Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Dog Police

Hello, I am here to talk to you about the music video for the song Dog Police by the band Dog Police off the album Dog Police. There may or may not be some Dog Police involved in this discussion. It’s best to be prepared.

We open with a woman seductively getting ready for her date by doing those mysterious pre-date things everybody who’s never lived with a woman assumes women do to get ready for dates. 

You know, slinking around in a nighty, carefully selecting a variety of perfumes to reward her man with a unique scent for every base. Instead of what they actually do to get ready for dates, which is what we all do to get ready for dates, which is try to struggle out all of the night’s farts in advance, despite knowing full well that is not how farts work.

And then we meet the man she’s going through all this trouble for, who looks like everything bad about the ‘80s physically attacked everything bad about the ‘70s. 

He’s got a flaccid pompadour and the ghost of a beard that died with unfinished business. He’s wearing molester glasses back before irony transformed them into hipster glasses, and that’s the suit they’ll bury Don Johnson in. 

His acting style is ‘thrown out of mime school for being sarcastic.’

And his voice is sort of Devo, but that exact point 1/3rd of the way through a Devo album where you’re like “okay, that’s quite enough Devo.”

To allow plenty of room for this terrible dating skit that’s one raspy narrator away from an Unsolved Mysteries reenactment, the music just sort of idles. It refuses to come inside, but won’t go away. It’s out there, waiting on the porch, peering in through the windows and repeating its strange synth sting that sounds more like a score trying to warn the audience that the hook-handed killer may not be as dead as they think. It lends the whole thing a sinister, unsettling air that is… actually entirely appropriate, come to think of it. 

But despite more red flags than an Arsenal match (am I right, soccer fans?! Am I right? I have no idea if I’m right) the woman still voluntarily gets in the car of, again, this man:

Eventually the song breaks open with four barks and a chorus chanting the titular “DOG POLICE.” Why?

Because his date is a dog! And the Dog Police are there to keep you from dating dogs!

That’s hilarious! 

…to shithead bros of the ‘80s, and nobody else! 

That’s right: This whole song is just a joke the least popular frat house in Tampa is not legally allowed to make anymore, not since the case of Jennifer Dogsworth v. Beta Omega Nu, 1982.

So it’s mean-spirited and basic, but at least it’s also aesthetic poison: 

The lead singer mugs at the camera like somebody told him the ADHD meds were flattening him out, which is a shame, because he could be the next Jim Carrey.

While the dogwoman’s make-up looks like God’s first-draft of the furry fetish came back with too many notes.

And the Dog Police themselves are like McGruff joined the KGB: Same basic character but dead behind the eyes and here to disappear your husband. 

I’m not entirely joking about the Dog Police being a sinister secret police force, here’s the chorus: 

DOG POLICE

WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM

DOG POLICE

NOBODY KNOWS WHO YOU ARE

For a wacky song about dating ugly women, the lyrics sure seem to be desperately seeking answers about the role of off-the-books law enforcement squads in our community.

But listen, if this was just a song about a secret police force made up of were-dogs who keep ugly women from dating, we wouldn’t be here. That’s not Upsetting Day material. Learning Day? Maybe. Fucking Day? Of course. But Upsetting Day requires something more. And that’s good, because this song has one further twist:

Towards the end of the video, the singer makes it increasingly plain that he’s not actually talking about an ugly girl. He’s been having sex with an actual dog this whole time. 

No no, that’s not the twist. 

While that is indeed both gross and insane, that’s actually just the setup for the real twist. You write a song about how your girl is a metaphorical dog and you can’t take her out anywhere? That sucks, but this is the 1980s — here’s a million dollars. 

You write a song about how your girlfriend is a literal dog and society frowns on you dating her? That’s crazy, but this is the 1980s — I bet Frank Zappa beat you there. 

No, what sets Dog Police apart is the growing concern from his bandmates as the singer reveals that he’s talking about bangin’ beagles:

The looks they give him as he changes the song from ‘ugly girlfriend’ to ‘fun bestiality’ mean one thing…

They were not informed about the nature of this song that they freely started playing.

That makes this whole video a meta-narrative about the rest of a band finding out, onstage, that their lead singer proudly fucks dogs, and they have been inadvertently tricked into joining a musical act that endorses dogfucking.

