#Choding Couple

[squeakadeeks]

You draw amazing art, make some of the most detailed cosplays, AND ur a physicist? Bro how many hats do you wear? Every single one of those is years of hard work

i owwn 10 billion hats

but shucks ty ;-; to be fair i worked on all three of those things simultaneously and the time just passed _(:3 」∠ )_ so its like sure it might take 10 years to get a physics phd, 10 years to draw the way you want to, and 10 years to learn how to craft stuff but those 10 years passed at the same time all mashed together

[jayke0]

And They Were Roommates

Pairing: Marc Spector x fem reader

Summary: You catch your roommate, Marc, having some private time, and it's only when he comes at the sight of you that something inside you is released.

Rating: nsfw, smut

Warnings/Content: Friends to lovers?, Male masturbation, fluffy/soft sex, Marc being insecure at first cuz he hasn't had his chode ridden in a while, some nipple play (f receiving), protected sex (pill), mention of female masturbation, p in v, breeding if you squint, creampie, lmk if there's anything else I should add :).

Word count: 2,275

A/N: Uhmmmm so i accidentally posted this too early, so if you see it please reblog so it reaches others! Thankyouuuu

Credit: @automnepoet for proofreading ily.

…………......................………………………………….

Marc Spector had always found himself to be a very private man. You're lucky to have even gotten a glimpse at his phone that one time, given how precisely he guards what little personal belongings he has and hides his emotions behind a stone-cold glare.

That's why he always waits for you to go out before he touches himself.

He'd gotten into the habit of it after realizing the wall dividing your bedrooms is so paper thin that he could hear every word the character was saying on whatever show you'd been watching at the time.

The anticipation; the waiting was always the worst. You'd take your sweet sweet time getting ready and checking your shopping list, only to forget something and come back 2 minutes later; luckily, he'd gotten used to that part too. Though, as much as he pretended he hated it, he actually found it quite endearing; a little quirk of yours that made you so fucking adorable to him.

“I'll be back in an hour!” Marc hears your voice echo through the hall, simply responding with a grunt that was somewhere along the lines of ‘alright’. He hears that first front door slam and waits a couple of minutes, before excitedly scrambling to his bedroom, cock already twitching at the prospect of release.

He'd had a particularly hard few days (pun intended), and with you deciding you didn't want to venture out, he was left to let his mind wander, only to blueball-ball himself in the process.

He's quick to grab his earphones and settle down comfortably in his bed, pulling his t-shirt off swiftly and practically ripping his jeans off. It doesn't take long before he's got his cock in hand, fisting his throbbing length harshly as girly moans fill his ears and do wonders for his imagination.

Oh, how he tries not to think about you. He knows It's creepy, and he knows that if you found out you'd probably kick him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, but it's so hard. His thumb swipes over the tip, collecting the beads of precum and spreading it over himself.

You're always so perfect, so gorgeous. The sun always seems to land on your face beautifully and illuminate each of your features. He twists his hand expertly and pulls a string of breathy gasps from his chest as he squeezes the tip.

The way you walk through the living room in just a towel, dripping wet; it's almost like you're tempting him.

He's now frantically thrusting into his hand at the image in his mind, low moans and growls escaping through his gritted teeth as his head tilts back and the tendons in his neck bulge at the stretch. That coil is tightening faster that he can control, his brain foggy with thoughts of you, just you you you. The thoughts are so close that he swears he can hear you calling his name, begging him to ruin your cunt and fill you u–.

A cold feeling runs through his body as his head shoots up, his eyes meeting your shocked gaze. Unfortunately for him, that's exactly what he needed as he's sent tumbling over the edge. Hot white ropes spill from his ruddy tip and splatter across his toned chest, huffed moans and curses falling from his lips as he fucks his hand through his orgasm.

It's only when he finally opens his eyes again that the guilt hits him and he scrambles to pull his boxers back up, trying to put his still throbbing cock away.

“Fuck, I'm so sorry, didn't realise you were there! I- I had my headphones in–.” He pulls them out, trying to wipe the evidence of his sins off of his chest, but your soft hand stops him; yes, you had gotten closer.

You watch as his dark eyes trail up your arm to your face, a cocktail of dread, fear, and… something else, all brewing in his gaze; it makes you want him even more.

“I'm not mad, Marc.”

“Creeped out, then?...”

Your thumb runs over his knuckles, feeling how warm and soft his hands are. “No. I mean, I probably should be, but fuck,” your eyes are drawn to his twitching length fighting against the restraints of his tight boxers. Carefully, you crawl onto the bed, straddling his legs far enough away from his body so he can push you off if he's uncomfortable.

You inch closer to him, “ ‘s this ok?” Hands either side of his thighs, your words are soft and breathy, your eyes gazing at him with a look that is sickeningly sweet.

It makes his head wurl, a tight feeling constricting in his chest as the prettiest girl in the world sits virtually in his lap. “Yes–” his voice breaks, making you chuckle softly. “Yeah, it's more than ok.” His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and you feel it as you place your hands on his chest to shuffle closer to him.

“You looked so handsome like that, Marc.” You compliment with a smile, leaning in to brush your lips across his and feel him take in a sharp breath. He catches your lips and pecks them with adoration, letting a longer kiss linger on them as you press closer to him still. After a few seconds, he moves his hands to rest on your waist, one running up your back to cup the back of your head as he runs his tongue along the seam of your mouth, and you happily oblige.

Months worth of feelings are poured into the kiss, both of you slowly and softly lapping and sucking at each other's lips before you dissolve into panting messes, biting and licking fiercely as if trying to eat each other whole.

“God damn, Spector, you're a great kisser,” you giggle softly, pulling from his lips to appreciate the shiny and red mess you'd made of him. A familiar growl rumbles in his chest, one that you'd learnt was an appreciative noise rather than something to be put off by.

“You can talk, y'know. You're not gonna scare me off.”

Briefly, you see insecurity paint across his face. It's something that you'd never seen before, a small crack in the otherwise solid structure of his frigid expression. On instinct, you brush his curls from his forehead and cup his cheeks, “I trust you, Marc, it's ok. I'm not here to judge you.”

His shoulders seem to relax as he nods a little, “I'm sorry. I don't do this often, if you hadn't noticed.”

You laugh softly and pat his chest, “that's ok, neither do I,” you smile as you sit back on your heels and pull your t-shirt off over your head. You take his hands gently and place them on your breasts, “none of them were you.”

You swear that you see him change in that moment, your words sinking in and his eyes turning hungry. His thumbs run over your hardening nipples as he surges forwards to seize you in another burning kiss that has you hot and breathless this time.

“Jesus, Marc…” a soft whine is pulled from your lips as he glides his lips down and over your neck, focusing on the pulse point below your jaw by nibbling and sucking softly. He's surprisingly quick at unclasping your bra, and he pulls away a little to admire your body.

“Shit, you're gorgeous,” he mumbles, thumbs running underneath your boobs before they work up and run across your nipples, making a gasp get caught in your throat. “You always have been gorgeous. I always look at you and think ‘fuck how doesn't she have a boyfriend yet?’”

“ ‘Cause I've been waiting to fuck my roommate…” You chuckle softly, feeling him chuckle too as his head dips to your chest and he takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue sliding over and swirling around the hard bud in a way that leaves you grinding against his thigh. Suddenly, your jeans feel so restricting, like they're choking you, stopping you from appreciating any pleasure that Marc offers you, which is why you're quick to unbutton them and slip them off… All while your roommate sucks on your tits.

“God. Do you know how many times I've touched myself hoping you’d catch me?” Your words are breathless as your body rolls against his mouth and a pleased noise from the man reverberates over your nipple. “Left my door open just a crack in hopes my moans would grab your attention, and you'd come and fuck me right…”

He audibly groans at that, pulling away to look at you again while his hands travel to your waistband.

”You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that.”

He hungrily pulls your underwear down your thighs and off with his own following soon after, leaving you both naked and messily grinding against each other as you're caught up in yet another kiss.

