Fucking Day: The Beginner's Guide to Sex in the Afterlife

Angels and ghosts… how do they fuck? No, I'm serious. I don't need all the details, only the basics. Is there any kind of introductory course on how they… oh, perfect!

2006's THE BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO SEX IN THE AFTERLIFE is as evocative a title as I've ever seen. I always assumed eternal paradise would have fucking, but it never occurred to me you could be bad at it. I also assumed they'd have their own orientation when I got there. Something like, "Welcome to paradise, here is how your angel groin works, this is the cafeteria. A lot of people here are eyeball pillars, so do not slap their titties."

For some reason the idea of entering Heaven with one book's worth of fuck knowledge makes the entire concept of an afterlife absurd. You're here on the material plane for, what, zero percent of forever and these eternal souls expect you to hit the ground fucking? Give me a second to look around the place, Saint Buttstuff. What I'm trying to say is, in the boundless scope of eternity such as this, will entering Heaven with 160 pages of sex tips make any difference? Let's say I, the one who read this book, died at the same time as you. Are you going to be learning to astral walk while I take the form of a manatee and pleasure sixty balls of light at the same time? Yes. Of course. Bask in me, clumsy star lover.

Obviously, the basic concept is ridiculous, but there are a few different people I'd trust to write this book. A lonely ice fisherman pulled from a lake after 30 minutes. Patrick Swayze today. A pervert Frankenstein. Certainly this author must have some kind of diverse academic and religious background to know these intimate, sexual details of the afterlife.

Oh. He's a… he's "an observer of natural processes." Okay! So it looks like we're dealing with an Australian pill salesman and philosophy cosplayer. These were not listed among the qualifications I would have accepted for an afterlife sex coach. Maybe David will surprise us, but a quick look at the index shows this sex is going to be very energetic, extremely dry, and we're only going to cum once:

Not everybody fucks the same. Maybe lovers have no need of "fluids" or "gratification" after they die. I have no idea. You know who would? Pervert Frankenstein. But we have to deal with the author we have, and the author we have sucks:

Look at this cute shit. "If you're reading this, you must be dead, giggle!" Telling someone to pour a glass of wine and settle in for a guided tour of the sextraordinary should be treated like an assault. "Guided tour of the sextraordinary" is how you grope a sleeping teen with language. Your skull should turn inside out the moment you try to think it. If you said this to me, I would proudly take your remains to the police and say, "You're going to have to arrest me because if I told you the words this asshole said you would empty your gun into me."

David Staume has a way of writing where he's constantly one point away from blowing your feeble mind. "Oh, you thought sex was a thing you did with your balls!? You fool. It is nothing less than all cosmic power. Gasp, it can't be, you gasp? My friend, my dumb stupid reader friend, pour yourself a glass of wine and prepare your jaw for dropping. For this next point shall amaze you. Oh, you can't be amazed, you think? Think again." He epiphany edges you like this the whole goddamn book. And causing a disappointment I will never forgive David for, there are absolutely no tips on how to have sex in the afterlife here. This is an instruction manual for nothing. This is a horny theosophy hobbyist wondering if maybe orgies are sorcery? They might be, sure, maybe, but if they're not, holy shit is this a stupid book.

It's still the introduction and I'm already tired of this coy bit he's doing. David drops the bombshell that sex is the most powerful energy in the cosmos, but tells us we first need to step back and understand its origin. And to do that we need to look at nature. But before we do that, let's head to Egypt. But before we do that, he needs to tell a little story. Look, I don't know if David Staume can fuck like a dead person, but he definitely writes like someone who didn't survive a stroke. Plus, David is one of the worst things a dumb wizard can be: convinced he's a science understander:

David has adapted his elementary school education for mysticism, citing the Law of Conservation as the reason there must be an afterlife. Using big boy physics, he claims the amount of your consciousness stays the same even if it's been changed to dead, and the only way to balance that equation is with ghosts. As a religion you can do worse, but I was hoping David was going to show me how to number-close on topless skeletons. To find out he's only a placebo pill hippie playing scientist was a real bummer. In fact, I was about to throw the book in the trash until I saw this:

Not the words, what's on them. The previous owner of my copy of THE BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO SEX IN THE AFTERLIFE went through it with a highlighter. With multiple pens, all the way to the end! And it is fascinating what they highlighted. I'm not doing a bit, all of these are real. They thought it was worth highlighting David's theory that astral fucking is, you know, more about vibes than hard shapes. Duh, yes, but also how will this come in handy? When this book's previous owner died, did they tell a sex phoenix, "You're not dealing with some amateur; I already know not to use my penis, bird."

David promises some kind of objective, outsider's look at the secret cosmic powers of sexuality hidden from the living, but of course, first let's go to Egypt. "Oh, objective sex sorcery, I should highlight that," thought the dumbshit who bought this book before me.

