Heads up, Hot Dog enthusiasts: Weâve got big news! Today is not Upsetting Day! We scheduled this announcement ironically, like calling a big guy âTiny,â or Joe Rogan âsexually viable.â Yes, this is the opposite of Upsetting Day, because today marks the official launch of our podc-
Today is Upsetting Day.
No, damn it!Â
Topper canât take this from us. Today sees the launch of the official đ1-900-HOTDOGđ podcast, Dogg Zzone 9000, available at this link, or wherever fine podcasts are sold.
Thatâs 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 weâve already Hot Dogged, but from new angles, with new jokes, and while bringing new information we werenât able to cover with just 1200 words plus one weird photoshop. But mostly Iâm excited that you finally get to listen to our theme song, done by the very sexually viable Auralnauts. Even if youâre not a podcast fan, youâre going to want to fire this sucker up and hear that theme song. In just 43 short seconds, youâll absorb a full 600 IU dose of awesome to your ear and face areas, as both doctors and professors of the Badical Sciences recommend.Â
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.Â
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. Haleydoes 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.â 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.
I delve into troublesome YouTube channels like dwarves dig into the accursed earth. Itâs not a matter of if my meddling will uncover a monster, but when, and how many subscribers the Balrog will have. Iâve so utterly fucked the YT recommendation algorithm now that half of the things it thinks Iâll like are surrealist toddler videos and the other half are abduction pornography. And sometimes itâs 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 donât know, and unless you criminally compromise your search history, you never will!
At first glance, this isnât so bad. The channel makes me a little sad for the squandered potential of humanity, just like everything else on the internet, but really itâs just bondage for people who somehow havenât heard that word yet. Itâs 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 kidâs cartoons, and thatâs 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? Thatâs called âbeing prepared.â 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 thereâs 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! Thatâs 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 — itâs a little weird that youâre jerking it toPolice Academy but god and Moses Hightower know that I canât throw any stones on that front. But hereâs one I remember from the Problem Child cartoon and — really, brain? You tried to bury this one, too? Somebodyâs 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 itâs 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. Iâm actually into that. Iâm actually way into that.
This is from Adventures in Odyssey, and now thereâs an actual child involved. Also that woman is in no way erotically drawn or posed. Thereâs nothing inherently sexy here, so it has to be about the abduction itself, and thatâs⌠troubling.
There is no acceptable sexuality in this. Those waddling Lego figurines barely register as human, and I can think of zero scenarios where itâs okay for a magical mannequin to powerwade out to a boatbound captive woman-bot and start tonguefucking her mouthgag. So this whole thing, itâs 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 itâs a one-off thing?
Could be a one-off thing.
Itâs 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, âthang you stop.â But okay, well, I know furries are a pretty harmless thing, and theyâre 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 canât 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 shouldâve 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 childrenâs 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 Janitorâs Closet is a part of your Jerkoff Mise En Place, but the tone of this image is absolutely not âplayful distressâ and absolutely is âoops, this Czech horror film Iâm watching might be real.â 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.
Donât 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 havenât Freaky Friday body switched with a mid-level programmer — but I am in the wrong industry. The real money is in âcontextless cartoon gagporn,â just like my guidance counselor said.
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 âbullet right to the fucking cockâ template of screenwriting. As such, the Death Wish franchise is a sly subversion of expectations â you spend the entire series assuming youâre 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. Itâs a series of scenes that youâve seen even if youâve never seen them. Youâve 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 heâs literally gunning down children just for the hell of it. Itâs a cautionary tale about how vigilantism is a ridiculous, psychotic fantasy for shitheads. Then Hollywood came calling and, well, they had some notes.
Oh, and before we get into the deranged all-American fantasy that is Death Wish 3, I need to clear up something thatâs going to confuse my younger readers. While todayâs action heroes look like this:
âŚback 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 youâve never smelled a phone booth. Letâs put it this way: Charles Bronson is only 23 years old in that photo.
So, 1985âs Death Wish 3 opens in a New York neighborhood being terrorized by flamboyant 1980s gang violence. Said gang beats Paul Kerseyâs 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 thatâs not what weâre 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 âcreepsâ in said neighborhood for him. âYou work for me now,â 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 womanâs car. Hey, itâs 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 Americaâs nightmarish urban decay. Iâm 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 victimâs 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 âWildeyâ is coming to help.
Kersey then pays cash for a cheap used car, telling a friend that heâs using it as bait. Sure enough, a pair of neighborhood âcreepsâ 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, âThe streets are full of degenerates, killing each other indiscriminately!â I want you to keep that phrase in mind, because weâve 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 âWildeyâ 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 â 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 neighborhoodâs struggle against crime, Kersey explains that it,
âFires 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.â
⌠and you just have to understand that a white guy promising to clean up New York crime with a gun intended to kill âAfrican big gameâ was about as subtle as dog whistles got in the Reagan era. I would say that it was a different time but it totally wasnât.