You glance down eventually, being treated with the glorious sight of his thick cock throbbing and spilling pre-cum… Or maybe it's cum from his previous orgasm, either way it makes you clench your toes.

“It's bigger when I'm this close,” a nervous chuckle leaves your lips.

“I know, I know. That's also why I don't fuck much.” He laughs breathily and grips his length at the base, running it between your sopping folds and circling your clit perfectly. You grind down on his tip with a moan and pant.

“We don't have too, if you don't want to.” He reminds softly, pressing a few more kisses on your jaw, but you're quick to shake your head and grip his shoulders, “I need you inside me, Marc. Needed it since the day i fucking met you.”

You certainly don't have to tell him twice.

He's sinking inside you before you can even process his tip probing your hole. It's such a delicious stretch, one that spreads throughout your body and along your nerves. You sink down on him further, wanting to sheath him inside you whole.

You'd like to think that Marc knows you're on birth control, given the endless packets and the way you often rant to him about the imperfections of the drug. You're hoping he knows this, because you're hoping he cums inside you.

“Fucking hell Marc, shit…” You pant softly and look down between your bodies, your hands holding onto his shoulders As he grips your waist and guides you; down down down till you're sat in his lap.

You feel so full like that, and honestly you could probably just roll your hips and cum right there, but it's not long before your roommate is lifting you off of himself just to impale you once again. A rush of pleasure runs through your veins and makes your cunt clench around the girth, both of you groaning as you capture his lips again.

“Dammit… you're lucky you're hot, or I would've kicked you out–ah- for being a creep–”

“You were the one watching me stroke my fucking cock. You liked it deep down.” The man growls on your lips, making a whimper rise in your throat as you nod a little, dumbly. His breath is hot on your lips, each of your moans being swallowed by laboured gasps from the other as his hips rock up.

Although the pace isn't fast, you already feel wrecked. The stretch is so fucking good, and the way he hits your sweet spot everytime has you weak at the knees for this man, your groans turning into gasps and drawn out moans.

“M-arc, honey, I'm not gonna last much longer…” You whine pathetically, but this only makes him move faster, now bringing you down on his cock as he thrusts up harshly and sends waves of pleasure through you as he does so. “That's it, baby. Wanna feel you cum All over my cock; cum all over your roommate's cock… shit, you're so filthy, sweetheart.”

His words have your nails digging into his shoulders, your thighs burning as they finally give up and you let Marc use you, use your cunt for his own damn pleasure. The whole idea has you arching your back, and finally, with your shaky fingers circling your clit, you go crashing over that edge. Your thighs instantly clench together as whorish moans are pulled from your lungs and fill the room, ecstasy washing over you in waves and taking you to a place that you didn't even know existed, not until Marc.

Your clenching cunt is what finishes Marc off, that and the beautiful sounds you make as you come. Your walls milk him dry, taking every drop from him and more as he fills your cunt with that delicious warmth.

You sink back down on him finally and practically collapse into his chest, your arms wrapping around His torso tightly as you try and catch your breath.

The warmth that spreads through Marc's heart in that moment is almost unbearable. It's a feeling he's wanted for a long time, one that he doesn't even know how long will last, but he's sure as hell is not gonna waste it worrying.

You feel his large arms wrap around you tightly, a kiss placed on your shoulder, and then his warm breath sending goosebumps over the back of your neck as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Never took you as a cuddler, Marc Spector.” You mumble softly into his chest, listening to the rhythmic thump of his heart as it slows to a comforting pace.

“I'm full of surprises, sweetheart.”

...........................................................................

Tags 🖤: @boredzillenial @cowboymarcs @chichimisaki @faretheeoscar @fanofstuffidk @minigirl87 @marisferasiop @red-hydra @summonthesoups @steven-grants-world @queerponcho @ominoose @mynamesstevenwithav @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @cupidysm @clemdango04 @flowercrownonapegion @spxctorsslxt

[softroundbunny]

Watching my husband's cock poking in your stomach, just putting my hand over it and going. "You're taking him so well, baby!"

I love watching him mount you when you're in heat. You tease and flirt knowing how big his dick is. And you fuss and whine like the slut you are. He smiles everytime he slips into your tight, leaking hole, filling it up so quickly. "Can't wait for you to have my babies.. your belly is so cute all big like that," I overheard him say, his hands over your soft and squishy tummy, holding you gently when there's a red mark from his head thrusting and stuffing your poor cervix.

You asked me to take you to the store to get a pregnancy test.

Even now, he's always sporting a chode ever since you told him he actually did what he said. The baby growing large and quick. After a couple of months you looked like you swallowed a football.

He couldn't keep his huge hands off that little bump in your belly. Any time you were standing idly, he would always creep up, resting his hands on your growing stomach. I could see his thick cock gathering size against your ass that you kept pushing against him, teasing him about being fat because of the baby. You purr in his ear about how horny it makes you.

We're in the baby store shopping for maternity clothes and more baby gear when I hear what I know right away are your little huffs of boredom and frustration. My husband does his best to comfort you and keep you entertained, holding you and making out. I would hover, placing my hands on your little tummy and checking on you both if he went to the bathroom.

We got caught up at the train station, standing in a crowd as the staff mention a delay with the schedule. I hear you whimpering and beginning to fuss as my husband tried to calm you down, swaying you and holding your tummy with one hand and a hand on the small of my back with the other. These meltdowns became routine, usually fixed with stuffing your needy cunny of his cock. He could feel your lack of underwear under your milkmaid dress, moving his arm up to hold up your breasts as he worked just the back of your dress up. He nods to me to keep look out,

Against the wall under the stairs, I looked around as I tried too shush you, holding your head as he played with your soaked area, lining himself up as he quickly pushed through, but pulled on your hips slowly.

"Babe~.. it's soo much~" you whine, attempting to shimmy the rest of his cock inside, but he stops you.

"Don't wanna hurt the baby, do we?.. Just be patient, bunny girl.." he says, eyes looking around as most didn't care or didn't even know. I keep a reassuring hand on your belly as I feel the push on your little mound. You bit lip as we talked around you, knowing the strangers might know you're filled to the brim with dick, and that's what you needed. You're carrying his baby and his cock in your womb, and here I was egging him on. You were begging for me to play with your nipples, pulling your hips up whenever my hand dipped too low, trying to put friction on your aching clit.

You couldn't have any of it.

My husband had to shove his fingers in your mouth as he grew closer, needing to push a little faster in order to get his load off, you falling back into him, eyes rolling back as a small puddle formed under you. He didn't budge yet, keeping his member sheathed as the first train screamed into the station, holding you all the way down and allowing you to scream and cry out on his cock.

We boarded the first class car with my husband's smile, your womb full of cum, and more belly rubs from me as you sat in his lap. He asks ever so sweetly about how you feel, rubbing your slightly swollen middle, squeezing gently. He asks if he hurt you and you shake your head, he asks if the baby feels ok and you nod brightly, very clear change in your mood.

I'm just happy to be traveling as a family.

its the way i have literally had fantasies about being a couple’s breeding stock -_- although mistress n bun need to have more scenes together !! i wanna touch you too ….

also i for some reason can’t post your other submission but i loved it >.< ….. #ilovegamers lolll

[brins-rogers]

stupid school kid

{ azalea x edgar} 🌺 ☣️

{{not proofread: TW: cursing??, slight angst}}

Muscular arms folded over his chest, brows knit together tightly as he tried not to focus on the scene before him.

“What the fuck are you wearing, Azalea?” The two had been working on his piece of shit car together, he had shed his orange button down and thrown it on a nearby table, it was now draped over Azalea’s shoulders. It was impossibly big on her, nearly reaching her knees.

“Take that shit off.” Edgar grumbled, turning his back towards her to hide the ever growing heat spreading on his cheeks. “Why? I think it looks good.” Azalea taunted, hands on her hips as she jeered. Edgar simply scoffed in response, busying himself by ‘looking’ for something.

