dictated its universe?

At its most basic, Poopsie Slime Surprise is a toy for children that allows them to feed a large plastic unicorn a bunch of chemicals, then rock it back and forth for a few minutes, then push its heart-shaped belly button to get it to take a big, slimy dump from its heart-shaped butt hole into a toilet that comes with it. Perfectly normal toy, right?

What baffles me is not the shitting unicorn, but the shitting unicorn’s many accessories, which seem to imply a wider Poopsie world. To understand the Poopsie universe, I first turned to the lyrics of their music video, which now has over three and a half million views on YouTube (comments are disabled though, no idea why). For some reason, Lyrics.com didn’t have the lyrics on file but don’t worry; I took the time to transcribe them myself.

It goes on, but there’s so much to unpack here. How does one “get loopy” off their Poopy? What could that possibly mean? Does it mean that they’re just so jazzed to have gotten the opportunity to poop? They live for the fleeting moments they’re shitting so much that it makes them loopy when that joyous time finally arrives? Or do they, like, get high off their own poop? I have to ask. What else could get loopy off my Poopy possibly mean?

Ok, so this is the other element that really rounds out the Poopsie universe. The one thing the unicorns love other than poop is brands. They use parody law to take iconic fashion brands like Marc Jacobs and turn it into Fart Jacobs, which would make sense if little kids had any idea who Marc Jacobs was. Otherwise, who is that joke for? All this does is create a generation of children who will grow up to one day discover Marc Jacobs and go, “Lol, that sounds just like Fart Jacobs from the Poopsie Slime Surprise dolls. Remember how fucked up those were?”

If you’re at a place no one can hear you, here’s the Poopsie Slime Surprise song in the only context that could make it worse.

It’s not just designer fashion labels that Poopsie Surprise parodies. They imagine a world where all food could be poop as well. You’ve got Caca-Cola, and for the weight-conscious slime shitting unicorn, Diet Caca-Cola. There’s also Poopsi, Whif Creamy Poop-Nut Butter, Rad Bum Energy Drink, Cacafina water, Dr. Pooper, Poozza Hut, In-Then-Out Burger, Poopda Express, Wipe Castle. I could go on.

It feels like some of these names were written by a comedian, and some were written by the boss’s nephew Kyle. In-Then-Out and Wipe Castle, I respect, but Starbucks, for instance, is just Barfbucks. Monster is Poopster, Arby’s is just Poopy’s in the Arby’s font. Again, I have to wonder what child wants to play with a parody of Monster energy drink? I mean, a friggin rad one who’s too busy doing sweet wheelies to follow FDA guidelines, I guess? That has to be the target demographic, right? Children made uninhibited by neglect and chemicals?

Monster isn’t the only less-than-kid-friendly drink in the Poopsie universe. They also have straight up alcohol for babies.

Yes, that is a play on Rosé all day. Can you imagine the uproar if all of a sudden Barbie came with a tiny little forty of Colt 45 and an itty bitty roll of duct tape so she and Ken can play Edward Fortyhands? We should at least hold poop monsters to the same standards.

Maybe the slime-shitting unicorns aren’t meant to be role models for the children? Perhaps the creators reverse engineered all of the fast-food into this world by asking themselves, “Why do these unicorns shit so much?”

“Oh well, they must have terrible diets, right? They’re, I guess, babies? Because they wear diapers, but also they are slamming fast food all day and washing it down with Monster energy drink and booze. That is the backstory for why the unicorns must constantly shit, and it’s simply the ritual derived from their natural habits of living like garbage that make them love shitting so much. Oh, God. They’re not babies at all. They’re full-grown adults who wear diapers because their diet necessitates it.”

I scoured the Poopsie Slime Surprise Instagram account in search of a vegetable, and all I found was this tribute to the death of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. This is real:

It seems kinda weird to memorialize a Supreme Court Justice catty-corner from a Poopnos big gulp spilling over with green diarrhea, but Poopsie can’t help but celebrate the death of any form of law.