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 didnât 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 whoâs stolen the hat off a boy she likes. Kersey shoots him right in the fucking backâŚ
âŚat 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, â⌠full of degenerates, killing each other indiscriminately,â but the shooting they just witnessed was clearly an example of something other than that.
And thatâs it. I mean, thereâs more movie after that, but itâs 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. Iâm not going to preach at you about how violence never solves anything in real life. For one, Iâm 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 itâs 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. Heâs not a retired assassin like John Wick, heâs not even an ex-cop like John McClane. He hasnât in any way put the work in of being a badass â heâs 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 donât 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 â 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:
I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hollow and hungry. My stomach rumbled, so I went to the kitchen to pour some disciplinary bourbon. Fuckinâ stomach will think twice before pulling this crap again. I flicked on the kitchen light and was brought up short by my shadow. There was something off about it. I moved and it moved with me, it still looked like me — I couldnât place what wasnât right. Then it hit me: The lights were overhead, but my shadow was sprawled across the floor like I was backlit. Seeing the game was up, the distorted silhouette shivered. Its limbs struggled and began to unstick themselves from the floor with audible pops. My guts dropped out. Cold sweat beaded on me like condensation. It was all I could do to step over the shadowbeast to get to the bourbon.
I poured three fingers Florida-style (measured vertically) and scooted backwards into a corner. Something was happening to the monster: Its darkness was — not lessening, but diminishing somehow. Soon it gave way to smooth skin, cut abs, and adorable dimples. The shadow had fully receded from the body before me, pulling back and taking up residence in the eyes. But there, the concentrated darkness stayed.
âMario Lopez,â I said, because I have long since learned that it likes to hear those words spoken in fear.
âBroadway!â Mario Lopez cackled. âLong time no verte, mi amigo!â
I almost corrected him, because I was a sleepy idiot pouring bourbon on a burrito-less stomach. But itâs so much better if he forgets your name.
âWhy?â I asked instead. âI wrote the books! I acted as your herald, just like you demanded! Itâs been years! Why now?â
âBecause,â Mario Lopez said, idly chewing his lip until it gushed blood. âWeâre doing a Saved by the Bell reboot.â
3:07AM
âIn the new show, Zack is the governor of California! Ay ay ay, can you believe it?â Mario Lopez knelt on my neighborâs chest, stealing the manâs inhalations as he slept.
âI got fired from Cracked!â I pleaded. âNobody buys my books! I barely have a platform! I cannot serve you! All I have now is half of a little Patreon where I write jokes about things that should not exist in this universe.â
Mario Lopez just stared at me emptily.
âOh, right,â I nodded. âCarry on.â
âBut oh no,â Mario Lopez continued, drumming on my neighborâs shuddering eyelids. âZack is in the middle of a huge PR scandal — heâs closed too many low-income schools! So he sends all the disenfranchised minorities to upper-class Bayside! Talk about fish out of water! Like your neighbor here!â
Mario Lopezâs voice fell flat as a wind-dead lake.
âGasping like a fish out of water,â he clarified.
âCan you let him live?â I asked, my voice tremulous, my hands tremulous, my whole body tremulous from both fear and lack of adequate liquors. âHe owes me $15.â
Mario Lopez rose from my slumbering neighborâs chest and trod directly on his wifeâs face as he crossed their bed toward me. The man sucked in desperate air, and the womanâs nose gushed blood, but neither woke.
âMy character, A.C. Slater,â Mario Lopez said, stripping off his too-tight polo shirt and undoing his belt. âWas used to being one of the popular kids, but now heâs a gym teacher.â
âThe least respected teacher,â he added. âThe kind of teacher who knows that, when others refer to them as a teacher, they hold air-quotes in their hearts. This shows modesty on my part. Modesty is culturally desirable at this time.â
âI-it is,â I said, remembering how hard it was to distinguish questions when he flipped to his empty state. âPeople like humility.â
âEspecially from the old and obsolete,â he had stripped entirely naked, and somehow glistened even in the gloom of my neighborâs unlit bedroom.
âBut you donât look old,â I ventured, unsure if it was the correct thing to do — praise its vanity, or point out a mistake it was making.
âI paint faint lines around my eyes before I go out in public,â Mario Lopez said, now idly pawing at his limp, yet still truly monstrous genitalia. âI allow the skin on my body to slightly loosen, when others see me shirtless. As they do. Often.â
Seriously, his dick was the size of a Fiat. It looked like that staff thing you see on the sides of hospitals — just two snakes twisting around a massive rod.