That is some Charlie Kaufman shit, Dog Police! 

I’ve been burning you down this whole time, unaware that you were setting me up for some Adaptation ‘you become the story’ shenanigans. Wait, what does this mean? Is the song pro or anti poodle-pounding? Is it actually commenting on human beauty standards at all? Am… am I the dogfucker now???

How the hell did you pitch this video?

I can picture the record exec that says yes to a music video about how women are only worth as much as their looks, because that’s every record exec. And I can picture the record exec that says yes to a video about having sex with actual canines, because somebody greenlit everything Aphex Twin ever did. But how did you find the one record exec in the world that would greenlight a video about backing musicians who eagerly promote misogyny, only to slowly discover they’re actually endorsing bestiality? Did you just ask Peter Gabriel? You probably just asked Peter Gabriel. 

One final note: Dog Police was a zany little side project for the Tony Thomas Trio — well-respected jazz musicians who played with Ella Fitzgerald, The Duke Ellington Orchestra, and Tony Bennett, amongst others. They wanted to do this song as a one-time bit of surrealism, but when it took off, they shrugged, said “guess we’re the dogfuckers now,” and tried to embrace it. To nobody’s surprise but their own, it turns out society only had one slot open for Weird Musical Meta-Narrative About Bestiality. They never had another hit. The Tony Thomas Trio went back to playing serious jazz, the only lasting impact being that now everyone they played with knew they were willing to go all in on the dogfucking thing.

Special thanks to patron LDHaines for the tip!

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Beanie Baby Stories 🌭

From a certain point of view, Beanie Baby® Stories is a book filled with “Heartwarming stories for Beanie Baby® lovers of all ages,” but there may have been no hobby more alien to human behavior than Beanie Baby® 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 Baby® collectors. If I saw 300 grandmothers carrying Beanie Babies® 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. Still, with artifacts like Beanie Baby® Stories, we can at least reassure ourselves they were, to a person, pieces of shit.

The stories and art about Beanie Babies® are compiled by Susan Titus Osborn and Sandra Jensen, who, if I had to guess by their names, are an aspiring serial killer and Richmond County’s record holder for Most “Suspicious Person” 911 Calls in a Single Year, respectively. They are not authorized or associated with Ty, Inc.; they are just two women who have no concept of happiness, personal growth, or mental health outside of buying more Beanie Babies®.

The stories are a page or two long and Susan and Sandra were not picky when curating them. If someone in the story bought or tried to buy a Beanie Baby®, it was included. Tilted Kilt restroom stalls have higher editorial standards than Susan and Sandra. There are multiple stories in this goddamn book about an old lady receiving a Beanie Baby® as a gift and enjoying it. There are stories about sick children smiling at their favorite Beanie Baby® one last time. These torturous anecdotes are “heartwarming” like watching a puppy drown under a sign that says “God is everywhere.” I have an idea: let’s see if you can get through one.

This poor woman kept buying Beanie Babies® because of any tiny coincidence and now she is literally trapped inside a room of only them. And that’s it! That’s the story “Hooked” by Mary Jo Hoch! This isn’t even a cry for help. It’s the death rattle of a human soul. It’s something a creative writing teacher would show you after saying, “This example is maybe a little obvious, but here’s how you could express the emptiness of consumerism using allegory.” It’s the novel a Foster Farms chicken would write if you could teach it to type, adapted for Beanie Baby® by Mary Jo Hoch. If a single person on the plane had this book in their luggage, 9/11 was worth it.

About 80% of the stories are about people suffering from tragedies or physical afflictions finding whatever comfort they can in buying stuffed animals. I don’t want to take that from them, and I honestly hope these sad people don’t find out how unmoved I am by their poorly paced stories about enjoying toys and no second thing. But when it comes to this next story, “Higgins Approves,” I would prefer it if author Diane Neal knew she wasted the miracle of life. This fucking monster. I want her to read “Diane Neal deserves to watch her Beanie Babies® get torn apart by every high school classmate less fat than her.” This barren sack of living small talk wrote a 600 word manifesto about checking with her kitty cat to see he’d let her keep a ladybug Beanie Baby®.