This next clipping is long, and there's no reason to read it. I just want it on the record that David Staume both has no point and can't fucking get to it:

So after setting up this trip to Egypt for three straight chapters, David finally takes us there. And in only one paragraph he abandons it to say, "Why Egypt!? Well, I'm glad you asked." The man is incapable of finishing a thought, almost as if some part of him knows he hasn't had one yet. And I'm not the only one to notice. The book's previous owner, the most credulous purchaser of clickbait spirituality books ever, didn't bother to underline any of this. Their marker hovered over this nonsense about Khufu, or Cheops as he was known in Greek, and thought "you, Khufu, are not worth a highlight." Let's skip ahead and see if David ever explains why we're here in Egypt and what it has to do with ghost sex.

So in ancient Egypt a man saw a tree and thought, "penis." Strikingly and unmistakably penis. The tree branch was like a penis, and it filled him with awe. Which means I'm going to take back some of the things I said about David Staume. This is pretty good writing. Most religions wouldn't take you all the way to ancient Egypt to teach you how some things are like a penis, strikingly and unmistakably a penis. Speaking of, the rest of the book is David figuring out how things are like a penis, and it gives me great pleasure to assure you I'm not kidding.

If you're thinking, "I'd like to hear more about how tree is penis" and David is 100% sure you are, he explains it. He explains it like it's the 47th easter egg you might have missed in a Spy Kids movie. He explains it like a comment under a video called "steps!ster wet diaper for more go to xxx.flat3arth.fart". David uses the words "the dark and the moist" twice in one paragraph. I can't believe how far we are from my expectations of this book. I sort of knew it wouldn't be a guide to angel orgy etiquette, but this is barely a guide to jerking off on trees. He sounds like he's trying to put his hand down Swamp Thing's moss at an 8th grade sock hop.

But forget about trees. We know they are penis, and tree penis is pleasure. Consider instead a pebble, tossed into a pond…

Like all things, the ripples of a tossed pebble represent sex. Whether because they look like a boob, which is the handrail of sex, or an archery target, sex's ranged attack, a circle is a doorway to sex mystery. This is horny unlike any tree slut seen before. This sad motherfucker is wandering around looking at shapes in nature and thinking, "WOULD." Now I see why he wrote a book about preparing to have sex after you're dead– because unless ponds count, he knows he's going to die a virgin.

After a long drought of unmarked pages, the yellow highlighter returns to emphasize David's point that sex is the most essential, powerful thing in the cosmos. It must be! It simply must be! Why, otherwise a man seeing fuckable breasts in pond water might be considered mad!

David tries to explain his urges using the only science he knows– good science. With basic observation, we see the human anatomy has a series of mystic ducts designed to carry sexual energy to our heads. If we were in a '70s buddy comedy, this is where Richard Pryor would say, "Speak English, Jack! Are you tellin' me we are all dick tubes from the neck down!?" And Gene Wilder would have to say, "Yes, precisely! That is exactly right!" I think even David realizes he needs to get ahold of himself here, so the next section is him trying to talk himself out of being horny…

… and failing badly. After careful consideration, David Staume has decided he must never stop sexualizing trees, ponds, Egypt, outer space, and trucks. He could die from trying. And I'm not twisting his words or misunderstanding him– if you try to resist your sexual urges, by Solar Law the sun will kill you. If this was a '70s buddy comedy, the trailer would say, "From the writer of Tree is Like Penis comes Fuck or Die. The sun is watching, so get your dick in that pond; Christmas Day, only in theat–" sorry, this is one of those books where the act of describing it is already so absurd it's hard to translate it into jokes. Where do you go from a man vowing to the stars he will never stop being horny? I mean, look at this freak go:

He thought about this way too long, and way too by himself, and accidentally decided "all creative processes are sexual." That idea only forms after a terrified donkey kicks the brain of an engorged barn intruder. It's an idea you'd tell a hole in a cantaloupe after being declared unfit to stand trial. It is a thought that shatters against the tiniest bit of scrutiny, but instead of rewriting it, David decided to explain what the fuck he might have meant. It will not go well.

In a stunning first round knockout, David is defeated by his own straw man who lists four random things unrelated to fucking. I guess we're done. I mean, unless David can somehow prove computer programs, the Mona Lisa, the Big Bang, and hydroelectric power are sex…

… oh no, I think he's going to try.

"When you think about it" is how a stupid person warns you they haven't. By the second sentence of this argument he is already taking for granted that your dick-grabbing hand and butt each count as one of the building blocks of computer code. I feel like a revelation like that needs a longer ramp. It's like arguing that a penis is like a pig because each of them uses the porking lot, which is to say, silliness is not the best way to explain the failings of this idiot fuck's brain.