Hearing more feet on the gravel he turned around sharply, seeing Azalea hastily shrug off his shirt and toss it on the ground. “Hey, jackass!” He shouted, picking up the crumpled item off the ground. Once he stood back up, he saw another annoying fucking school kid. Broad shouldered, blonde, a stupid mullet and clad in a letterman jacket. Was this … the dork Azalea had been head over heels for? What a joke.

“Casey!” She gushed, fixing her glasses. “Hey, I uh, wasn’t expecting you!” Azalea chirped, making Edgar simply fold his arms across his chest, glaring at the blonde jock. “Yeah I uh, saw a new car in your garage. Came to check it out and ask if you could look at my truck…” There was tension in his voice, the blonde locking eyes with Edgar.

“Who’s this? Friend or … boyfriend or—“ “What’s is matter to you, smart ass?” Edgar spat. No, he and Azalea were not, in fact, dating. But the thought of this blonde chode being angry or jealous sent a sick thrill through him.

“Friend! Edgar is my friend!” Azalea assured the football player, smiling sheepishly as her pale cheeks came alight. “I’m still—totally single and available, haha.” Edgar mentally winced. She was awful at flirting, no wonder she never had a boyfriend.

“Ohhhkay. Well, I’ll see ya later when you’re not … busy, Azzy.” Casey said, stepping out of the garage. Azalea whipped around when he was gone, cheeks red as she stomped up to Edgar. “What was that?! I—I swear to god you know I like him!” Azalea whined, pointing a wrench at his chest. Edgar swatted it away, scoffing. “Drop it, I didn’t do shit, you psycho.”

Azalea wasn’t ready to let that go, instead worried that Edgar had scared off what little chance she had with Casey. “No! You totally did, Casey isn’t fucking smart and know he thinks you and I are some fucking couple! As if!”

Edgar wasn’t … expecting that to sting as badly as it did. His jaw tightened, clenching so hard he could chip a tooth. Yanking his shirt off the table, he slid it on his shoulders and slammed the hood of his car shut. His eyebrows were narrowed dangerously, the townie damn near seething.

“Where are you going? The transmission is still shot and I have to replace the spark plugs-!” Azalea was cut short as he slammed the driver’s door shut, revving the sputtering engine. After a minute, it coughed to life.

“Edgar, c’mon! What did I do?!” The redhead asked, walking up his window. “Just fucking forget it, you stupid fucking school kid! Forget this, forget helping me, fuck, just forget me!” Edgar shouted, reversing almost too quickly out of her driveway, gravel flying.

Azalea could only stand there confused as he peeled off, watching the dust settle.

What was his problem?

{{sorry to hurt you so, my pookies}}

@aquaberryvanilla @enbyhiro @zkeybullworth

[randomthefox]

Failing to stop Clutch means… I don’t even know, he embezzles some money from a charity fund raiser? Or something? What even was his plan? And who fucking cares if he succeeds at it, when Eggman is RIGHT THERE trying to suck the planet dry with a living city that fracks and expands across the entire world if left unchecked?

I'm pretty sure the only depiction we get of Clutch's crimes are in the form of an infodump, when his cover finally got blown on national TV. Would have been nice to have seen direct evidence of Clean Sweep polluting land, air, and water through, idk, visuals or storytelling. But nah, we just have to take the book's word for it.

Even worse? Since PR was a running motif throughout the Phantom Rider arc, Clean Sweep's crimes should logically have made the public give the Restoration major side-eye. Folks should have been questioning why the Resoration would have partnered with an organization that was doing Eggman-tier pollution behind their backs without anyone so much as noticing.

The discrepancy makes the heroes like massively unobservant chodes... which does not gel well with IDW stans' claims that the Restoration's staff are traumatized uwu-beans on constant alert for threats to their organization. If they really were hypervigilant following the metal virus, Clutch and Cleen Sweep should not have been able to infiltrate as much as they had. So either the Restoration are naive to the point of fatality, or they're incompetent. Pick your poison.

"Clutch was really good at playing chessmaster" can only go so far as an excuse. Coupled with Jewel's decision to crash the ship into Restoration HQ and then sit there and cry about it when she had all the time in the world to plan an evacuation, I'm more inclined to believe she's just a crappy leader lol.

Tell don't show storytelling at its finest. The only crime I think they mentioned in that broadcast that we actually saw was a forest fire, which was done by Surge under orders from Starline. So Clutch is such a useless nobody of a character that Stanley had to prop him up with crimes done by Flynn's villain lol.

And yeah there's no hint of there being any sort of social unrest or suspicion against the Restoration because of this. Because that would actually be a sensible and logical outcome. Naw, let's interrogate Sonic for being the phantom rider instead, even though nobody who learned that during the storyline itself actually cared.

[maddie-grove]

I think it's one thing to tell women that it's better to be single than to date a guy who's a total chode, because their value doesn't lie in being coupled up and dating guys who are absolute tools sucks, but so often that is not what people are saying to women who date men. It's more "you have no right to complain about men you are dating/married to/sleeping with, because you chose to date them" or "you are choosing to date men who suck (even though you could be dating men who don't suck) because you're a miserable shrew who likes to complain."

[burntundertones]

a couple of chodes 😆🤡

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Ruins Bros

This is one of those movies that you know even before it begins that it will devolve entirely into politics and that most of them wont even have anything to do with being gay. I was prepared for the worst, but I wasn't even prepared for this overly hamfisted political rambling to happen within the first minute of the movie. You do not even have the premise of the movie introduced before the writers have already complained about "cis straight white men." And less than two minutes into the movie they are already promoting the idea of gay books for kids.

But it's not all bad I do have to give the writers credit for honesty, early on there are some very mask off lines. For example a producer is trying to make a gay romcom (because everything has to be meta and self aware now) and says that love is love and gays are basically the same as straight couples and the gay character says that that was just propaganda to get straight people to tolerate and accept gays because in reality gay couples are absolutely nothing like straight couples.

They also admit it's an inherently more sexually deviant lifestyle and to mock the idea that gay couples are just like everyone else they do a joke where a gay couple calls their parents to tell them about introducing a third person into their sex lives like as though they were making a baby announcement. Credit where its due that was kinda funny, I think maybe we've gotten to the point where these people are so out of touch with reality they don't realize the message they are communicating. They've gotten so pushy and so comfortable that suddenly the propaganda of the past needs to be thrown out, because we've reached the period of subversion where their constant desire for representation and validation has superceded the need to cling to lies that helped them achieve that level of comfort. It's not enough that there's a gay person in every show...we need the gay person in every show to be a deranged overlypolitical sex lunatic and an unlikeable chode or else it's not accurate representation.

It's weird to see the main character playing a character who isn't an over the top cartoon, like he played in parks and rec, It's offputting. And he's not a good actor he's ill suited for this role, they even make a comment along this line by saying a gay guy playing a gay guy isn't acting…no shit, but they do it in a meta selfcongratulatory way because they actually cast gay men to play gay men. So they are essentially celebrating choosing gay people over actors...in a movie...and it shows because the acting is terrible. You get the impression he's being himself half the time and when he's not you can tell painfully clearly he's acting… his line deliveries seem forced and off tempo…it's like watching a hallmark movie if it was written by degenerate retards. It doesn't help that the main character isn't a person he's just a recepticle for the variety of ranting and political speeches that the writers want to make. Honestly it's like someone read a tumblr thread of the most incoherent unhinged gay people ranting and then thought how can i turn that into movie dialogue…and then quit halfway and said good enough.

Speaking of offputting a lot of what they expect to be comedy just comes off as empty and deeply sad. Like the part where he tries to have an anonymous meetup with a stranger but has to take a picture of his ass first and cuts himself shaving and freaks out because now "he can't shit or have sex"…am I supposed to be laughing. It's like a darker Judd Apatow movie but they took out the comedy the relatability and the redeeming qualities.