“What if the shitting unicorns aren’t an aspirational toy for young girls but more of a cautionary tale?” I started to think. They could be a ghoulish parable of avarice. I decided to look for evidence this was MGA Entertainment’s thinking when they made these asshole-birthed dolls.

It turns out in 2019 there was a legal dispute between MGA and fashion brand Louis Vuitton over a poop-shaped Pooey Puitton toy purse from the Poopsie line. In their legal complaint against Vuitton, MGA said, “The use of the Pooey name and Pooey product in association with a product line of ‘magical unicorn poop’ is intended to criticize or comment upon the rich and famous, the Louis Vuitton name, the LV marks, and on their conspicuous consumption.”

Yeah, that’s right. This poop purse is activism. MGA is teaching children how ridiculous these so-called high fashion brands are through their seething parody. Chanel number 5? More like ChaSMELL number 2 amIright? Apple Bottom jeans, more like Apple BUTT jeans, hahaha.

(Editor’s Note: I want to do one. Salvatore Ferragamo? More like Save Tony He Fell in Da Goddamn Toilet! While I’m here, this poop article came together pretty well, Liddy. I’m having a nice time, and really learning a lot. – Sean)

(Editor’s Note: I should get in on this. Gucci? More like Poo-cci. That’s not Armani, it’s Fartmani. Buttberry, Fartier, oh no it’s in my brain. Sebastian Pee-or. I hate the thing I’m becoming. Yves Taint Laurent. -Brockway)

Except that if they are skewering the fashion brands by associating them with their terrible toys, it seems kind of weird they have Poopsie Slime Surprise Halloween costumes. What child is like, “Mother, I want to be the horrible shit unicorn for Halloween? May I borrow a bottle of RosĂ© to complete my costume? A six-pack of Red Bull will do if you don’t have one.”

It’s hilarious that MGA knew putting a grown child that can use the toilet in a diaper and a crop top was bad, so they just kind of stuck a picture of the unicorn on a dress, and that’s the whole costume. For a human child to get any closer to being a Poopsie slime surprise doll would be illegal.

So, since it seems unlikely the Poopsie dolls are meant to be horrible, gluttonous commentaries on American consumerism, what ARE they? Again at a loss for answers, I decided to look closer at MGA’s history in the toy world aaaaaand it kind of explains everything.

MGA is the company that owns BRATZ dolls, and they seem to keep Mr. Beaning themselves into weird sexual situations with their toys. Concerned parent groups have complained about BRATZ for years for dressing too provocatively so when MGA developed the LOL Surprise! toy line, they were very careful to dress the dolls more conservativ
oops, sorry no. They put them in full dominatrix gear.

The LOL Surprise! Dolls are supposed to surprise and delight children by developing new patterns on their bodies when dipped in water, and I’m sure whatever Mom pulled out a doll in Florida juice bar pasties was effectively surprised. Parents were not happy with this, but MGA didn’t give a shit.

Later the same year, they released the first male LOL Surprise! Dolls, and this time the surprise was a whole ass dick and balls. That’s right; they suddenly decided to make their dolls anatomically correct. Warning, doll penis incoming:

MGA responded to parents upset by the surprise dick by saying, “We currently have a notification on all packaging, website, and product retail pages that states the LOL Surprise! Boys are anatomically correct. After all, human beings are naturally anatomically correct.”

Ok, sure, but like, why just the boys? You may be shocked to learn that women also have genitals. The female LOL dolls have featureless holes between their legs like they’re rubber ducks. They have all the anatomical correctness of a liferaft emergency. Plus, the female dolls don’t come with the same warning of bad-idea genitals the male dolls do.

It seems like a pretty weird inconsistency to insist your male dolls must have their glorious ding dongs because, after all, humans are anatomically correct, but then when it comes to your female dolls, it’s “I’m sorry, what is a Laybeeah?”

This is not a feminist rant about doll dicks. It’s just another example of strange, inconsistent, poor decision making on MGA Entertainment’s part. Even the Poopsie surprise line has its own scandal!

