Fucking Day: Virgin Extinction Island

A box! I have great luck with these. Maybe it’s my computer parts, intact and early. Happy birthday, me!

Ah. A trap.

Pssh. I’m ancient in otaku years. I know an Attack of the Fifty Foot Headline when I see it. The results get extreme, usually without the first e. And rarely leave a mark. True manga nightmares think they’re normal. That’s why The Time I Reincarnated as an Orgy Janitor never tops Bunny Drop.

Meet Virgin Extinction Island: a prison where virgins accept an escort or a bullet. We’re in the zone of Maximum Effort. When art begs for backlash this loudly, it’s an event.

Virgin Extinction Island throws down a gauntlet. There’s a career in reaction, for those willing to beg. Masters harvest rage-tweets and bask in comics wealth (making rent). Author Kawasaki Junpei dared any clown, critic, or scold to feed his legend. Every insane thought the title evokes is an overt, surface-level plot point.

Classic shock rap. I know Dwain Esper’s mark. Medium, decade, and nation mean nothing. Explotation’s one dragon on a hoard of clutched pearls.

Though there’s a range. When you aim for the bottom, you might get there. I’ve failed to write about Sucker Punch’s sheer lows twelve times. On the other end, I aspire to defy viewing as artfully as Final Flesh. It’s even possible–and common–for bait to get boring.

I’d like to know where this falls. But entering the enemy fortress, unarmed and alone, seems foolish. I’ll find a nice self-help guru instead. I, like most free agents, have made enough awful dating choices. It’s one mistake on loop forever. That’s tragedy #273 of this topic: sex adds another medium for chaos.

I’m out. It’d take Omega-mutant lunacy for me to step on this bear trap.

Eh, I read the title.

Hmm.

Almost .

Let’s play.

Well, some sects would call that the normal rapture. But it’s a better fit here.

Like most social issues, graying populations spawn sane dialogue. And like most art, Virgin Extinction Island opens with mass death at an idol concert. Dozens of amateur stalkers suffocate in unison. If you’re unfamiliar with idol culture, take obsessive U.S. pop fans and change nothing. Stalking’s a global pastime.

They’ve caught DTG, a virus that advances plots. Men across the nation are asphyxiating, and not the fun way. More of that would save lives. A montage of virgin suffocations unfolds, until the government cracks the case and informs the public. The strangest fantasy yet.

That pilot’s a virgin. Virgin Extinction Island’s favorite trick is “they were a virgin all along.” It plays best here, because:

This bit? Perfect. Wherever we spiral, we’ll always have this shrapnel.

Spare me a sentimental moment. On Mondays, my sister asks if I have anything new out. On Tuesdays, I forward articles about virgin plagues causing 9/12. On Wednesdays, I’m blocked again. The internet’s last features are this site and spamming family. Companies read the spam.

To clarify the strain of stupid: Virgin Extinction Island kicked off before Covid. DTG follows a mass decline in human contact: if you’re over 18 and unfucked, you turn into a Gantz tomato. Specifically straight men, slamming two basic points of interest shut out the gate. Disappointing. Easy targets are fun appetizers, but no one reads Virgin Extinction Island for restraint.

Though the comic’s heart is divided. On one hand, it gestures at humanizing accidental celibates and their prey. On the other hand, fuck it. The author’s got deadlines and tanlines to chase, and stunts are the express lane. He’s more interested in their suffering than talking about it.

Take our protagonist, Blank Slate.

Our second perfect image, in a work where the art struggles. The air he gets lifts my spirit.

We meet Blank Slate under duller circumstances. He reacts to the Virgin Gottendamerung from a Tokyo high school, because everything starts at a Tokyo high school. Aliens will think New York police departments, Tokyo high schools, and inescapable driers were the majority of Earth’s landmass.

Okay, his name’s Eiri. For all my jabs at trends, vanilla leads are manga's worst habit. In a world of delirious elevator pitches, we follow the dullest nonentity possible. I get the impulse: a hero that observes the circus instead of overpowering it. Just like slashing your tires to avoid speeding.

Lies move classmates and voters, but viruses can’t hear you. Eiri has a month to avoid this fate:

That’s his best friend. Was his best friend.

Or, worse yet, this fate:

A crisis inviting several stupid questions, which get stupid answers. Let’s skim them.

“What about sex workers?”

“What about Andrew Tate types?”

“Can’t they do each other a favor?”

“How’s America make this worse?”

“Does Eiri fuck his Mom?”