And the dialogue is what you would expect, it's incoherent nonsense, they do make an attempt to poke fun at themselves by having social justice arguments and debating who needs more representation displaying the ridiculousness of the ideas but even so it just comes off as annoying and tiresome. This movie is exhausting to listen to. If I wanted to hear someone complain that they say faggot in a movie from ten years ago I'd check myself for brain damage.

the movie is also just gross, they play romantic music while two dudes speedrun through a bunch of weird fetishes and do drugs. It's soft porn, it's as graphic as it can be without showing any actual sex. On that basis alone I highly recommend not watching it.

All of that aside the b plot that's just there to be backdrop for the "romance" is the opposite of interesting…not just uninteresting…it is as far from it as you can possibly be. Unless what you find interesting is a very unlikeable gay dude trying to produce a lincoln is gay exhibit in a gay museum. They spend half the movie complaining about gay representation not being good enough because it's too sanitized and hallmark but then use all the same cheesy cliches but just add in needless nauseating raunch. Like imagine American Pie but there's no jokes and everyone is in their mid 30's.

I can't even review the plot more than that because it's just so boring and pointless, it doesn't matter what happens because it's not interesting and you don't care...and it's very predictable.

The battle cry of the movie was that gays are not nice clean cut normal people like you or I and are actually messy obnoxious douchebags who lead hollow lives that are almost entirely fueled by degenerate, cold, mostly anonymous and awkward sex. To which I say...sure, duly noted. Now you might be thinking hey that's just your interpretation because you're a homophobe, to you I say that you give the movie too much credit, you assume the themes would be delivered with subtlety and would be open to interpretation...this is not the case. I know those are the themes because the characters in the movie told me over and over again that those were the themes.

It's not as bad as bottoms was but it's still one of the worst movies I've ever watched. After having watched it the accusations of "homophobia" being the only reason people didn't like this or want to see it sounds extra dishonest because it wasn't just a bad movie it was abysmal in every way possible. I feel like I need a shower after watching this.

F

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Just got reminded that TJ Miller was a violent asshole when drunk and rather than stop drinking, blamed his problems on everyone else.

And one time on an Amtrak, when a women wasn't pleased with his drunk ass hitting on her, called 911 claiming she had a bomb on the train.

My only disappointment with Deadpool 2 is that given the requirements for making a superhero film, going back and recutting all his scenes with Christopher Plummer rather than him just wasn't possible.

When I was on twitter, I saw he was going to be at a comedy club in PDX and tagged the comedy club asking them not to host him given his violent and shitty behavior. I tagged him as well. A few hours later, he liked a tweet of mine. Which was a photo of me taken several weeks before that was a couple of pages back in my history.

I'm not sure what he thought he was saying by doing that but, like, dude, that is my face on the internet by my own choice. I expect that sometimes chodes will see it.

[officialtayley]

You know how a lot of couples will naturally end up kind of poking fun at each other/the other person’s past exes especially if they were around to observe those relationships and know those people…..I would kill to know what h and t joke about in terms of b, chode, etc 😂

i wonder if they even joke at all tbh like what if they'd just rather pretend they simply do not exist ajwjsjsjsjs

[castlebyersafterdark]

do you think you would be happy with a finn or noah soft dick pic? i remember that being a storyline in Sex Ed tv show, why would you send a soft dick pic lol.

but i kinda like it... it's sweet and also if its a little series with their underwear first, and theyre just casual or relaxed, it doesnt always have to be hard?

i related to what you said about its gotta be the dick/skin you wanna see haha! for sure! not any random chode 🙄🙄

obv we would never see their dicks but you know what i mean

🤭🤭🤭 Layers to this one!!

First and foremost because I'm responsible and reasonable - unless they do a nude scene in a film, the only way I fear we'd see anything particularly revealing of them is if someone leaked their private data and that's not cool. SURE I'm into these guys but not at the expense of that. Especially with my personal history, that's never nice...

FUN HYPOTHETICALS HOWEVER - listen it doesn't have to be an either or but the question is always posed: which do you prefer more regarding 🍑 or 🍆 and I think I've made my preference clear 🤭 so. All dick is welcome, hard, soft, hellllllllllo!! Context though hmm. Now, the dick pic itself is an interesting topic (oh my god as I type this I can hear my own voice, my professor-esque cadence I imagine when I answer asks lol come on man) - you wanna turn someone on, you wanna impress, you want someone to know you're hard for them. Not just oh heres my dick btw just flopping here unimpressively with nothing else going on. A soft dick pic with nothing else going on is a little goofy, I'll admit. Like do I want to see it? Yeah but I'd want to see it in person to make it hard 🫢 If a guy was just sending dick pics as a flirtation/seductive thing - get that thing ready.

But there's something about a full sequence that's the extra mile. The tease with clothes and/or underwear showing the bulge. Why bother sending your nude soft dick when you can keep your underwear on and look soooo good (this is why boxers are so not sexy to me. Sweatpants? Hot damn. Jeans? Yes. Those plaid pajamas and clearly commando? Hmm. Boxers give me nothing. My opinion!!) and then follow with the sequence of out and hard and whatever else from there.

Different with a partner, show it alllllllll, any state of being, it's totally different. But you've already seen those states. Idk I do like in prn when you actually get to watch the guys go from soft to hard, see people working each other up to it. Just a raging hard-on and then they fuck it's like - this is all faked. Like you feel like they took a pill and it's over-edited and you're thinking ugh I bet they're gonna fake the cum too which is always a bit off putting once you can tell so this is an incredibly off topic tangent HAHA. (Watch amateur stuff or couples - it's so much better psa)

Back to the boys! I think theeeeee most exciting thing is a nude film scene where it's not a focus but clearly they've gone full frontal and it's just a flash, idk I find that really exciting. They're soft of course but that's really good in the moment, like it's authentic and a normal state of being. I like that. I don't think either will ever do that but you never know!!! Otherwise I have my vivid imagination to picture them in a movie, flinging the covers off and just for a moment you see a flash of cock and then they walk out of frame, also giving a bit of ass too oooooh that's perfection. Or similar sequence but they're stepping into a shower.

"Why do filmmakers waste time including scenes like this?" Because it's the small, everyday things that instantly give a movie a layer of realism. These are mental signifiers that hopefully provide immersion and frame the film as a lived in universe and a "real" character, even though we know it's filmed on a set, the goal is to forget that. But it's how they shift into authenticity. Getting out of bed naked, brushing teeth, taking a shower, taking a piss, cooking up breakfast, etc etc. These little couple second scenes, sure, don't add to the story or tell us much about the character, but it grounds it, makes it realer. I see that complaint a lot - why even bother making them nude for that pointless scene you can edit out and lose nothing? There's the reason. It's for those who want to engage deeper because it adds a reality to a story entirely not real.

This ask was all over the place hahaha 😆

[halfberry]

Anish Kapoor is such a hack. I had forgotten about him owning the rights to a colour and saw a news article about how he finally got around to showing vantablack off in an art show and it was just a couple of circles painted on a wall. How up your own rear end does one have to be to achieve that level of hack?

What a chode.

[peppermintbuttlemon]

Did Chode ever say anything about the new K stuff before deleting? Cuz if not that’s sus. She def follows these accts

-A couple hours ago - that TT account was normal and had all previous posts. Now it says "no bio yet" in the bio field and one post about people reporting the account. Last night or early this morning she had a post about how she's not Kate or any other person people have accused them of being. This is exactly what people assumed would happened once it was believed that account is K.

Weeeeeird

[thewestern]

Chapter 15

Jiggle the knob. You have to fuc-king jig-gle it.  

I am jiggling it. 

No, you’re j-j-j-erking it. It’s not some homeless guy you met under the highway. He’s not gonna share the rest of the ham sandwich he found in the dumpster in exchange for you grating the cheese off his dick. It’s a door knob. You have to Jiggle It. 

Hey Thadeus, guess what? 

What, Louisa?

I’m about to Jiggle this rusty old key in your fucking eye socket … fuuuck, dude. This was supposed to be my day off.