They had a joke milk carton of 2% milk with a parody of a missing child poster on it, and already that joke is, WOW, dark, but they included a phone number on the carton that led directly to an active sex line. Can you imagine being the phone sex operator and getting a call about missing poop? You frantically google sexy poop detective to find, oh god, so many results.

These incidents led me to finally understand my questioning of Poopsie Slime Surprise is futile. It’s a shitty doll. Literally in both the sense that it shits and how it does not work very well. Consumers reported that it gets gummed up with slime easily, sometimes to the point where slime pours out of the unicorn’s mouth. The toy, without exaggeration, is so bad it shits out its own mouth while children try to play with it.

I will never get answers because there are no answers. Kids think poop is funny. It’s a unicorn that poops. Don’t look for meaning in the chaos. Just play with your unicorn shit.

You should follow Lydia on Twitter!

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Pauli Poisuo: who also poops when you squeeze him, but it is not cute. Well, it’s a little cute.

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Alertness Drug Review

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Upsetting Day: It Won’t Last Forever🌭

Two weeks ago we published an article about No Longer Afraid, a book for dying children by the pediatric tragedy team of Doris Sanford and Graci Evans. I ended it with a warning: it would get worse. Today we’re going to read 1993’s It Won’t Last Forever: A Child’s Book About Living With a Depressed Parent, and it’s worse. Than everything.

As always, Doris thought about the delicate subject she was writing about and came up with a title that meant sideways of nothing. A book about living with a terminally depressed parent called It Won’t Last Forever is like a bag of used COVID swabs named Your Future is Magic. It doesn’t help describe anything, and later people will say, “What was the name of that sad thing? It was weird… like ‘Try Your Best, Melissa’ or something.” 

Try Your Best Melissa, I think, is dedicated to MIKE BURCH, the author’s son-in-law. And to the parents of any of my future wives, if you want to make a picture book about a sad lady who can’t get off the couch, please don’t dedicate it to me. Judging from this, I don’t think I’ll take it as a compliment. “With adoration and a full heart I dedicate this depression manual to the lazy son of a bitch who married my daughter– a sad piece of shit and inadequate husband.“

The very first page of Sorry, Can’t Remember drops us right into the grim situation– young Kristen’s mother has left her to take care of her baby brother. The art of Graci Evans really shines here. Not because these are well-rendered abandoned children. In fact, this is almost an art lesson in why you shouldn’t use the same values for your foreground and background. But something about these billions of fussy scratches made unexpertly by cheap colored pencils communicates to the viewer, “all existence is suffering.” If you showed this page to someone who had never seen words before they would know those little shapes above the crib are describing something terrible.

Kristen’s mother is in rough shape. She’s recently unemployed and divorced and has no hobbies other than weeping into Kleenex. Graci has chosen to draw her as a bloated swamp corpse getting its eyes eaten by clams, and thanks once again to MIKE BURCH, the author’s son-in-law, for whatever his role was in this.

Eventually the mother goes out looking for work, so she leaves the baby with literally the most nearby person, her neighbor Mrs. Gerhart. Mrs. G, shown here demonstrating one brave artist’s struggle with drawing feet, seems almost suspiciously eager to watch the baby. She is helped by Barbara, “her special friend,” which seems like something elderly lesbians might have called their wives in 1993, but there’s no other reference to why their friendship is so special. All we know about them is that when you hand them a random baby and then ask for it back, they say no.

If Doris was a more talented writer I would think this deliberately vague title along with Mrs. G’s reluctance to end her babysitting sessions would be foreshadowing some dark twist. Are she and Barbara a childless couple looking to steal a baby? Cultists looking to eat one? But no, it’s just a turn of strange choice of words in a series of strange choices.

The thing about Doris Sanford is she is a well-intentioned, kind-hearted idiot. And we need to keep that context in mind here, because I don’t think it’s supposed to feel menacing when the book cuts to Kristen in a swimsuit getting grabbed by the special friend of a neighbor under the words “Barbara was alone with Kristen.” These aren’t warning signs of an impending kidnapping and this really is just a book about depression.