This isn’t entirely Diane Neal’s fault. This dried up dingbat was probably a week away from asking her iron lung to take her to the Mayor of Robots when she wrote that story. A lot of the blame falls on Susan and Sandra. Ladies, if you’re compiling a book of stories and one of them is, “My cat sniffed a stuffed animal and reacted to it like it was a stuffed animal,” throw your idea in the trash. You’re making garbage for garbage people. And nice fucking snake, Aaron Rucker, age 8. Now that you’re 29 you’re old enough for me to tell you to fuck yourself for adding your talentless scribbles to this saccharine case against American exceptionalism.

In this story, Laura Duvall, amateur stupid fuck, couldn’t figure out how her handsomely dressed teddy bear kept moving around the house! Most people with a daughter and a cat would think, “It was one of those.” Sure enough, it was, and sorry for spoiling the ending of “Disappearing Blackie.” This is nothing. This is a story you would tell a coma victim if the weather was too mild to comment on. This is what you’d say to a murderer to convince him you’re both already dead and in Hell. If someone held a gun to a supercomputer’s head and said “generate the saddest thing anyone ever said about the color black,” this is what it would print out before formatting itself.

Susan Titus Osborn contributes one of her own stories, but trust me when I say you don’t want to read it. She complains she’s too old to use a computer, and to help cope with all her unforced Windows errors she keeps a Beanie Baby® on her desk. If you told me this was a collection of suicide notes found clutched in the paws of a mint condition teddy bear, I’d say, “No fucking shit. You shouldn’t be touching that without a cleric.” You know what? Let’s get sadder.

This is a story written by a 12-year-old who entered a raffle for the opportunity to PAY FIFTEEN DOLLARS for a teddy bear. Great job. That’s not how raffles work, Melissa, and if you weren’t dumb as shit it would be a red flag. Is there a better metaphor for the grift these idiots fell for than this– a community of dumbshits who think a kid getting fleeced out of her money by a toy store is winning. And I want to warn you right now, there’s no payoff at all in this story. Melissa is going to just slowly decay while nothing she does or anything around her means anything.

This family was so desperate for the chance to pay $15 for a beanbag they asked their priest to enter the raffle, and a different priest scolded them for it. Do you have any idea how obsessed a child has to be with Beanie Babies® for a Catholic priest to stop having sex with them and explain God’s stance on Beanie Babies®?

So, let’s recap: some toy store is trying to steal money from the community’s dumbest goddamn children and God refuses to help, not because it’s amoral, but because He doesn’t care.

Wait, what? They didn’t even win the fucking raffle!? I wasn’t expecting a three act structure, but what is this goddamn story? Why did you bring any of this up, Melissa Marchionna (age 12)? Are you telling me you go to a church where eavesdropping priests will interrupt you to criticize your prayers and not one of them has ever explained when you need to shut the fuck up? This is one of those times, Melissa. Telling a story about not winning the worst raffle after trying to win the worst raffle is something a Nazi scientist would do while holding a clipboard that says, “Finding the Human Limit of Disinterest – Prisoner Trials.”

You don’t deserve this, reader, but we’re doing one more. Here’s “Grandapanda” by Ramona Jean Wolfe:

This is the story of a confused woman with an actual brain injury getting taken advantage of by her “friend.” This bitch comes to the home of a debilitated woman with a crate of toys to sell them to her? And the first one she pulls out is literally fucking named Fleece? I refuse to believe this book is anything other than Cold War era Soviet propaganda about the evils of capitalism. This is so on-the-nose it’s impossible to miss, but Susan and Sandra collected fifty others like it and called them “heartwarming.” This is a celebration of tricking pathetic lonely people out of their money. If you showed Beanie Baby® Stories to a sex trafficker eating a diaper they would say, “Ew, this book is gross.” I’ve never hated a book more than this and if this is the first 1-900-HOTDOG article you’ve read, please understand that’s a very serious thing for me to say. May your fruitless wombs cough out centipedes forever, Susan and Sandra. And Melissa (age 12)– you deserved to lose that raffle.

Categories
PODCASTING DAY UPSETTING DAY

Not Upsetting Day: The Podcast Launch! 🌭

Heads up, Hot Dog enthusiasts: We’ve got big news! Today is not Upsetting Day! We scheduled this announcement ironically, like calling a big guy “Tiny,” or Joe Rogan “sexually viable.” Yes, this is the opposite of Upsetting Day, because today marks the official launch of our podc-

Today is Upsetting Day.