If you’ve ever been gently guided by a dungeon master, or dragged your idiot players to fucking water, you know the vibe. The DM’s mapped out Virgin Extinction Island, statted four Virgin Extinction Island encounters, and 3D printed a Baptist lich. You’re going to Virgin Supermax, even if it’s just your corpse.

Enter the title: a virgin “research” camp, run by a virgin-hating proto-dominatrix. She’s like a virgin Sentinel, which implies…no, that’d be stupid. Here’s your warden:

Yeah, it’s half kink. Funded and staffed by Eagleland’s finest, with multiple Trump cameos. I’m told I’m a little partisan, so here’s a few versions of the next joke. Find yours.

Leaving one question: “what’s the fucking point?”

Well, initially. Virgin Extinction Island drifts between “be yourself,” “fucking grow up,” and “lol idk.” The results are a trip. Playing incest for gross-out value instead of titillation tips it as less trash fire, more trash arson.

It’s a sex comedy from Mars: the author’s a half-maniac that thinks he’s a quarter-maniac, pretending to be a full maniac. Virgin Extinction Island spins between shock, schlock, genius, laziness, failed satire, successful satire, filler, titillation, and the rawest stupidity possible like a diesel-powered top. A Beyblade joke’s there, but we’re way too deep into the weeb mines already. The chip in my skull explodes if I type weeb three times.

With the broad strokes down, here’s the story I’m here to tell you.

Eiri breaks out. The prison island’s not that important in Virgin Extinction Island. Our hero drifts to Shinjuku, where lonely heads don’t explode. He hasn’t found his impossible-to-care-about girlfriend yet. But he has found a mentor. No–a brother.

Meet Hoshi, leader of the Virgin Liberation Front. If he sounds like Volcel Magneto, that’s just your mind dying. He’s more like Volcel X. The world hates and fears the unfucked, and the VLF’s here to do nothing about it.

Meet the team.

Wait, repeat that last one?

Holy shit, a virgirl! Catholic rules still count! We can explore nope eat shit. She’s a mole.

Specifically, a sex mole from the government. And the most lethal incel honeypot since whoever tried last. Deflowering is her business, and business is desperate. Arisa’s a Prime Virgin Sentinel: ready, willing, and prepared to fuck.

The VLF catches on, a little.

It’s too late. They’re already fucked. One by one, the VLF falls.

Madness. It’s like Future wrote Alien.

And yet: it holds one of the comic’s better turns. For all the fetish bait, the Terminator gives Fanboy a quality rant about the difference between women and mannequins. Virgin Extinction Island swings for a few of these, but connects here. Somehow. Or, for an alternate reading: 22 chapters into Virgin Extinction Island, you lose your fucking mind.

In any case: like most nonprofits, the VLF achieves nothing and the staff gets fucked. Only Eiri escapes with his plot-mandated virginity. You’ll notice this means his character has done the opposite of change. Eiri sucks, and holds this manga back harder than any swing at shock value.

I considered a second article, but that’s a direct violation of the Anime Week Accords. So we’ll sprint through the rest. Spoilertown, as you can imagine. If you survive the next section, consider yourself a warrior.

Breathe in.

In Virgin Extinction Island, a self-hating virgin scientist designs a virus that’s really radiation that’s pretty much just fucking magic in order to purge all virgins in Japan sparking history’s largest panic-orgy just kidding instead it forces a love-struck 17-year-old virgin to journey across the land like Dry-Dick Odysseus to avoid fucking his Mom and fuck his high school crush that remains into him for reasons beyond reason but then Romeo gets waylaid (not way laid) by the goverment’s virgin research camp resembling events that Japanese textbooks skim but we’re in too deep and he still isn’t so then he escapes and joins Volcel Magneto’s League of Evil Virgins who are then fucked from within by a woman I can only describe as the T-1000 of defloration which is all honestly more fun than The Death of Slim Shady how far up your own ass can your head go before you generate infinite clean energy but anyway dumbass escapes with his virginity and the series premise intact and discovers that the history’s first reverse STI is a full-on InfoWars conspiracy and then the magazine running this series gets cancelled so the pacing falls the fuck apart and it all ends in another Evangelion hivemind plot because mankind ran out of dreams around 2010 or so and the rest of history is NFTs.

Breathe out.

Oh, right.

Virgin Extinction Island sucks, and is sometimes perfect, so it’s okay. No one should read it and I’ve shown all my friends. The story vibrates between stock bullshit and maniac creativity. The art’s lifeless, save one perfect image per volume. It has thoughts ranging from basic to dimwitted on topics other work ducks altogether. It only cares about men and takes them to task. It has energy out the gate and utterly collapses about halfway through.

I’ll give it a star.

Two stars. Weebs might have fun.

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