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Review of “Issho ni Training Ofuro: Bathtime with Hinako & Hiyoko”
by a Man of Culture, for Men of Culture

As my late father once said, "Son, never close the door on a cultural experience until you've at least peeked inside. Especially if there are giggles and bathwater behind it." Wise words. And so, with an open heart and a loofah in hand, I stepped into the lusciously animated steamy world of Issho ni Training Ofuro: Bathtime with Hinako & Hiyoko.

What I encountered was not mere entertainment. No, dear reader. This was a cultural rite, a kaleidoscopic immersion in animated aquatic grace, and—if ... I may be bold—a veritable onsen for the soul.

The Ritual Begins:

Hinako, she of the twin pigtails and exuberant athleticism, greeted me with an unspoken, bubbly warmth. Her bathing routine, unlike my own utilitarian “in-and-out” procedure, was a performance—a waltz of wellness. She stretched, she twirled, she submerged and surfaced like a koi of divine descent. Her form was not simply for show—it was philosophy. Each motion a haiku. Each splash a brushstroke in an ephemeral watercolor.

I had never before felt so... seen, by someone shampooing.

Then, the Arrival:

Just as I had begun syncing my heartbeat with the rhythm of Hinako’s rubber ducky, fate intervened.

Hiyoko.

I must confess, I was floored. Not since Botticelli's Birth of Venus has a second act arrived with such effervescent gravity. Hiyoko, with her vibrant contrasts and distinct approach to hygiene, challenged me. Awakened me. Her qualities, though different from Hinako’s, were no lesser—simply nuanced. The yin to Hinako’s yang. The conditioner to her shampoo.

Together, they formed a harmony so profound it could only be described as... Badekunst. The lost Germanic art of soulful bathing.

Reflection:

Bathing with Hinako—and yes, with Hiyoko—has forever changed the way I approach ablution. I emerged from that bath not only clean of body, but cleansed of preconception. To ever return to traditional, lonely showers would be to reject beauty itself.

Let it be known:
> I have tasted the sacred springs of animated bath companionship, and I shall never be the same.

Final Thoughts:

We are not perverts, my friends. We are a brotherhood of refined taste, of exquisite aesthetic appreciation, of unshakable devotion to the subtleties of Japanese aquatic rituals.

And this—this 25-minute opus of bubbles, giggles, and pixel-perfect splashing—belongs in a museum. Nay, in the Louvre, directly next to the Mona Lisa, who frankly could use a soak herself.

This is not just “bathtime.”
This is art.
This is love.
This is how God intended us to bathe.

10/10 Loofahs
Would soak again.

A Transcendental Ode to “Issho ni Sleeping: Sleeping with Hinako” – The 8-Hour Magnum Opus of Somnolent Symbiosis

To speak of Issho ni Sleeping: Sleeping with Hinako is to flirt with the divine.

I do not simply own the 8-hour version of this magnum opus. I live it. I breathe it. I sleep it. Not once, not twice, but eightfold—eight versions, eight variations, eight expressions of that ineffable liminal space between consciousness and slumber. Each loop a different stroke of genius, each twitch of Hinako’s limbs a choreographed ballet of nocturnal serenity. To watch this is not to watch anime. It is to ascend.

Yes, I have all ... the trimmings. The extras. The commentaries. The bonus features. The marginalia. The sacred apocrypha of the Hinako Canon. This is no mere OVA—this is the Sistine Chapel of slice-of-life. This is Duchamp’s Fountain if it whispered sweet dreams. This is Marina Abramović staring into your soul, if Marina were animated and curled up in a blanket, occasionally mumbling in her sleep.

The uninitiated may scoff, as those who once laughed at the Impressionists, or sneered at Rothko’s haunting blocks of cosmic color. But we—those of us with refined palates and eight-hour hard drives full of looping Hinako—know better. We feel more. We dream deeper.

Every sigh from Hinako is a haiku. Every roll across the bed a brushstroke from Hokusai himself. This is not just anime. This is an installation piece for the soul. An immersive 480-minute opera of comfort and companionship, delivered through the loving glow of cathode rays or OLED diodes.