âCan you put that away?â I gestured at his naked cock, which was easy to do. I didnât even have to pick a direction. âIâm not sure if Iâm embarrassed or jealous but I literally canât look at anything else. Thereâs not enough room.â
Mario Lopez picked up something from the floor and mechanically slid on a pair of the womanâs worn panties. They were metallic purple. It was almost worse.
âCan you put on something else?â
He wrapped himself in the manâs robe and, as an afterthought, plucked a football helmet from its place on the wall. It was clearly some kind of treasured trophy, and my neighbor moaned in his sleep. I could tell he was losing that precious memory by the way Mario Lopezâs mammoth dong twitched.
âThe gym teacher role was my idea!â Mario Lopez said, mimicking human cadence once again. âGym teachers have been in the news a lot lately. That makes it timely content — the best kind of content!â
âYeah, but itâs always for like molestation charges or something. I donât think gym teachers are in a real hot spot now, culturally spea-â
He spat in my open mouth and I immediately fell into a violent seizure.
4:15AM
When I awoke we were on the roof of an elementary school. He was crouched atop an antenna array which should not have held his weight.
âOn the show, we make many jokes about how the kids these days are both sheltered and clueless,â his voice once again like an echoless cave.
âThatâs not great,â I said, in between the huge gouts of bloody vomit my system used to try to reject his poison. âItâs a harmful and tired misconception and it alienates whatâs got to be your best demographic.â
âThe old cast is coming back!â Mario Lopez dropped from his perch and grabbed me by my beard. He dragged me to the edge of the roof and tossed me off like youâd toss paper at a wastebasket. I landed in a dumpster and he leapt after me. I took the full weight of him on my old, shitty knees. How could he be so light just a moment ago, and so heavy now?
âWe got Jessie Spano!â He howled.
âWe got Zach Morris!â
âWe got Kelly Kapowski!â
âWe got Max — the original Max, remember him? Hahaha!â
He rocketed up and away and he didnât even disturb the trash. It was almost noiseless. Like the quiet ruffle of crows preening.
âWhat about Screech?â I poured myself out of the dumpster and tried to hobble after him, across the deserted parking lot.
âWe do not talk of Screech.â
âI saw something about this,â I gasped, noticing that however quickly I hobbled, Mario Lopez moved marginally faster. Just enough to keep my pain perpetually escalating. âYou said fans could expect an âupdated, edgier version of the show.â Then later you compared it to Game of Thrones.â
He nodded along as I spoke, then confirmed: âYes, there will be severed penises.â
âItâll probably be a while before you can resume filming though, right?â It was my only hope: to die before his masterwork could air. âWith the pandemic delays and all?â
Mario Lopez pulled to an abrupt stop. He spun and put a finger in the dent between my collarbones. He bored into me like a drill.
âYou are such a weak species. Just because hundreds of thousands of you die, you think youâre allowed to slow. To nurse each other. At least the ants realize they are ants.â
âI-Iâm sorry we care that we die!â I howled, and he removed the piercing digit.
âNot all of you do. This is good. The reboot is on pause, but I am not. I am working on another project right now. I posted a video on Instagram. Did you see. I was very proud that we were one of the first productions to resume filming. My crew is expendable. My work is not.â
âW-whatâs it called?â I moaned, getting to my feet.
âFeliz NaviDAD!â He chuckled. âMany will die for Feliz NaviDAD!â
Mario Lopez began to hop in place, eager for something that hadnât begun yet.
âThis interviewâs over, gordito,â he said, and I could see the shadow leak from his eyes once again. âIâll give you a headstart.â
âW-what?â I asked, but my body knew. I was already running. Or trying to.
â10-9-8,â there was mirth in his voice, but with each number it fell away until there was only the void. â7-6-5-4-3-2âŚâ
âOh shit.â My knees. My god damned traitorous knees. âOh shit oh shit oh shi-â
There are few books more despicable than the one I’m showing you today. I have a wall of books on how to murder men with knives, raise children like Bill Cosby, and electro shock the gay out of your son, but none of them approach the pure piece-of-shittedness of Cheaters Always Prosper – 50 Ways to Beat the System Without Getting Caught.
This is a book for psychopaths stupid enough to need an instruction manual for robbery. James Brazil (not the author’s real name) wrote it in the year 2000 when these low-stakes, obvious grifts were already useless against even the most relaxed store policies. Let’s go through all fifty of these in order:
This dumbshit scheme, along with the rambling, completely fabricated story about getting a milk refund after secretly enjoying cake is James’ first and best idea. This isn’t a book showing readers how to use loopholes to get coupons or government research grants. It is avalanches of stream-of-consciousness text from an idiot who thinks crime is “outsmarting the system.” This moron is spending hours to recoup the cost of one milk. This motherfucker is just adding steps to shoplifting. If you switch the price tags on easily identifiable items and also stash a very strange sack of meat the butcher will remember making for a suspicious dirtbag, I think the store might have a lead suspect in the case of DUMBSHIT, WE JUST WATCHED YOU DO ALL THIS.