No, damn it! 

Topper can’t take this from us. Today sees the launch of the official 🌭1-900-HOTDOG🌭 podcast, Dogg Zzone 9000, available at this link, or wherever fine podcasts are sold.

That’s right, no more must you make do with those shoddy unlicensed knock-off Hot Dog podcasts, this here highly-processed tube of soundmeat is formally endorsed by the jokewranglers at 1-900-HOTD-

Topper! Fuck! F-fucking… fuck you! Fuck you hard in the soft parts, Topper.

Listen, we are extremely excited about the new podcast. In it, we explore some topics we’ve already Hot Dogged, but from new angles, with new jokes, and while bringing new information we weren’t able to cover with just 1200 words plus one weird photoshop. But mostly I’m excited that you finally get to listen to our theme song, done by the very sexually viable Auralnauts. Even if you’re not a podcast fan, you’re going to want to fire this sucker up and hear that theme song. In just 43 short seconds, you’ll absorb a full 600 IU dose of awesome to your ear and face areas, as both doctors and professors of the Badical Sciences recommend. 

Can you… can you guys share this podcast as much as possible? We really need to get to that stretch goal where we fucking fire Topper. 

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Ceto’s New Friends 🌭

Fuck this nightmare book. Hi, I’m the Internet’s Seanbaby, handsome humorist from beloved comedy website 1900hotdog.com, and I’m telling you right now CETO’S NEW FRIENDS is, without question, some bullshit. I understand this sentence will be used against us if humanity is ever on trial for being too goddamn stupid to live, but this book was written by a certified public accountant who wants children to know the fun and wonder of alien abductions.

The accountant author, who sucks at at least one of those things, is named Leah A. Haley. Leah A. Haley is a series of white letters written almost exclusively in calligraphed serif italics. It’s the first name on a reservation list for a maskless COVID-19 brunch. When Leah A. Haley applies for a change of address, a government employee sees “Leah A. Haley” on the form and stamps “DOES NOT FUCK” on it.

What Leah A. Haley does do is believe in aliens. Most alien nutjobs are incurious, troubled people who wish they could solve their sad problems with star magic, and CETO’S NEW FRIENDS is like all these emotional disorders having a nuclear meltdown. Please hear me and believe me when I say: Fuck this crazy bitch and her crazy book.

The dedication is “For Our Children,” but if you can show me a book less safe for children, I’ll say, “HOW TO COVER YOURSELF IN MOOSE URINE DURING MATING SEASON FOR KIDS? I think you made up this fake book to ruin the point I was trying to make.” My copy of CETO’S NEW FRIENDS was previously owned by the Sandusky Library, which kept track of their books by putting little price tag stickers on them and then not even coming close to scratching them off after they were returned. So by counting the half-torn stickers and claw marks, I know this was checked out five times before they took it out of circulation. So that’s at least five people in Ohio who are objectively unfit parents and whom we also can’t trust when the visitors arrive.

The story opens with Ceto on a faraway planet. This is all we are told about him. Leah A. Haley doesn’t know what the planet is called or any of Ceto’s customs we might interpret as virtues, hobbies, or personality. He’s just from space, and that’s all Leah A. Haley needs to know to trust him with the brains and orifices of her children.

Annie and Seth live on Earth, and this is what illustrator Lisa Dusenberry, a “curious and open-minded” UFO investigator, thinks children from Earth look like. The back of the book says she often works with abductees to illustrate their experiences, which might explain why the children look like they were drawn by someone whose main body of work is sketches of space monsters undressing lonely people.

There is fucking nothing to do in space, so Ceto came to Earth to watch Annie and Seth play netless volleyball. The leading causes of death on this planet are disease and violence, and this idiot lady thinks aliens are going to just send their babies millions of light years to pointlessly float through our backyards. Are Ceto’s parents back home telepathically saying, “It’s worth the star risk, lover! Our Ceto has to experience Earth sports!” There’s not a backyard in America where this alien wouldn’t be shot out of the air by seven kinds of firearms, and the signals we broadcast into space make this very clear.

Oh, good. Ceto gets creepier.

These kids seem old enough to know they should at least go inside and ask their parents if it’s okay to go into space with their new friend Ceto. I don’t care how reassuringly featureless a creature’s pubis is, no parent is going to let it take their kids off-planet after one game of marbles. So here’s where the story ends, right?