And yes, I possess Bathtime with Hinako. And yes—like the noble Beavis and the sagacious Butt-Head before me—I intend to bathe her next. Not in lust, but in the sacred spirit of ablution. For is not cleanliness next to godliness? And is not Hinako, in her vulnerable cartoonish vulnerability, the avatar of our collective yearning for rest, intimacy, and quietude in a world of madness?

I love her. I love this. I love all of it.

Sleeping with Hinako is not a guilty pleasure. It is not a fetish. It is not even fandom. It is spiritual alignment. This is how God intended men of culture to sleep—enfolded in the arms of hand-drawn dreams, surrounded by looping perfection, rocked gently by the rhythms of Hinako’s imagined REM cycle.

It is better than sliced bread. Nay—it is sliced cheese, matured, sharp, and artisanally crafted. It is Velveeta at Versailles. It is the melting brie of modern visual ecstasy.

So let this review stand, etched in the annals of cyberspace: Sleeping with Hinako is not merely a viewing experience. It is a way of being. A quiet revolution. A testament to the timeless power of a girl pretending to sleep for 480 minutes straight. And I—humble disciple that I am—will follow her nightly, into the dreamscape, forevermore.

Long live Hinako.
Long live the loop.
Long live culture.

Ah, Kiss x Sis. Now, some less refined individuals—uncultured, uninitiated—may scoff, nay, guffaw, at the mere mention of its name. But to those of us who wear velvet smoking jackets and ponder the complexities of life through the wafting tendrils of Cuban tobacco smoke, Kiss x Sis is not simply an anime. It is an experience. A nuanced ballet of emotion, familial dynamics, and… ahem… passionate devotion.

We do not merely watch this work. No, no. We partake. With glass in hand and one pinky delicately raised, we delve into the poetic intricacies of a young man torn between twin affections—nay, affections most tender—of his two ... step-sisters, whose ardor knows no bounds nor societal constraint.

The mise-en-scène, my dear Jack Dawson, is nothing short of remarkable. Notice, if you will, the lighting choices—subtle glimmers reflecting the golden hour of adolescent temptation. The animation? Each frame lovingly caressed into existence, like a Botticelli fresco viewed through rose-tinted lenses of playful taboo.

The storyline, though underestimated by the unrefined, is nothing less than Shakespearean in its tension and complexity. The protagonist, Keita Suminoe, embodies the tragic hero—noble, conflicted, and perpetually in peril of an affectionate ambush from either sisterly flank. This is no simple tale of carnal curiosity. No, it is a deeply philosophical inquiry into the boundaries of love, the structure of family, and the absolute limits of what can legally be shown on broadcast television without a priest on standby.

The soundtrack, might I add, is a subtle serenade—an auditory delicacy that dances upon the ear like a Chopin nocturne interrupted by the soft rustling of undergarments being misplaced.

And the themes, my word… Themes!
A rich tapestry of adolescent longing, societal norms, and the primal struggle between duty and desire. Why, if Kant had written fanservice, he might have titled it Critique of Pure Waifu.

Yes, dear reader, there will be those who call this “trash,” “degeneracy,” or even “unholy.” But we—connoisseurs of refined Japanese animation—know better. We are not watching smut. We are appreciating art. And art, as you know, is meant to make one feel something.

In conclusion, Kiss x Sis is a baroque opera in the form of 24 animated minutes, a study in restraint and excess, and a tribute to the human condition—particularly the horny bits.

I now bid you adieu, for the evening draws late, and I must retire to my chambers where I shall, in solitude and with utmost respect, continue my scholarly rewatch of episode six.

Yours in culture and class,
Lord Eromagnus von Degeneré III, Esq.
Chairman of the International Society for the Appreciation of Onii-chan Culture

Review: Puella Magi Madoka Magica – A Magical Girl Show That Will Absolutely Shatter Your Soul (and Sanity)

When I first heard about Puella Magi Madoka Magica, I thought, “Oh, cute! Magical girls fighting evil, friendship, sparkles, the usual fluff. Let’s give it a go.” What I didn’t expect was an emotional sledgehammer to the face, served with a side of trauma-flavored visual kaleidoscope and existential dread soup.