 Our Day Off, Lu. That’s just it — your selfishness. It’s limit does not exist. And that’s just as a twin sister, to say nothing of your fucking tending bar. Maybe if you weren’t such a [whispers] c-u-n-t to the customers, we could make some real money. Maybe then we wouldn’t have to take the extra shift from the first. 

Maybe blow me, Thad, you chode. 

Parked across the street from the green awning, over the gentle purr of his lithium-ion battery-powered engine, Billy could hear every word of this invective volleying, as if it were taking place in the backseat. Sometimes when people cursed a lot — such as Ari on Entourage or Hank on Californication, two of Billy’s favorite premium cable television anti-heroes — it could be kind of hilarious. You know, like if they knew creative swear words or how to incorporate clever puns into their insults and stuff. But this seemed more scary than anything. Borderline abusive, actually.

You know at the time I thought it was harsh but maybe mom was right when she said you were a mistake. 

Oh really … we’re twins, you twat. 

I know. That’s why I wish I was never born, only so that you wouldn’t have ever been born either. You make life worth not living. 

Well, I wish you could terminate one half of a pregnancy. Then I would travel back in time and drive mom to the clinic and pay the hundred and twenty-five dollars or whatever it cost back then to abort you.

Oh yeah? Because with you I bet she’d say, why bother with all the paperwork, when I’ve got a hand mirror right here, and there’s a closet full of perfectly good coat hangers. 

What if we were Chinese, and we were born under the One Child Policy? They probably would have put you up for adoption. Wait, you’re the girl, so it definitely would have been you, by fucking default. You’d have been sent to live with a couple in Paramus, New Jersey, who tried for years to get pregnant but couldn’t because the husband grew up downriver from a cat food factory. They’d name you Jennifer. You’d be their little China doll and they’d spoil you rotten. But they’d never love you. Not really. Not like they would have their own flesh and blood.

Listen, you creep. I don’t know what blood type we are, but you better hope you don’t ever need a life-saving plasma transplant because I will let the cancer eat away at your bone marrow until you fucking die slow. Bitch ass.

Jesus. Them two were mean, man. No doubt about it. But also, so fantastical with their dueling barbs as to render them mostly harmless. At least by Billy’s estimation. Hildy on the other hand didn’t have to resort to any profanity-laced threats of incurring bodily harm upon one’s unborn person to hurt his or her feelings. That’s not to say she couldn’t be passive-aggressive, which she could — with the best of them. Whatever she did say, however, you could be sure that she meant it. And that was the worst part. 

It goes without saying though that while Hildy practiced nonviolence in her campaigns against Billy’s self-esteem, the Jackson twins were willing to defend themselves by any means necessary. When she finally got the door to lock (thanks to some subtle jiggling, although she’d just as soon die than admit as such), Lulu raised her hand in the air and snapped her fingers repeatedly, creating a diversion that she used to then throw the keys at Thad, aiming for his groin. Somewhat haphazardly he blocked them by lifting his right leg, scrunching up into a standing fetal, and countered by bludgeoning her with his backpack whilst hopping on one foot like a defensive flamingo. Absorbing the off-balance blows, she readied to perform the fatality maneuver — every time … he started, she finished — a behind-the-leg, scorpion kick to his upper shin, buckling his knee just shy of hyper-extension. 

Argh, Full-blown AIDS, he shouted, thus signaling his submission as he crumbled unto the sidewalk of New Frontier.  

But right back up he sprung. And, with that out of their system, they carried on down the block as if nothing happened, walking right past Billy to their car. It was a hand-me-down minivan that their mother and father had previously used primarily as a means to promote the family orthodontistry practice. (Also they would take it out on weekends and holidays to the Less Fortunate neighborhoods, where they’d offer up orthodontic services on a pro bono basis. A nice gesture, albeit ill-conceived.) And damnit if there wasn’t a big old fucking incisor impacted right on the roof, crowned by a bracket fashioned out of aluminum foil and coat hangers, that which twins never bothered to have removed. 

  Billy waited for them to disappear around the corner before himself flipping another bitch and pulling around to the curb beside the front entrance. With the press of a button, the drivers’-side door flapped open, like a hydraulic wing. Billy suddenly regretted how difficult it was to subtly exit out of a vertically-hinged door, especially when it was attached to a canary yellow sport coupe. Stepping onto the curb, he could see how in all that commotion, the quarrelsome twosome had left the keys just sitting there, right beneath the chalk sign which today read: Our intent is for all your delight. 

Funnily enough, almost this exact scenario had played itself out once before. Although in that instance circumstances had been the reverse, in that it was Thadeus who’d flung the keys at Louisa, a short time after which a presumably homeless person happened upon them, entered the bar and beelined for the cash register, the key to which was situated there on the very same ring. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, this crime of utmost convenience was committed on what was among the slowest Monday’s in recent memory. The take, therefore, was less than fifty dollars in small bills. Probably feeling a little put out, before absconding with the paltry sum, he or she used the bar as a bathroom. And not the bathroom part either. 

It had to have been Hank who discovered the burglar’s fecal calling card there on the parquet floor. But then wouldn’t you believe he wasn’t all that upset? Not the first time, he said somehow wistfully, as if reminiscing about a past instance of a similar nature. Suppose then this was just an occupational bio-hazard. Another day in the bar business. Obviously, he left the mess for Thadeus and Louisa to clean up. You can only imagine how bitterly they argued over the how, the where and especially the who, when it came time to dispose of the turd. Hank didn’t fire them though, or really even offer much reproach. For crying out loud he let them keep their closing privileges. That was the kind of guy Hank was. Accepting of all shenanigans.   

Billy, though, might could have tested his patience. Experienced as he was in causing mischief, he knew better than to do … whatever he was going to do — he still hadn’t decided — on a downtown avenue, beneath the street lamps as they refracted off his highlighter-coloured, cry for help-of a motor vehicle. So he pulled it around the corner and ducked back down the alley. 

The greatest trick this car ever pulled was parking itself, which it proceeded to do between the dumpster and a brick wall. To interpret this as a testament to the benevolent sophistication of Artificial Intelligence and its potential myriad of positive applications for aiding humanity, or a demonic sign of the coming singularity, is your prerogative entirely. In either case, Billy didn’t have near enough room to open his driver’s side door. (Because it hinged open vertically, one could not crack it open and shimmy out like a regular schmuck. It required room enough to fully spread its wings. Before you fault the manufacturer for this, a rather obvious design flaw, consider that the typical driver of a car that costs more than your average three bed, two bath, in a great neighborhood with good schools, isn’t squeezing into many tight spots between two gigantic fucking pickups, because somehow it’s the single empty space in the entire Pacific Ocean-sized parking lot of the Save-a-Load. It’s called, Valet.)   

Just as soon as he was through hoisting himself out through the moonroof and sliding down the hood, Billy approached the back door with a privileged sense of calm — as if he owned the place, which according to his mother he bloody well would, pending board approval. There were five keys on the chain, and none of them were working. It occurred to Billy how he didn’t have much experience with analog locks. True, his parents weren’t around a lot when he got home from school, but you don’t qualify as a latchkey kid when your house has retinal scanner-enabled entry. And of course it goes without saying that his car’s ignition was push-button. On the whole, keys were very not swag at all. 

Readying to resort to his most time-honoured practice — quitting … just giving up — Billy remembered all the way back to five minutes before. You have to jiggle the handle. You fucking twat. 

###

Ask yourself. What would Billy do? Not as a Craft Beer Explorer, so much. As an individual. In this instance, a highly fucking suspicious one. Well, recall that crime comes down to motive. So what does he want? Right now he wants someone else (his mom) not to do something, which is hardly wanting anything at all. Suppose then, in the grander scheme of things, that he wants to become a successful beer executive and to carry on his family legacy. But does he want that, or does his mother want that? Or does he want his mother to want that. Or does he just want her to want something — anything — on his behalf. 