I’m sure it’ll be fine.

Jesus fucking Christ. CETO’S NEW FRIENDS was produced by two women who, together, looked at this picture and said, “This is perfect. This is exactly how safe children should look in a story about happy things.” 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.”

Ceto’s got a fucking Playschool spaceship console. Is that really how you steer the thing, Ceto, or is this just what you let the stupid Earth children play with? You don’t really honk on 700 giant plastic baby-colored buttons to navigate the stars, do you?

Think of the danger these children are in. Let’s ignore the obvious — how there’s no reason to think Ceto will return them home, or if he would even know which fucking big dumb button would take them there anyway. They are breathing in microscopic creatures from a different galaxy and smearing the same all over Ceto’s toddler console. Do we really think this race of super powerful beings are going to stay benevolent when Ceto brings back Annie’s head lice and Seth’s hand, foot, and mouth disease? Or as Ceto’s people will call it “horblax, foot and morblax disease alpha 7.” This is an act of intergalactic biological war. I mean, read a book on intergalactic biological warfare, Leah A. Haley, you dingbat cow.

Leah A. Haley‘s imagination conjured up three activities the children could do in space and two of them were fucking around with props from an uninspired 1950s sci-fi movie. Was this worth a whole page of a 28 page book– Annie and Seth watching bar graphs on Ceto’s shitty console?

You really went all out to entertain these kids, Ceto. “I AM SPEAKING TO YOU WITH MY EYES, EARTH YOUNGLINGS. SORRY, I DON’T GET ANY CHANNELS THIS FAR FROM MY HOME. I GUESS YOU CAN WATCH STATIC WHILE I CLEANSE MY BORBLAX EXCAVATION TOOLS. AH, MY TRANSLATO-TRON SAYS YOU CALL THEM BUTTHOLES.”

So Ceto brings them home, presumably hours later. Maybe days? Months? He gives them the gift of “a purple rock” which will definitely do nothing to help convince their parents they were in space this whole time. I don’t think you have to be a parent to imagine how pissed off you’d be if your kids vanished and came back with just the dumbest fucking UFO story. A story just dumb as all shit. If you were kicked in the head by a donkey, this UFO story is what you’d tell your doctor to let him know the current treatment wasn’t working. Leah A. Haley writes like aliens took turns shitting in her brain as a space prank.

“Our new friend let us press random buttons on an unlabeled starship console! We killed a moon! We saw a green line! What do you mean you don’t believe us? This unremarkable chunk of quartz proves our story to be true!”

Why? To harvest the beings you planted in them? To check in and see if their faces ever grew into human shapes? What was gained or learned from any of this? What idle beings would bend the laws of time and space and risk interplanetary war to give two mute children the galaxy’s most boring spaceship ride? This book is the squarest, dullest moron’s lack of foresight and imagination laid bare. This bitch has nothing going on in her mind other than an obsession with make-believe. I firmly believe if an ice cream truck driver drove into Leah A. Haley’s living room and screamed “I need baby teeth for my chrono-drive,” this idiot kook would give him all her children and proudly write a book called How I Raised Time Dentists.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Your New Damsel Fetish 🌭

I delve into troublesome YouTube channels like dwarves dig into the accursed earth. It’s not a matter of if my meddling will uncover a monster, but when, and how many subscribers the Balrog will have. I’ve so utterly fucked the YT recommendation algorithm now that half of the things it thinks I’ll like are surrealist toddler videos and the other half are abduction pornography. And sometimes it’s both!

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! 

At first glance, this isn’t so bad. The channel makes me a little sad for the squandered potential of humanity, just like everything else on the internet, but really it’s just bondage for people who somehow haven’t heard that word yet. It’s like the My First Playset for rope fetishes. I hate it, but you kind of have to assume it exists. But let us dig deeper, for there are gems to find and the Balrog is just a legend, you fools!

The channel is solely focused on kid’s cartoons, and that’s sort of understandable when it features stuff like this:

Right, Harley Quinn tying Catwoman up has its own genre page on PornHub. Having a softcore version of it so you high-risk dangerwank at work only makes sense. But uh… there are a lot of these clips.

Oh no.

No.

I meant A LOT.

The account spans nearly a decade and hosts thousands of videos.