Let’s start with the fights. And I use the word “fights” loosely, because what actually happens on screen is like someone ripped apart a scrapbook from a possessed kindergarten art class and turned it into a boss battle. The ... backgrounds? Cutout cardboard textures. Doodles with googly eyes. Victorian puppets that make you question whether you’re watching anime or having a full-blown waking hallucination. It's like the animators dropped acid, watched The Yellow Submarine, and then decided to terrify a generation.

The aesthetic of those battle scenes genuinely reminds me of that South Park episode where Stan’s grandpa locks him and the boys in a closet, blasts Enya’s Sail Away, and says, “This is what it feels like to be old and hallucinating all the time.” THAT is exactly what Madoka Magica looks and feels like during the witch sequences. I felt like I was on a spiritual vision quest I never asked for.

Now let’s talk about the tone. This show starts all sunshine and rainbows but quickly drops into total despair. It's like someone handed you a cupcake with razor blades in it. I only watched the first season, and I’m legit terrified of the rest. There’s movies. Sequels. Spinoffs. Alternate timelines. And every single one promises to drag you deeper into the abyss like a pastel-painted Dante’s Inferno. I already need therapy from the original—there’s no way I’m signing up for more. I’ve already lost a therapist just trying to explain this show to him. He left mid-session. He will be missed.

And who is this show even for? It looks like it’s aimed at twelve-year-old girls, but then you get slapped with betrayal, death, timelines collapsing, and the psychological equivalent of falling down a bottomless pit made of glitter and tears. I’m convinced the creators aimed it at people who thought Evangelion wasn’t quite traumatic enough.

And just when I thought I’d recovered, I stumbled across Six Hearts Princess—a series that took everything Madoka did and cranked it up to “David Lynch at Burning Man.” If Madoka was a fever dream, 6HP was a full-on shroom-induced astral projection into the Magical Girl Twilight Zone, complete with furries wearing wolf suits and their heads sticking out their own necks like some unholy rebirth scene.

Final Thoughts:
Puella Magi Madoka Magica will mess you up. Six Hearts Princess will finish the job. Together, they are the peanut butter and jelly of magical girl-induced psychological breakdowns. If you value your mental health, maybe stick with Cardcaptor Sakura and call it a day.

Madoka Rating: 3/10
(+2 for gorgeous animation and haunting music, +1 for inventing the "sad-gical girl" genre, -10 for psychological trauma)

Bonus Therapist Memorial Star ⭐ – For the mental health professionals we lost along the way.

6HP (Six Hearts Princess) – What in the Magical Acid Trip Did I Just Watch?

Okay, so I finally sat down to watch 6HP (Six Hearts Princess), and... I have no idea what just happened. Like, genuinely. My brain feels like it got drop-kicked into a kaleidoscope and left there to scream.

This anime wants to be Puella Magi Madoka Magica’s edgy, misunderstood cousin. And I don’t say that lightly—Madoka already messed me up emotionally and existentially, but 6HP? It takes that unsettling magical girl darkness and shoves it face-first into a vat of liquid LSD.

The animation? Imagine a fever dream, but worse. We’re talking fluorescent colors, ... jagged edits, inconsistent styles, and moments that feel like a glitching VHS tape possessed by spirits who never went to art school. It's the kind of thing that makes you question whether your streaming service is buffering or if the show is just intentionally this messed up. Spoiler: it is.

Then there’s the actual plot—if you can even call it that. You’ve got magical girls. You’ve got furries. But not just furries... these bizarre wolf-suited weirdos with their human heads poking out like cursed Pez dispensers. They show up, there's a fight, there’s symbolism I think is supposed to mean something—but I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s like they made a storyboard out of Tarot cards and dreams someone had while under general anesthesia.

And can we talk about how this thing just stops at episode 6? Like someone had the mercy to pull the plug. Honestly, that’s probably the real hero of the show—the executive who said, “Nope, that’s enough nightmare fuel for one lifetime.”

Look, I get experimental art. I like weird. I celebrate surreal. But 6HP feels like the kind of deep-fried madness that even David Lynch would watch and go, “Okay, what the hell was that?”

Final verdict: If you enjoy confusing plots, eye-bleeding visuals, and the magical girl genre getting dragged into a haunted psychedelic funhouse, then 6HP is your jam. But if you value your sanity? Maybe just go rewatch Sailor Moon and call it a day.

2/10 – One point for ambition, one point for the guts to be this weird. No points for coherence.