"I'm not highlighting any of this," decided the book's previous author as David explains again how, like, ones and zeroes are dicks and holes, maaaan. This is desperate. It sounds like Marjorie Taylor Greene explaining to Congress how it's actually brave of her to be filled with Q*Bert sperm. It's nonsense, and I think some of the argument takes place in the distant future? David fantasizes about how very sexy it will be once computer programmers learn how to write code in three dimensions? What? Can you do that? When you're trying to make a point, can you consider how a hypothetical future code language might relate to nature's binary code, another thing you just made up, in your case for why computer programming is sexual? I say no, you can't. David's not even stretching a metaphor here. It's several unfinished misunderstandings of how computers and reasoning work. This is how a cat watches Lawnmower Man.

One down, three to go. This is a once-in-a-generation analogy master. Titties are zeroes, fingers are ones, I think I've made my point, next! And then David says the exact words, "Take a penis and a hand, for instance. Only certain combinations are creative. Not so." This man is having a penis straw man argument inside his penis straw man argument. I love it. I never could have seen this coming, but now I'm rooting for him. I really hope David wins whatever battle he thinks he's having.

Hell yeah, let's go fuck in the dam. Like beavers and sticks, nature's zeroes and ones.

Okay, I get it. Like a pond and a lonely boner, any combination of things count as sex, making this author, by Star Law, a very experienced lover. If you asked David Staume how many times he's had sex, he would say, "Are we counting electric toothbrushes and tight pants? If so, twelve."

If David had simply said, "all art is motivated by sex," it would have been fine. But instead, he invents "thought children" born from your left-brain impregnating your right-brain, and therefore, since Mona Lisa was painted by someone with a brain, therefore it is sex, therefore. Next! As far as thought children go, this one came out with a foot for a head and all it wants to do is die. Let me be as clear as possible: whatever this book was meant to be, or tried to be, it is now a herd of foot-headed thought children trying to end their curse.

David Staume looked at his little boner and said, "This has to mean something! Something spiritual and profound!" He was wrong, but more wrong than should be possible. Here's a thought child: when the world's most unlucky researcher cracks David's skull open to diagnose whatever this was, he is going to say, "Why is there so much semen in here? God, it is so me to discover, just, the most disgusting brain disorder."

David's brain is oatmeal after trying to prove each mundane thing is sex to a critic who never existed. The book drifts to a halt like a raft in a dead ocean. There are no marks or underlines on the pages; his chittering madness has been abandoned by the highlighter of his biggest fan. I can't even follow what he's saying enough to make fun o– WHAT THE FUCK

If sex is the rhythmic friction of two opposite ideas, the phrase "Now follow me to a children's playground" counts because it is the thing I both least expected and most expected David Staume to say.

Okay, all joking aside, this line about finding additional uses for our sexual organs surprised me. Now joking again, if anyone has some ideas on what to do with a sexual organ other than fuck, it's David Staume.

When you meet a man who sees penises everywhere and has a real shaky theory about how sex is the only thing that exists, don't follow him anywhere. You know, the setting of a book often reveals where the author thinks they might excel. Survivalists love to write about the apocalypse, and middle-aged nerds might conceive of a dystopia where the most important thing is remembering The Last Starfighter. And it's telling that David Staume has invented a fictional realm with two main details: he knows how to have sex there, and he can talk people into going to a second location with him. Sorry, I'll let him finish his Neptune statue story. I'm sure Neptune will end up being sex or whatever.

Ha. I was right. When you think about it, the rhythmic friction of my rightness against David's dumbness is very much sex. You're welcome. And maybe it's time for you to g–

Wait, come back! On page 97, the previous book owner returned with a new pen! And they were so moved by this idea of combining both genders to save the fabric of reality, they drew a fucking pyramid. I don't know what it means, but I bet David Staume would take it as the highest of compliments. If he finds this article, knowing one of his readers once gave him a full pyramid will more than make up for all the times I called him a dummy, which I'm afraid, just accidentally made another sex.

Aww, a clickbait title and a horny Disney princess analogy stretched past the breaking point? You must feel like you're back on the Good Internet.

Aww, The Top 7 Uses for Our Sexual Organs? You must feel like you're back on the Good Internet.

Here David stops in the middle of explaining how Jesus was talking about sex in a potential pun smeared across three languages to cutely acknowledge he might be seeing things that aren't there. And strikingly and unmistakably fuck that. I will not tolerate self-awareness in my book about afterlife penis gazing. This article is ov–

Wait, no, come back again! The book's previous owner drew a titty!

I swear on my life this isn't a bit! Author David Staume told whoever bought this book before me to complete a circuit diagram and they did! With a titty!

And again, on my life, I swear this is the real, final highlight of the book. In a section about giving sexual energy to the sun, the previous owner highlighted "a gracious being, the sun accepts" and then nothing else for the rest of the book. It can mean only one thing: the person who bought this at retail price died fucking the sun. The End.

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