Now that we’re clear on his intentions, what are his available options? Counterintelligence, obviously, comes to mind. Corporate espionage. Gather, or better yet manufacture incriminating evidence against the New Frontier Brewing Company, and use it to sabotage the acquisition. Realistically, without Yayo-L standing by to help him hack the mainframe, he wouldn’t be likely to find a smoking gun among their electronic records, even if he knew what he was looking for, which he did not. Ah, but what about the art of sabotage, in and of itself … couldn’t he skip straight to that? Contaminate the beer with a foreign agent to somehow interfere with the fermentation. Again, he wasn’t fully up to speed on the microbiology of beer making. (Even the macro was beyond his tenuous grasp.) Perhaps that would be covered in his rotational leadership program, but then the whole point here was to avoid that bullshit straight away. There was always acting out of spite. That he had in spades. Take a dump on the floor? Who says no? 

All This was synchronized swimming laps around Billy’s head. Sometimes it was all he could do to tread water, try not to get kicked. The physical space was likewise pitch dark. Rather than flick the switch, Billy used the LED screen on his cell phone as a torch to light his way, slaloming between the tall metal tanks, hopscotching over hoses. Guided by only the faint blue glow, floating in all that darkness, he was like the captain of a deep-sea submersible, exploring the uncharted leagues along the ocean floor, searching for long lost shipwrecks and cataloguing new species of aquatic life forms.

All that was on the the Mick’s stark workstation was his marble composition notebook. Billy shined his light on the dog-eared page, faintly illuminating a vivid sketch of a man on a buffalo being chased off a cliff by a rocket ridden by … Doctor Ezekiel Lupustein. A big bad omen. Billy hated that fucking mutt. He would haunt him for all his days.

Entering the sanctum of Hank’s office, preserved in amber ale, for the first time in this particular breaking and entering, Billy felt like he was actually intruding on something. He was someone who had spent most of his upbringing in places that lacked a certain hospitality, to human life forms. Prep school, around his mother. And whereas these hallowed places, like the great halls of the Wolffenhaus, were intermittently occupied … this office, was a room that to him had seemed Lived In.  He could tell by all the cool shit there was everywhere. Like the furniture. Oriental rugs, a leather sofa, lamps galore. Items that had been walked, sat and turned on, many times over. 

 And books. A voluminous library with what figured to be many dozens of them. Dense biographies of Real Men of Genius. Such as Lyndon Johnson. The odd reference book about metallurgy. And of course, a robust stack of Hank’s favorite genre, Prepositional Phrase Adventure Porn. Into Thin Air, Into the Wild, Around the World in Eighty Days, In Harm’s Way, In the Heart of the Sea, (Twenty Thousand Leagues) Under the Sea, Between a Rock and a Hard Place, On Horseback Through Asia Minor, Through the Looking Glass. 

Kitty used to tease Hank about all his things. How he made his adult male doll house. A magnanimous man cave. He said, poke fun all you want, Kitty dear, but these things and this place are who I am. She thought better than to say so aloud, but what a sad thing that was to hear. 

Just like behind the bar, the office walls were covered almost every inch over. Although mostly by photographs. Also a mounted plastic fish that sang a song when you pressed a button, which Billy did instinctually.

Take me to the river, dip me in the water (Washing me down, washing me)

Billy fixated on one of a man he did not know to be Hank — khaki-clad, head-to-toe — standing in a row of what appeared to be tribesmen, all holding spears and shields. Then he inspected the various commendations, citations, honorary degrees, etcetera. Displayed most prominently among them was a plaque inscribed to John Henry W. O'Sullivan the distinguished recipient of the Randolph Scott Award for Innovation in Brewing as so recognized by the North American Master Brewers Labor Association. Somewhere, in the distance, the Mick stuck his tongue out and made a fart noise. 

Wasn’t much art to speak of, unless you count framed concert posters. Hank surely did. Winterland Arena, Nassau Coliseum, Avalon Ballroom, Wembley Empire Pool, King’s Beach Bowl, literally the Great Pyramids, in mother fucking Egypt. Souvenirs from faraway fantasy lands, were these illustrated relics from the bygone times of Kings, Emperors, Warlocks and Pharaohs. Only one painting without any accompanying copy. A lithographic portrait of Sadaam Hussein. Crude oil on canvas. You could expect that Billy didn’t much keep up with current events, but everybody knew Uncle Sadaam. He saw the video of him getting hung online. Like, bruh. See an opp in a spider hole. Catch a case in a tribunal. He want the glock. We got the noose. Neck go pop. Off your head top. 

Oh, cool, a ship in a bottle. There on the executive desk. Here was your classic old wooden ship with the full square rigging. Billy was once sent away as a teenager on a four-week Experiential Outdoor Education and Immersive Behavioural Optimization Expedition to the Caribbean, the first of several attempts at correctional recreation made on his behalf. The Bahamas was tight, but having to learn all those gay knots and eat canned pasta was whack as fhuck, dude. 

Having some sailing experience under his needlepoint belt, Billy took note of how this ship in a bottle wasn’t running triumphantly downwind, though. It was tilted at an acute angle, but it wasn’t sailing on a reach either — no, the masts were down. Was it capsizing? The water was white. For a fact, it wasn’t water at all; it was ice. The ensign was a Union Jack and the name on the stern read: ENDURANCE. Huh. Billy couldn’t make withdrawals from his trust until he turned thirty-five, and if he made it, he looked forward most to buying a Super Yacht, or at the very least a speed boat like the ones in Bad Boys II. BIG PIMPIN’, he would christen the goodship. Best part of getting a boat is you get to name it, he reckoned.

Then there was a shitload of other random ass shit. A totem pole in one corner. A grossvater clock catty-corner to that, which Hank never bothered to wound. (The time was currently set to quarter past eleven, actually only thirteen minutes slow, numbers which are not symbolic in any way, you can rest assured.) He kept a vintage milk crate filled of some of his favorite rock specimens he’d collected on various hikes. Chairs were set out in contradiction more than invitation — a royal blue plastic-molded seat he stole from the football stadium before it was imploded in a controlled demolition, an eames lounge chair notably sans ottoman, a set of two bean bags, a vintage wicker wheelchair and a t-bar, which was a primitive form of ski lift. (Somewhere in a faraway storage unit Hank had a one-hundred percent authentic electric chair. To be perfectly clear, he came by it organically. Insofar as he hadn’t sought it out or anything. And he only very briefly considered setting it out in the bar before he thought the better. He wasn’t one of those death perverts who collected blood relics and other assorted pain paraphernalia to put on public display.)  Right by the door there was a human skeleton — like they had in science class — with a crown of fake roses. (They looked and felt plastic, but they smelled real.) Kitty and the Mick got him that for his sixtieth. She grave dug it out from the janitor’s closet at West Middle, and he brought it back to life with a couple coats of spray paint, appropriately bone white. This specimen dated back to a simpler time when they used actual human tissue in classrooms, to Show the Children how exactly the knee bone connected to the shin bone. (Via what are called articulations, surfaces wherein two bones meet, the patellofemoral and the tibiofemoral in the knee joint.) Those were the days. Back in the present, some knuckleheaded smartasses had doodled tattoos all over it with permanent marker. The words Thug Life was written across the lower rib cage. A teardrop fell down the cheekbone. A monarch butterfly took flight from off the coccyx. In fairness to those kids though, they had no clue that Casey Bones, as Hank got to calling him, used to be a real living person, who very generously donated his or her body to Science, back in an era when that wouldn’t have been nearly as common a thing to do. (Long before it was a decision you could make at the Department of Motor Vehicles.) They probably had no idea then that they were desecrating that charitable person’s remains with these, their entirely coincidental symbols of life, death and rebirth. 

Beyond the cheap thrill of trespassing on someone’s property, as well as apparently their whole personality, nothing here was quite sustaining Billy’s interest. To be honest he was getting fairly bored. His phone phantom buzzed on his right hip. Out of habit he opened the Brick Blaster app before quickly closing it, something he did routinely — in important meetings, at the movies, one time while getting his ass et. It wasn’t easy to lose focus like that, in the act of committing a class-three felony, nor while reaching third base on a bend-over triple. But that was Billy. Always off someplace else, adrift in the tide pool of his own fucking head. 

