Dungeons and Daddies is a rowdy, horny, violent podcast for grown-ups.

Content warnings can be found in the episode description.

Making art is like masturbation.

You picture something in your mind, employ a little handiwork, and then spururt forth a little part of yourself, that's probably going to be wet to the touch for a little while. Making art about making art is therefore like masturbating while picturing yourself masturbating. It's self-indulgent, yet oddly impressive if you can pull it off, but if you can't pull it off, you just look like a massive wanker. brings me to The Color of Combat, the latest outpouring from the penises, I mean geniuses,

at Anapurna Games, wherein you play a sent But if you can't pull it off, he just looked like a massive wanker. Which brings me to The Color of Combat, the latest outpouring from the penises,

I mean geniuses at Anapurna Games, wherein you play a sentient paintbrush remembering the bits of World War I that your artsy fartsiona has very decisively repressed into himself, so you have to go in and dredge up all his memories, so he can finally realize his masterpiece in brain-splatter pink, mustard gas yellow, and trauma beige.

That's right, it's art about making art that's a metaphor for making art.

That's like masturb it's art about making art, that's a metaphor for making art.

That's like masturbating to the concept of masturbating to a symbol that abstractly represents masturbating, and oh dear, I've given myself a migraine stiffy. The cornhole of cock twat might sound like a mix of psychonauts and Mario Paint by way of come and see, but it's more like a depressing Banjo-Kazoo-I-Cloon, and we already had that.

It was called ukulele.

It might look like a slick new indie title, but it's more like a depressing Banjo-Kazooie clone, and we already had that, it was called Eukulele.

It might look like a slick new indie title, but that just makes the archaic collect-thorne gameplay stick out like your grandma on stage at a Vegas burlesque show. And also like Grandma on stage at a Vegas burlesque show, the cumabund cunt bucket keeps forgetting what it's supposed to be doing. One minute you're pipetting tears from the face of dying soldiers at the Somme, the next

you're sampling the brown streaks from the Red Baron's underpants.

The tone, wave is like a deal what it's supposed to be doing. One minute you're pipetting tears from the face of dying soldiers at the Somme, the

next you're sampling the brown streaks from the Red Baron's underpants. The tone wavers like a D&D podcast interrupting a well-crafted fart joke to cry about a recently deceased pet, and then transition to a Mint Mobile lad, all of which might be forgivable if the cum-sharkootery actually had something to say, but the overall message is bollocks. If surviving trauma was all you needed to be a great artist, beating Borderlands too should

have won me the fucking Turner Prize. I'm gonna' I'm I'm

I'm

I'm

I'm Welcome to Dungeons and Daddies, or perhaps better known this season as grandpas and galaxies.

I hope not better, no.

Our numbers are tanking.

A grand space pauper about four gilts who take to the stars and rescue their grandkids.

...