If someone is dumb enough to fall for this, you shouldn’t let them handle your food. Anyone fooled by glass in your dessert also believed their meat distributor earlier when he said, “I can get you magical food cream, but I had to transport it at human body temperature, so you’ll need to suck it out of my cock. What? Oh, yeah, it’ll go great on those invisible fish I sold you yesterday.”
This also shows the author’s child-like understanding of how the world works when he suggests a fake blood capsule will help sell the world’s oldest restaurant trick. James Brazil might as well have told the reader, “Here’s a hot tip for saving money at restaurants– before the bill comes, get up and fucking run!” It has all the same ethics, but a higher success rate and less humiliation. The entire goddamn book is dumb lies and crimes like this. When James Brazil figures out you can just stab people and take the things they’re carrying, he’s going to have a hell of a sequel on his hands.
Why not tell the waitress you own the hotel and came to inspect the employee underpants? This is fucking stupid. He’s trailing people as they leave their rooms in order to set up a one-man dinner stealing job? What’s that step for? Is it only so he can say, “I don’t have a room key or ID, and yes, I’m the weird guy waiting outside doors for an hour, but I do know the number of an empty room you can call to prove I’m not there.” It might work! But I do worry many hotels guard themselves against the first trick the world’s dumbest liar would think of after learning you can charge things to rooms. So maybe have a backup plan when they say, “You’ve committed a criminal act for a 2% chance at an appetizer sampler.”
This story didn’t happen, and won’t work, but if it did, you’re investing a day at a car dealership to save $40. In a business sense, you’re hiring yourself as a car dealer fluffer and paying yourself $20 an hour for a very slim chance of driving a car.
Like with all his schemes, James Brazil has some advanced tips in case you run into clever marks. In this case, he mentions how he tried this on a Mercedes dealer who required proof he could afford the car. This didn’t happen, of course, but he lays out a scheme to deposit 75 cents in an ATM, then add five zeroes so it looks like you added $75,000, then go into the bank to clear up the mixup, then keep the receipt. In his wildest fantasies, James Brazil wants you to spend an afternoon wooing a car dealer, go to a second location to perform some light financial fraud, then come back to the car dealer in the hopes of getting a free car to DRIVE TO LUNCH. This shit is like disguising yourself as a nursing home resident for sixty years to get a free wheelchair.
I know you can’t read that, because no one ever should. We’re only at entry number five and James Brazil has already run out of scams and lost his entire mind. This is one for getting free windshield repair. Step one is paying for your windshield repair, and steps two through seventy eight are filling out paperwork to convince your local county they were responsible for the crack in your windshield and they owe you the full cost of the repairs. It’s the same high risk, low reward type of crime as the others, but now there is so, so much paperwork. James Brazil would legally change his name to Nazi Horsefucker for six months just to get a refund on “misprinted” business cards.
This book’s already off the rails. Let’s maybe skim through a bit… Let’s see… fraud, lying, unlikely scam, petty theft, fraud… OH FUCK. OH FUCK.
Jesus Christ, dognapping? His 17th “way to beat the system” is to steal pets and ransom them for $100!? So you steal, what, like eleven dogs a month to make rent and a few more for Internet and utilities? I know you don’t need to worry about food since you know the trick of charging meals to random hotel rooms or pretending to eat glass. Still, people might start to notice after one individual keeps “finding” several dogs a week. This is so beyond the scope of ordinary greed or evil. This might as well say, “A lot of parents will pay anything to get a child back! Simply apply for an ice cream truck license under a false identity you create after killing a man with your complexion and build. If you find a child who hates ice cream, invite them to a zoo given to you after telling the zookeepers you were Montgomery Zoo, inventor of the zoo. Steal towels from the gym to make your own rope to bind them! I’ll take that $100 now, easy mark parents!”
James Brazil is the world’s shittiest make-believe criminal. He goes on to tell the reader how to get free laundry by retrieving quarters with pantyhose. He suggests bringing empty tupperware to all-you-can-eat restaurants and stealing soup. Fucking #21 is using a fake name to hide from Columbia House Records. If you try all these tips, you will have invested 7000 hours into criminal enterprises and walked away with $117, a backpack full of soup, 34 years in prison, and 13 Keith Sweat cassettes.
⌠This article was brought to you by our fine patron and Hot Dog Supreme, Timmy Leahy: the true meaning of Christmas.