It should not alarm us that Barbara seems to have been watching Kristen’s family for quite some time. The author simply thinks it’s normal for your apartment community’s activity director to know everyone’s untreated emotional disorders and disclose medical history to their children while they are alone with them and have them mostly undressed.

Kristen takes what she has learned about depression and confronts her mother with it. She says to the woman who was recently laid off and divorced, “All you care about is yourself. Why did you get depressed anyway?” Then she finds the new bottle of sleeping pills some doctor prescribed to the depressed woman who sleeps all day. Good authors write what they know, and I’m not sure why I brought that up. Anyway, Doris Sanford stories take place in a world where every single person is dumb as fuck and wrong about everything.

So let me get this straight, book. Kristen said to her suffering mother, “All you care about is yourself,” then finds a bottle of obvious suicide pills and makes the conscious choice to leave them. Then her mother tries to kill herself. And this little girl is the protagonist? If this girl turned to the reader and smiled, not a single reader would be surprised.

I also want to throw it out there, how the random neighbor unwilling to return children after babysitting them found a dead body with a note that basically said, “I give my kids, the ones who have a grandmother mentioned earlier in the book, to the terrific lady who discovers my remains and her special friend, bye.”

I guess this is good news, but Kristen’s mom survives and gets released from the hospital weeks later. She also starts taking medication and “reading helpful books,” a phrase that carries an element of terror when written by a woman who spent a decade publishing dangerously insane “helpful books.” And speaking of Doris Sanford’s decisions, on this page we find out the girl who instantly recognized nonbenzodiazepines as a suicide method is pretty sure Easter bunny isn’t real.

But she’s wrong.

Dead wrong.

So Whatever This Book Was Called, a tale of depression and suicide, has a happy ending! The special friend of Kristen’s babysitter, the one who became her “legal guardian” after finding her mother’s body, dressed up like a bunny and leapt from the shadows when she was alone! I hope this helped, children of sad parents!

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, Micah Phillips: Take off the Easter Bunny suit, Hot Dog Supreme Micah Phillips. Take it off… slowly.

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Shotgun or Sidearm?

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Upsetting Day: No Longer Afraid 🌭

Doris Sanford and Graci Evans are a creative team dedicated to producing a book about every possible pediatric trauma. They produced a book to very specifically help kids deal with life in a Japanese POW camp and another for survivors of nude Satanic daycares, as I will bring up every time Doris and Graci are mentioned for the rest of my life.

Today we’re looking at No Longer Afraid, a story about cancer, and I want to remind everyone this book was not a single act of poor judgment. These women dedicated their lives to turning all childhood misery into saccharine weirdness and we’re making fun of them, not, you know, cancer. It’s what academics refer to as “The Reluctantly Acceptable Cancer Joke Author/Reader Relationship.” So let’s cancer up and do this shit, reader!

Like most of their books, No Longer Afraid was named after a turn of phrase so unrelated to the subject no one will ever be able to remember it. It’s safe to assume no one owns more copies of their work than me, and if you held a gun to my head and asked me what a Sanford/Evans CHILDREN OF COURAGE entry was about based on the title, I’d have to guess “wheelchair sadness?” and hope you weren’t a super pedantic quiz murderer.

This book not only seems bad at comforting the children it was written for, it’s absurd to picture No Longer Afraid getting to them. Its intended audience would have to say to a librarian, “The doctors gave me two sad faces and three question marks to live, so I’m in a bit of a hurry. Do you have… oof, what was it called? Some generic platitude. There, There, Kid? No… something like Could Be Worse, I Guess? It’s about terminal pediatric cancer, but they didn’t want to put that in the title, obviously. Oh! It might be Wishes Have Dream Wings? Ha ha I should have really gathered my thoughts before I started asking questions. Look, can you just point me to the section for indelicate storybooks for Beginners and The Traumatized by authors with no child psychology experience? Oh, you don’t have one? It sounds like I’m kidding? Well, suck my dick too, ma’am.”