On the way out he opened the mini fridge. Doing hoodrat stuff always made him thirsty. Hopefully there was a sparkling water in there or something. Damn. Just half a turkey sandwich, and two-thirds a six pack of Wolffenbeir Native. Or, Natty Dub, as it had been colloquialized by Billy and other like doofuses.

Taking a hard right out Hank’s door led him into the taproom proper. Billy could see a switch along the wall, marked by a little black tape label with embossed white letters which read: THE WALL of LIGHT. You already know he flicked that shit, and sure enough, son-a’-bitch lit up like the Fourth of Ju-ly. Red and green lights Hank hung for Christmas, blue and whites he hung for Hanukkah, despite the Mick’s repeated insistings how very much that he did not care, those paper lanterns for Chinese New Year … and for some pagan holiday for worshipping the occult, that neon likeness Doctor Lupustein — Billy could swear he stalked him — flashing red the color of hellfire ember. 

Although for once Billy’s animated nemesis wasn’t the center of attention. Not on THE WALL of LIGHT, at least. Like a nervous system, all of the bulbs and their corresponding circuitry seemed to lead to the middle top of the wall. There, the reason he came all this way was revealed unto him. Bertha, the prize bison head. Billy knew now. He was going to steal it. 

###

Billy was what you would call a Bad Kid. Objectively speaking. But, he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t even drink beer, it bears repeating. And he wasn’t a bully, not like a lot of his peers — rich pricks. For that he deserves some recognition from this board. Sure he liked to talk tough, but that boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Still, by any measure, Billy was a Bad Kid. Or what you would call one. So, why? Because. Billy stole. 

Now your typical thief, Billy wasn’t. In so far as his crimes weren’t borne of necessity. Without the mean old Kraut Wilhelm I, Billy’s Grossvater, around to piss vinegar in his kids’ milk, this next generation of Wolffenbeir spawn had been spoiled rotten, almost as a matter of policy. One of familial diplomacy: Hard-earned entitlements by way of unilateral appeasement. Anything he ever wanted he could have. (Except that which he wanted most of all  — a boat … for now.) Usually in forty-eight hours or less. (And this was before two-day shipping.) All this is to say that Billy didn’t Have to Steal. He Wanted to Steal. Baby, he Needed to Steal. So Steal he Did. 

 Pre-school was his first score. Snuck away during nap time and cleaned out every last one of them cubbies. While he was able to nab the odd knapsack and lunchbox, mostly, it was an art heist. Finger paintings, macaroni pictures, hand turkeys. Damned if he didn’t get away with it, too, burying the loot in the sandbox, taking it home piece by piece throughout the remainder of the school year. 

Ms. Huey, his frizzly red-headed teacher, was beside herself. She hadn’t for a moment considered that one of her students could be capable of such an act, fearing surely it had to have been the work of a local pedophile. You can imagine then, when she expressed as such, the police were called in to investigate. They dusted off every inch of that classroom for fingerprints with which to cross-reference via the sex offender registry. Sure enough there was a hit, with Ms. Huey’s fiance, Geoff. It goes without saying that she was devastated to discover she’d been betrothed to a criminal pervert, who let the record reflect had courted her under false pretenses, and an assumed name, presumably because her job could afford him tangential and therefore untraceable access to a wellspring of toddlers. 

At least she hadn’t walked down the aisle to an awaiting Geoff (his real name, if you can believe it, was Jeff … now, this doesn’t apply to you pederasts, but pro tip to everybody else out there using aliases for non sexually-violent offenses, don’t just change the spelling of your name, and certainly don’t swap it out for something more conspicuous, like fucking Geoff … now there’s a guy who touches kids), before he could be perp walked out of their shared apartment in front seemingly the entire complex. That they had not recovered the stolen goods among his otherwise highly incriminating belongings, however, the proper authorities were not the least bit concerned, since they had quite obviously ID’d the culprit positively, and apprehended him peaceably.   

All the while, no one ever suspected Billy. It was the perfect crime. 

So perfect in fact, that Billy may well have peaked, prematurely. Thereafter, his lopsided record of W’s to L’s indicated he wasn’t a very good thief. He wasn’t a bad one either, necessarily. Not sloppy by any means. Really his was a problem of regression to the mean. You see, when it comes down to it, grand larceny is a numbers game. Any snatch and grab man that’s worth a shit will tell you you’re going to take a pinch, sooner rather than later. So you pick your spots. But that was just it for Billy. He had a different calculus. A high-volume shooter, you could call him. To be clear, it was not that he was trying to get caught, as if he had some kind of complex. You wouldn’t say he was compulsive about it, in that way. More … prolific. And with regard to consequences, it wasn’t that he didn’t care. Sure, he affected an air that he didn’t care, about anything, but it was painfully obvious to anyone paying attention that he cared —  desperately so — about every little thing. 

Perhaps it was partly because those consequences didn’t bear down upon him with anywheres near the severity as they would for your average hoodlum or hopper. To that end, Hildy spent much of Billy’s childhood into young adulthood covering his ass. For his benefit, certainly, but also for hers. Being a young and ambitious female executive within the chauvinistic corporate hierarchy that pervaded the Wolffenbeir Company, as it had been meticulously erected by its patriarch, Wilhelm I, Hildy’s career prospects were tenuous enough as it was. If somehow it was made widely known that her meteoric professional ascent as a working mother had come at the expense of her increasingly delinquent son, well, that would’ve reflected quite poorly on her wouldn’t it.

Mercifully for her sake then that criminals are territorial by their very nature, and Billy was no different. So it stands to reason how for many of his subsequent crimes, he returned to the scene of his original sin. The Canaan Country Day School. The ideal staging ground for an aspiring thief, this petri dish of deteriorating privilege. Those little human bacteria were isolated and cultured from pre-K all the way on through Twelve, although Billy only made it to Eleven. 

Though it ended thusly, just woefully short of completion, Billy made the most of his prep school tenure, rest assured. He robbed that place fucking blind. Offender on repeat. And he took big scores, too. For example like, at the start of every academic year, when it was often required that students of a certain grade level purchase a specific school supply, Billy took that as a personal challenge. In fourth grade it was recorders. He stole an entire symphony orchestra’s-worth on the eve of the big recital. Poor kids had to hum My Heart Will Go On. 

Thereafter, the middle school — or rather, Lower School, as the Canaanites insisted on calling it — mandated that students begin using three-ring binders to organize their assignments. Preliminary training for the diligent work that is Wealth Management, for the children of parents whose estates were to be meticulously stewarded through a convoluted network of byzantine financial instruments deployed in the name of charitable trusts, itemizing contributions only to worthy grantees such as the City Ballet or the Common Sense Institute for Economic Policymaking, or perhaps, say, the Canaan Country Day endowment fund, that which exceeded the GDP of some developing nations. So important a lesson indeed, that these parents — and acting executors of their family foundations — could not be bothered to pick up said binders or other learning implements on behalf of their brood at the local big box outlet. So that the binders were issued, included as part of the goods and services expense in their tuition, to each rising middle schooler, emblazoned with the Canaan Country Day motto: Values ​​​​ad vitam impletum (Values for a life fulfilled), or teaching the upper crust’s moldy fucking scraps how to hold on for dear life to the rest of what’s theirs.

But, before the all-important binders were to be distributed on the first day of sixth grade, Billy jimmied the door to the supply closet where they were stored, and lined them one by one, up, down and across the cloistered hallway, painstakingly popping open the flimsy metal claws to fashion them into bear traps for the pre-pubescent.