The tone of sexual obsession absolutely changes when you buy in bulk. Got a couple dozen weirdly specific porn clips saved? That’s called “being prepared.” What if the internet goes down and you absolutely must masturbate to Overwatch cosplay? You need a virtual boner bug-out bag. Cross that terabyte line though, and there’s no coming back for you. At some point it stops being a sexy collection and starts being the research folder for a serial killer manifesto. 

Much of the DID channel features provocatively drawn adult women bound up like this:

Oh shit, I recognize that clip! That’s from the Police Academy cartoon! 

Wait, there was a Police Academy cartoon? And you knew about this, brain?! Did you think you could hide it from me? We will discuss an apt punishment later. Right, I was saying:

Having a thing for busty cartoon ladies in sex-adjacent scenarios is understandable — it’s a little weird that you’re jerking it to Police Academy but god and Moses Hightower know that I can’t throw any stones on that front. But here’s one I remember from the Problem Child cartoon and — really, brain? You tried to bury this one, too? Somebody’s getting the dust-cleaner fumes later. The storebrand kind.

Anyway, this clip from the Problem Child cartoon is where things start to stray: 

That girl looks a little young. And that janitorial closet looks a bit too filthy for a child to go entirely unmurdered in. The implications here are troubling. Maybe it’s about the rescue in this case, though — I can see a fetish about women with huge asses using them like battering rams to save captives. I’m actually into that. I’m actually way into that.

This is from Adventures in Odyssey, and now there’s an actual child involved. Also that woman is in no way erotically drawn or posed. There’s nothing inherently sexy here, so it has to be about the abduction itself, and that’s… troubling.

There is no acceptable sexuality in this. Those waddling Lego figurines barely register as human, and I can think of zero scenarios where it’s okay for a magical mannequin to powerwade out to a boatbound captive woman-bot and start tonguefucking her mouthgag. So this whole thing, it’s not about the people at all. Right?

Right.

Gotcha. All right. Do the YouTube comments confirm this is exactly what I think it is?

Yes, they do. They always do. 

Maybe it’s a one-off thing?

Could be a one-off thing.

It’s not a one-off thing.

And the comments, are they as terrifyi-

Yes, they are.

I could go to therapy for years and never find a better way to communicate my feelings about this than, “thang you stop.” But okay, well, I know furries are a pretty harmless thing, and they’re probably a thing in the first place because of shows like this — when you draw a sultry-eyed dino lady in an evening dress maybe we can’t act surprised when the internet celebrates her being chained to a wall. And if you take special care to give your foxlady some ass, I guess we should’ve expected the internet to unzip when you threw her in a trunk.

So that cements a few things about the sensibilities of this channel. Namely that: It has to be specifically about children’s cartoons, it is a sexual thing, the sexuality does not come from anything resembling consent, and in fact much of the allure comes from how apparent it is that the victims are going to be murdered. Like so:

I know Filthy Janitor’s Closet is a part of your Jerkoff Mise En Place, but the tone of this image is absolutely not “playful distress” and absolutely is “oops, this Czech horror film I’m watching might be real.” Those kids are probably not of legal age, and they are definitely not long for this world. 

With all of that in mind, including this clip from Donkey Kong, Jr. in your Sexy Abductions YouTube Channel:

Is going to land you in the most embarrassing jail. The one they only use for people who molest the animatronic robots at Chuck E. Cheese, and Roger Stone.

Don’t worry, you will have so much company…

40 million views! This dude bought a yacht from the money he made capping Remedial Wank Material from Saturday Morning Cartoons. I may have said it before — aloud, and literally every day I wake up to find I haven’t Freaky Friday body switched with a mid-level programmer — but I am in the wrong industry. The real money is in ‘contextless cartoon gagporn,’ just like my guidance counselor said.

Categories
UPSETTING DAY

Death Wish 3 🌭

The Most Important Sequence In Cinema History? 

If asked to name the most important sequence in cinema history, most scholars fall back on the old standbys: That part in RoboCop where RoboCop shoots that guy in the penis. That part in The Killer where Chow Yun-Fat shoots that guy in the penis. That part in Sin City where Bruce Willis shoots that guy in the penis. That part in Hobo with a Shotgun where Rutger Hauer shoots that guy in the penis. That part in True Romance where Christian Slater shoots that guy in the penis. That part in Pulp Fiction where Ving Rhames shoots that guy in the penis. That part in Django Unchained where Jamie Foxx shoots that guy in the penis. That part in The Hateful Eight where Channing Tatum shoots that guy in the penis. These are all defensible choices and no true film connoisseur would judge you for picking one or all of them as the pinnacle of the craft.