One hallmark of Doris Sanford’s writing is how she helps the reader understand a child’s suffering through a child’s perspective. I’ll give you an example. When Jaime’s dad explains to her how dire her biopsy results were, she asks, “Daddy, is there a Taco Bell in heaven?” No answer. If another author wrote this you might find meaning in it– an allegory for the darker tragedy of death coming for this child too innocent to dread it and too stupid to have a point of reference outside of tacos. But with Doris, it’s nothing more than a dumb person blurting Taco Bell into the void. She might as well have asked, “Does God give you extra hot sauce if He fucking kills you when you’re five? And wait, who works, cough, at a Taco Bell in heaven? The four-year-olds He kills? Ha ha I should have really gathered my, cough, thoughts before I started asking questions.”

Doris never wrote a book explicitly for children who are stupid as shit, but it’s a trait all of her characters share whether they’re dying of leukemia, the product of divorce, or watching their house burn down. An eight-year-old in a Doris Sanford book might look at a briefcase and ask what happened to that cat and if it knows what to do with this handful of poop.

To make matters worse, the wise adult characters stuck with the job of explaining complicated things like God’s merciless, arbitrary child murder are also stupid. So, for example, a conversation about chemotherapy might have one character repeating, “Huh?” while the other one tells them nonsense like, “Chemotherapy is like weeds! Wait wait, it’s more like Pac-Man, the arcade hit from when you were negative 7, kind of going to war?” If this sounds more like a specific reference than a joke, you’re right!

Jaime seems satisfied with that Pac-Man explanation, or maybe she has been trained to ask “Is this my fault?” every time her mom says forty fucking crazy things in a row. Either way, Doris and Graci are ready to move on to the lighter side of cancer– the way your hair falls out! I wish I was kidding when I said the next twenty pages are about how much fun bald children are for everyone.

If you’d like a look inside the workings of a genius mind, Doris’ comfort to young cancer readers is, “In the children’s cancer unit at the hospital she would have looked strange with hair!” She should have gone all the way with it and had Jaime’s mother point to a new fully-haired patient and say, “Your head looks like a lollipop yanked off of Steven Seagal’s naked back! You shit. You garbage gorilla monster. My daughter is going to rip that louse nest from your bitch ass scalp. Kick this hairy sick kid’s ass, Jaime!”

This decision? To not do that and instead type out the lyrics to an arcane Christian lullaby? Pure cowardice. A brave writer would say something closer to: Anyone finding solace in these transcribed lyrics from Steve Siler’s “Don’t Fear the Night,” Used by permission, should maybe consider how they don’t deserve any kind of comfort? They were given a human brain and heart and squandered them both.

As I promised, the author further explores Jaime’s baldness. Nearly as troubling as Jaime’s health issues is the fact that her mother’s first idea, in this blonde girl’s most vulnerable moment, was gluing an orange clown wig to her hair. Did she walk into the store and say, “Hi, my daughter recently learned what death is and how it’s breathing down her neck. Yeah, I know, right? Anyway, this bald look was popular back in her cancer ward but now I’m thinking maybe something i– oooh, how much is the red afro? That would be hilarious. Do I get a discount if it makes her cry? Ha ha I should really gather my thoughts before I start asking questions.”

You might be wondering how all of Jaime’s friends reacted to her chemotherapy wig. No? You say that’s an unimportant detail of a subject already very, very covered? Well, they loved it. They all passed it around, trying it on. “Oh, give me a hit off your ventilator!” one girl interrupted after seeing an elderly man enjoying the park. “Let me use that plastic leg, fucker!” shouted another at a nearby veteran. “I’m Aqua Fat, the meat-lover’s submarine captain!” laughed a third as she drove an obese woman’s mobility scooter into a lake. “They. Were the same. Kids who stole. My electrolarynx.” croaked a man through a hole in his neck after the police arrived.