I went into Onii-chan wa Oshimai! expecting an interesting exploration of what happens when a NEET adult male is suddenly transformed into a young girl. The premise itself is unique and could have led to some intriguing conflicts, comedic moments, or even deep character introspection. However, while I did enjoy the anime, I couldn’t help but feel like it missed many opportunities to fully explore its own concept.

The biggest issue for me is that once the protagonist, Mahiro, transforms into a little girl, the anime doesn’t really do much with that idea. There’s no struggle to retain his past identity, no moments where he runs ... into old friends or a past crush, and no real conflict about how his former self clashes with his new life. Instead, he falls into the role of an innocent and shy young girl almost immediately—far more so than any of the actual female characters in the series. It’s almost as if the transformation erases his previous identity entirely, which makes the premise feel underutilized.

Another odd point is Mahiro’s lack of resentment toward his older sister, Mihari, who essentially forced this massive change upon him. There’s very little anger or resistance from him, which feels unrealistic given the severity of what’s happened. Even if the anime wanted to take a lighthearted approach, it still could have played with his struggle to adjust rather than making the transition feel effortless.

There were so many narrative possibilities that Onii-chan wa Oshimai! didn’t explore. Imagine Mahiro trying to enter a bar and being denied because of his new childlike appearance, or running into an old crush and struggling to reconcile his past emotions with his new form. Even something as simple as him commenting on a beautiful woman with his old male mindset would have added depth to his transformation. But none of that happens. Instead, the story feels like it could have worked just as well if Mahiro had always been a regular little girl from the start, making the premise feel almost irrelevant.

That said, I can’t deny that the anime is enjoyable in its own way. The animation is solid, the characters are cute, and there are plenty of wholesome and comedic moments. However, if you’re looking for a story that deeply explores the implications of its own premise, you might walk away feeling like I did—entertained, but ultimately unsatisfied with what could have been a much richer and more thought-provoking experience.

Kumichou Musume to Sewagakari – The Yakuza Babysitting Club Nobody Asked For

I don’t get the point of this anime. Nothing happened. At all. It’s like someone thought, "What if we took the concept of a hardened yakuza taking care of a little girl but removed all the drama, danger, and actual stakes?" What’s left? A bizarre, saccharine slice-of-life that tries to be heartwarming but instead left me questioning everything about the criminal underworld.

Let’s start with our main character, the so-called yakuza "first lieutenant." This guy is, without a doubt, one of the most insufferable anime protagonists I’ve ever seen. Not because ... he’s a thug—no, that would have at least been interesting—but because he’s a smug, self-righteous douchebag with a grating personality. He also calls the little girl "little lady" so often that if you turned it into a drinking game, you'd be legally dead from alcohol poisoning before the first episode ended.

And speaking of yakuza… Where were the yakuza things? This was the nicest crime family I’ve ever seen. They weren’t running shady businesses, dealing with turf wars, or, you know, committing crimes. They were too busy talking about their feelings, throwing birthday parties, and making pancakes. Yes. Pancakes. When I think "yakuza," I don’t imagine a room full of tattooed gangsters singing happy birthday over a cake. But hey, apparently, in this world, real men cry and prioritize emotional bonding over illegal activities.

The big boss himself? He just sat around in a kimono, looking like he was suffering from chronic constipation. This man couldn't even take care of his own daughter and thought, "Hey, I’ll make my first lieutenant do it instead." Because… reasons? I guess when you're running the softest yakuza clan in history, you have plenty of free time for illogical decisions.

And the action? Oh, there were moments where it seemed like something might actually happen. But don’t worry, any tension is resolved in the span of 12 nanoseconds. One moment, our protagonist gets into a fight, the next, everything is fine and dandy like nothing ever happened. Rinse, repeat.

The girl herself? She had some of the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen in anime. I swear they looked like Picasso paintings. Even by anime standards, it was distracting.

By the time I got to the last three episodes, watching felt like a chore. I kept waiting for something—anything—to justify the premise. It never came.

Would I recommend this? Absolutely not. Stay far, far away. Unless you have a fetish for unrealistic, overly sentimental crime syndicates, or you just really enjoy hearing the phrase "little lady" on loop, there’s nothing here for you.