But I would argue that the most important film moments are those that reveal deep cultural truths while cleverly stepping outside of what William Goldman called the “bullet right to the fucking cock” template of screenwriting. As such, the Death Wish franchise is a sly subversion of expectations — you spend the entire series assuming you’re going to see someone get shot hardcore in the penis, but it never happens! No, really! Go back and watch!

What this franchise does give us is what I personally consider the Most Important Sequence in Cinema History, which occurs around forty minutes into the third film. It’s a series of scenes that you’ve seen even if you’ve never seen them. You’ve seen them in the eyes of every red-blooded American male who sleeps with an AR-15 and 12,000 rounds of ammunition under the bed in case those teens try to vandalize the mailbox again.

First, some quick background: In 1972, an author named Brian Garfield wrote a horror novel called Death Wish about a mild-mannered white guy whose wife is tragically killed in a mugging. Insane with grief, the man takes to the streets with a gun, setting lethal traps for muggers and becoming more and more unhinged until he’s literally gunning down children just for the hell of it. It’s a cautionary tale about how vigilantism is a ridiculous, psychotic fantasy for shitheads. Then Hollywood came calling and, well, they had some notes. 

In 1974, the novel was made into an action movie franchise starring Charles Bronson as cool badass Paul Kersey, who totally solves urban crime by gleefully killing at least 116 cartoonishly evil street criminals across five increasingly ridiculous movies. The author was so mortified by this that he wrote a mournful sequel novel that stated even more overtly that vigilantes are no better than the street criminals they’re hunting, which I believe was adapted into the 1997 film Double Team starring Jean-Claude Van Damme and Dennis Rodman. 

Oh, and before we get into the deranged all-American fantasy that is Death Wish 3, I need to clear up something that’s going to confuse my younger readers. While today’s action heroes look like this:

…back in my day, they looked like this:

As you can see, the ideal of American masculinity has shifted over time in ways that are profound and yet difficult to understand if you’ve never smelled a phone booth. Let’s put it this way: Charles Bronson is only 23 years old in that photo. 

So, 1985’s Death Wish 3 opens in a New York neighborhood being terrorized by flamboyant 1980s gang violence. Said gang beats Paul Kersey’s best friend to death, which just so happens to occur on the exact day and hour that Kersey is coming to visit the city for the first time in a decade. This is the kind of coincidence that is usually fixed if a script has a second draft, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about today.

The cops accuse Kersey of the crime, but then the main police guy makes him a deal: He will let Kersey go if he agrees to murder all of the “creeps” in said neighborhood for him. “You work for me now,” he says, the audience trembling with the anticipation of seeing a whole lot of lead inserted into a whole lot of pencils.

Kersey agrees to become an unpaid serial killer for the state with a casual nod, then  strides into the street to begin his work. Within 25 seconds, he sees a man being thrown out of a window, then his attention is immediately torn away by a mugger who kicks a woman in the vagina and steals her purse. Kersey picks up a pipe and chases him and, in the process, runs into an unrelated sex predator so enflamed with psychotic lust that he is raping a woman’s car. Hey, it’s Alex Winter!

Having detected that the neighborhood does seem to have a crime problem, Kersey does some reconnaissance of the local gang. In the process, we get an unflinching look at America’s nightmarish urban decay. I’m actually going to break from Death Wish 3 for a moment to show you actual video of 80s-era New York street violence, captured by bystanders moments before their deaths. WARNING: It is literally illegal for anyone to watch this:

It is established that the first big bad he has to take down is a purse-snatcher known as The Giggler, so named because he laughs when he runs off with the victim’s valuables, which is actually kind of endearing. He knows the world is full of whimsy and that most of us are too weighed down by our physical possessions to see it. Kersey says that the Giggler runs much too fast for him to catch, but that his friend “Wildey” is coming to help. 