It’s still going? Jesus Christ. Wait, is the first bald joke, “Hey, Jaime, I like your chemo cut?” Fucking “Hey, Jaime, I like your chemo cut!?” Doris, you goddamn bitch, maybe don’t quote the poor kid’s least creative bullies in the book about her slow death. Oh, and nice work on Jaime’s brilliant response. “My father is Kojak?” Yeah, that works. Because that show went off the air before her parents met and everyone knows how bald men pass their scalp genes onto their grade school daughters. What I’m trying to say here is if their editor called this book Watch Us Belittle This Dumbshit Sick Kid, they wouldn’t have to change a single other thing.

If you want to write authentic child voices, you need to speak their language. Like how kids say things like, “Get real!” and “Eva Gabor references!” I mean, I get the stakes are low here. It’s only a book for fragile kids coping with mortality, but is this the best Doris could do? She might as well have said, “Do I like my wig? Oy, fellow fourth graders, I like my wig like I like my second and fourth husbands– stuffed in a box and with a good insurance policy! Now, kiddo, can you tell me how much sodium is in these crackers? I left my reading glasses in my other Bea Arthur windbreaker and if I have too much salt my joints creak like the Lusitania! I… m-mean I’m ten! Pac-Man sure is turbo bad, maximum homeboys!”

And not to pile on the criticism, but I think we can all agree that when everyone you know has tried on your wig and local birds have littered your life with multiple nests made from the remains of your real hair, we have fully explored every aspect of your baldness journey. It might be time to shut the fuck up about how delightfully shiny this kid’s head is, Doris. Let’s move on to the Make-A-Wish part, the other thing Doris and Graci know about this terribl(y fun!) disease.

Jaime likes horses, which seems normal for a young girl. In fact, I’d argue “cancer girl loses hair and asks Make-A-Wish for a horse” is suspiciously normal– like the very first idea for a cancer storybook plot by an unremarkable writer. And when Jaime is moved to tears by everyone’s support, a strange horse judge says, “I think your happiness is leaking out of your eyes. (It was!)” Jesus Christ. What? This whole thing is such an ordinary idea executed by people with good intentions, but Doris and Graci are just incapable of not making things weird. They are somehow simultaneously the pioneers, the clichĂ© hacks, and the Turkish knockoffs of sadness picture books.

Doris waits until the second-to-last page to deliver No Longer Afraid’s titular line: “She was no longer afraid of the dark.” She set this powerful moment up masterfully, by never once mentioning the main character being afraid of the dark. This might as well have said, “Jaime was one step closer to her goal of being a celebrity cookie chef, a hobby of hers we edited out to make room for more bald jokes, here’s a horse shoe.”

“Graci, this book has been a wonderful journey. We gave a kid every kind of cancer, explained it perfectly with Pac-Man kind of going to war, and she met a horse once. I don’t have an ending, so let’s add 17 pages of kids mocking her baldness? She’s probably dead by now, but let’s not end it on a grave. Can you draw, like, a horse restraint? Then it’s another one in the bag! Let me know if you have any ideas for the next book. I’m thinking WATCHING YOUR UNEMPLOYED SINGLE MOM COMMIT SUICIDE?”

-Doris

Possibly related: tune in in two weeks for Seanbaby’s next Upsetting Day…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme, yossarian: The Morgan Horse Restraint dream we never dared to speak aloud, for fear it would not come true.

 

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: The Best of 2020 🌭

Merry Christmas! It’s Upsetting Day.

Now you must choose which day you’d rather celebrate.

On the one hand you have family, togetherness, hot cocoa, carols, presents and the portly home invader dressed to hide bloodstains who brings them to you. On the other hand, you have hundreds of jokes about the worst movies, the weirdest books, the most unsettling pieces of media that should never have been and the two robust, bulging men who bring them to you. They are also dressed to hide bloodstains.

Choose Upsetting Day!

Upsetting Day

A Doris Sanford Special Feature

If a Costco factory chicken had anything like a beak left on its featherless, shit-covered head, it would describe Something Must Be Wrong With Me as “a bit too sad for me.”

How to Get Along With Black People

For the first 25 or so pages, How to Get Along with Black People is a light-hearted comedy routine about stereotypes which I recognized as a trap. Giving white people permission to laugh at racial stereotypes is how we got Zach Braff.

Ceto’s New Friends

This is 100% the first thing I would behead with a shovel if it was walking next to the animated remains of Osama bin Laden. What the fuck went wrong in Leah A. Haley‘s life that made her think this is cute? If these goddamn horrors ever start talking with their mouths, the first thing they’re going to say is, “We are the ghosts of abortions. We are here for your skin.”

Beanie Baby Stories

From a certain point of view, Beanie Baby¼ Stories is a book filled with “Heartwarming stories for Beanie Baby¼ lovers of all ages,” but there may have been no hobby more alien to human behavior than Beanie Baby¼ collecting. Nothing these people did made sense, and even today, years after the sad, dark life of mock capitalism they built for themselves crumbled into nothing, we have no idea why they became Beanie Baby¼ collectors. If I saw 300 grandmothers carrying Beanie Babies¼ and they all turned to me and hissed “We’re fucking them!” from the one giant grandmother they are swarming into, it would actually help it make more sense.

The Prison Alphabet

Debra M. finished the entire alphabet and her takeaway was not “I know a lot about prisons now.” It was, “I hope the author consults with reputable psychotherapists next time publishing a book to purportedly help children.” I don’t need to tell you Debra is, ugh, the worst, but she’s probably right. Do you have any idea how shitty you have to be at making coloring books if you’re a professor of criminology named Muntaquim Muhammad and some random Debbie has a better take on the prison industrial complex than you? This is like Lena Dunham getting body acceptance explained to her by a guy named Footslut Jake.

ASMR Roleplay

“Cranial nerve exam porn” sounds like something so hardcore you can only film it in the most Russian parts of Russia. But no, this shit is like the schoolgirl fantasy of ASMR Roleplay: So commonplace it’s barely considered deviant. These videos are as omnipresent as they are perplexing


It’s always the same — an attractive female doctor gently inquiring if you have something wrong with your brain. It is the single most attainable fantasy for ASMR fans, who could make this a reality by taking two steps: Making a doctor’s appointment, and admitting to why they made that doctor’s appointment.

Damsel Fetish

This here is an entire channel dedicated to fans of Damsels In Distress, or DIDdlers. Do they proudly call themselves that, or did I make it up to insult them? You don’t know, and unless you criminally compromise your search history, you never will!

Gary Busey, Pet Judge

I’m sure they’ve written some baseline setups for his weirdness, but you cannot get Gary Busey to follow a script unless you tape it to the ghosts he thinks are attacking him.

Saved By the Bell Reboot

“Can you put that away?” I gestured at his naked cock, which was easy to do. I didn’t even have to pick a direction. “I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed or jealous but I literally can’t look at anything else. There’s not enough room.”

Mario Lopez picked up something from the floor and mechanically slid on a pair of the woman’s worn panties. They were metallic purple. It was almost worse.

“Can you put on something else?”

You Wouldn’t Want to be a Sailor on a 19th Century Sailing Vessel

Your Second Grader definitely needs to know how to peel a whale like an orange. Ignore the tears; tell him again where the chains attach. This world is a harsh place and he will never thrive if he doesn’t understand exactly how you skin majesty.

Wish

It’s padding for your dick’s bra. Here’s the thing guys may not realize though: women tend to value honesty a little more than men. If I’m lucky enough to hook up with a woman, and she takes off her bra to reveal less than perfect breasts, I’m going to shrug and continue to count my blessings. If a guy pulls his pants down and a cheap piece of Batman armor falls out of his underwear, the night is over and Lady Yelp will hear of this sad tale.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsors and Hot Dog Supremes: The artist formerly known as Devon, Eric Spaulding, Neil Bailey, Doug Redmond, Lane Haygood, and Luke Skyjogger. Apart they are mere humans, but together, and with enough booze, they are asked to leave the Sizzler.