Kersey then pays cash for a cheap used car, telling a friend that he’s using it as bait. Sure enough, a pair of neighborhood “creeps” try to steal it and Kersey shoots both of them dead. We then see the gang go on a rampage with chains and baseball bats, which I mention only so I can point out that this dude brought a plunger:

We cut back to the main police guy, saying, “The streets are full of degenerates, killing each other indiscriminately!” I want you to keep that phrase in mind, because we’ve now pulled into the junk-strewn parking lot of The Most Important Sequence In Cinema History:

It begins when Paul Kersey goes to the post office and picks up a package, smiling down at it like a proud new father:

He opens it in front of some of the frightened victims of the gang-ravaged neighborhood to reveal the “Wildey” he said was coming to help is, in fact, the brand of gun he has just purchased through the mail.

Just to be clear, he already had a gun — he used it against the car thieves earlier and it took exactly two bullets to send both of them to Hell. As for why this particular gun is going to be the turning point in this neighborhood’s struggle against crime, Kersey explains that it,

“Fires a .475 Wildey magnum. Real stopping power … a .475 Wildey magnum is a shorter version of the African big game cartridge. Makes a real mess.”

… and you just have to understand that a white guy promising to clean up New York crime with a gun intended to kill “African big game” was about as subtle as dog whistles got in the Reagan era. I would say that it was a different time but it totally wasn’t.

The next scene is a brutal gang rape that results in the death of the victim but not before the camera lingers on her bare breasts, because action audiences used to riot if they didn’t get at least one of that scene. Kersey, in response, takes a walk down to the corner shop with an expensive camera draped over his shoulder, as bait. The Giggler runs up, steals the camera and runs away, giggling playfully like a girl  on the playground who’s stolen the hat off a boy she likes. Kersey shoots him right in the fucking back…

…at which point the entire neighborhood comes to their windows and starts applauding:

Inspirational music plays. The tide has turned. For you see, before the streets were, “… full of degenerates, killing each other indiscriminately,” but the shooting they just witnessed was clearly an example of something other than that. 

And that’s it. I mean, there’s more movie after that, but it’s superfluous. One could argue that perhaps all subsequent movies were. Just for the record, Kersey (who upgrades to a belt-fed Browning machine gun and then finally a bazooka) goes on to kill dozens of gang members until the surviving creeps flee the neighborhood, solving the problem forever. 

Look, nobody wants me to show up on 1-900-HOTDOG and get all political. I’m not going to preach at you about how violence never solves anything in real life. For one, I’m literally here promoting a novel called Zoey Punches the Future in the Dick and two, I realize that there is only one known cure for acute Unshot Penis Syndrome and that we can all name someone who has it. If you guys all chipped in to buy me a Wildey .475 for Christmas, for the rest of my life it would feature prominently in both my author photos and daydreams.

But this sequence is important because it’s still the exact fantasy that runs on a loop through the head of every fourth dude you pass on the street in 2020. Keep in mind, the character of Paul Kersey is not an ex-CIA operative like Liam Neeson in Taken. He’s not a retired assassin like John Wick, he’s not even an ex-cop like John McClane. He hasn’t in any way put the work in of being a badass — he’s just a former architect who looks like this:

He is a superhero whose superpower is the ability to order a gun from a catalog and all he needs to clean up the degenerates is permission from the stuffy jerks in charge. If you ever feel like you don’t understand America or Americans, my advice is to go watch Death Wish 3 over and over until you do. 

FOOTNOTES:

* In real-life 1985 New York, around nine people were murdered every two days. In the couple of days Kersey spent in town, he gunned down 44 youths in one orgasmic, crime-solving rampage. If this had actually occurred, it would still be known as the third-largest mass shooting in history.

* The ridiculous mail-order gun Kersey/Bronson uses was invented by a guy named Wildey Moore, who made a career out of building grossly impractical guns that no one could afford until he got the fateful call from the director of Death Wish 3 asking to use that pistol in the movie. As soon as the film premiered, Americans rushed to buy the gun in real life — Moore supposedly said sales spiked every time the film aired on cable. He also ran for senate multiple times and his campaign materials were exactly what you would expect:

Jason “David Wong” Pargin is the ex-executive editor at Cracked.com and is now a full time novelist, his violent sci-fi adventure Zoey Punches the Future in the Dick is up for pre-order now! Or buy one of his previous books, they’re all pretty good.