Come high school (beg your pardon, Upper School … fucking ugh), the nonlinear nature of polynomial algebra necessitated the ubiquitous use of sophisticated graphing calculators. Nevermind how he was a year-and-change behind, mired in eighth-grade-level pre-algebra. Billy resented the implication. However, by now you can bet the administration had picked up on the forensic patterns of his still-developing criminal mind, which by contrast were quite linear indeed. Which is to say, the heat was on; they had a Bolo out on Billy. Not subtle with their tails, either. These were obvious hall monitor types. With their snitch asses. They were working in shifts, in his khaki cargo pocket, coming and going in and out of every class. But somehow though, Slick Billy shook his tail, if only for a moment. That was all it took. In the span of a second period, every last calculator up and vanished from Mr. Kuntz’s advanced placement trigonometry classroom, using as a diversion one of his interminable lectures on the myriad practical applications of creating statistical models for means testing entitlements. Twenty-three calculators were taken in total, summing to a street market value of just a shade under two thousand dollars, the legal threshold constituting Grand Theft according to state law. (Again, Billy wasn’t a Master Thief by any measure, but he had his moments.) They were recovered on the first day of the following semester, stacked neatly on the headmaster’s desk, each bearing a numeric signature of sorts. Billy’s five-digit calling card: 80085. 

While the Canaan Country Day School was secular (godless, even), they did accept indulgences to pay for pupils’ past and future sins, as you might expect, in the form of in-kind donations. Ever the shrewd businesswoman, rather than pay an adjusted-rate premium for Billy’s a la carte offenses, Hildy negotiated a proto-subscription service model with the aforementioned headmaster, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Judd. In addition to providing a welcome stream of recurring revenue to the school’s general fund, the agreed-upon payment structure called for financing a semi-annual facilities upgrade. Before Billy could do long division, he was attending classes and participating in extracurricular activities on a completely renovated campus of state-of-the-art learning spaces, named almost exclusively for his familial ancestors and other figures of significance to the Wolffenbeir Company. up to and including the much-heralded dedication of the Doctor Lupustein Infirmary. To the utter delight of the assembled faculty and student body, Billy notwithstanding, the wolf himself, in the plush, attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony, with a trio of his sexy nurse practitioners in tow. 

Thereafter, running out of immediate relatives and beloved mascots (it should be noted how she refused to commemorate her Grossvater, Wilhelm I — joke’s on her though … Big Will would have burned that mother down and pissed on the ashes before suffering the disgrace of association with such a Rat Ship, as he referred to CCD), Hildy resorted to namesaking Conservative Women of Consequence whom she admired from throughout history. The Margaret Thatcher Dining Hall. The Shirley Temple Center for the Performing Arts. The Ayn Rand Endowed Teaching Chair. The Nancy Reagan Head of the Class Scholarship, given to that year’s Top-performing female student, pending results of comprehensive drug tests and an astrological reading. 

All this in lieu of expulsion, for which Billy would have been a prime candidate.  Not for nothing, but it was an outcome he would have vastly preferred to his rigorous program of deferred discipline, in favor of rigorous rehabilitation. As per his mother’s agreement, Billy was required to undergo an intense battery of one-on-one counseling sessioins, as well as additional Nature-based experiential therapy for troubled youths. (The latter was the reason for Billy having to earn his basic seamanship, as well as a full suite of other basic skills suitable for survival on land.) Headmeister Lieutenant Colonel Judd, you see, was a firm believer in the character-enriching properties of the Great Outdoors, drawing on his own personal crucible in the highlands of the Korean Peninsula, and later the flood planes of the Mekong Delta. Of course, if you could only line these ungrateful tenderfooted faggots on the business end of a Chinese-made AK-47, they’d fall right in line with a hop-to, lamented the Lieutenant Colonel. But, begrudgingly, he would settle for at least getting them outside, away from their perverted music videos. Marxist-Leninist indoctrination propaganda films, the lot of them. (Every afternoon he would watch Total Request Live and seeth, fantasizing about ripping out host Carson Daly’s polished nails, one by fucking one.) 

As for Billy’s shrinks, the diagnostic consensus was that here was your garden variety case of kleptomania, mostly benign. There was although some clinical disagreement among them therein — he was treated by a rotation of psychiatrist specialists over the years … the top docs in their respective fields, all — as to whether he also exhibited any symptomatic comorbidities, such as an elevated risk for substance abuse, latent homosexuality or perhaps even psychopathic tendencies. Now it was true that he lied, compulsively. Even Billy would admit that. But he only intentionally misled insofar as it enabled him to steal things. It wasn’t as if he was out here burning ants or drowning cats. Quite the contrary. Like his late grandfather, Wilhelm II — The Deuce, Billy-boy was a big-time softie for all the animal kingdom’s many multi-legged subjects. (There was one exception. He never did get along with man’s best friend. Obviously, there was Lupustein, M.D., his nemesis. Fucking doggy doctor, specializing in sniffing dudes’ dongs. Also he was aggravated by the constant mood swings of his mother’s manic depressive terriers. But to be honest, he couldn’t truly hate those two slobberpusses. Really, Billy only resented how they seemed to always take her side.) For a fact, when the day came to dissect bullfrogs in tenth-grade biology, he intercepted the shipment of live specimens and laid a plague upon his teacher Mrs. Toebbe’s hatchback, the one with the Darwin fish decal on the bumper. To be clear, no amphibians were injured in the making of this caper. The Canaan School stood on the grounds of a would otherwise-be wetland preserve and wildlife refuge, so this toad load thrived upon their stay of execution and subsequent release. (Yes, you are correct in assuming that these organisms are typically pre-euthanized and embalmed before being bulk-ordered and shipped off to classrooms for to be descecrated by teenagers. However, the Lieutenant Colonel pulled rank to intervene in Mrs. Toebbe’s lesson planning, insisting that if her students were to observe life in such a state, that they themselves see it drain from their subjects’ bulging eyes.)   

Despite his many trespasses, this delicate arrangement Hildy had made to shield her son from any repercussions whatsoever was holding up quite sturdily. Billy was a ball hair away from finishing his penultimate, third year. (A note on style. CCD didn’t go by grade numbers, like eleventh. There were no juniors, or sophomores or seniors or freshman, for that matter. Billy was a Third Year.) From there he could coast on through to graduation. (Commencement, in Canaan parlance.) Smooth sailing to the finish. That was until … he crossed a line so bold, his transgression, even his all-powerful mother could not erase. 

###

Without its tradition, the Canaan Country Day School would be but a husk of itself. In all his litany of larcenies, running up a rap sheet the length of the Condoleezza Rice Football Field and back, Billy had still yet to run afoul of the school’s ritual customs to an extent that which would narcissistically wound its stratospheric sense of institutionalized self-importance. Partly because Lt. Col.  Judd took great pains to prevent such occurrence. As the school year in question drew to its conclusion, the Lieutenant Colonel was preparing to unveil a bronze bust of the Canaan founding headmaster, his administrative mentor and father, Doctor J. Jerome Judd — a groundbreaking figure in the fields of preparatory education as well as eugenic theory, although this tribute would serve to emphasize the former. Several weeks preceding the ceremony, Judd the Younger spent bolstering his tactical defensive postures against Billy, the teenage insurgent. No expense would be spared, up to and including the subcontracting of a comprehensive risk assessment, to be drafted at exorbitant cost by a counterterrorism analyst from the Perlmutter Agency.  

Whosever fuckup was culpable for the binder debacle or the calculator calamity, this time, the Lieutenant Colonel wasn’t taking any chances. The evening before it was to be unveiled at the all-school assembly, he himself supervised the delivery, had it encased in bulletproof glass, and installed a laser tripwire alarm system, courtesy of the good people at ​​Karakuchi, Ltd., a high-ranking executive of which was the parent of a Canaan first-year. So help him god, if Billy or some other poor soul so much as set foot in the Ann Coulter Common Room, hell itself would descend upon them. 

The following morning, after making an excruciatingly lengthy speech covering a bevy of topics — scholarship and virtue, respect for one’s elders, the moral cowardice of guerilla warfare and others — Lieutenant Colonel Judd removed the velvet cover revealing to all his late father’s likeness ... fully caked in clown makeup. 

Billy styled the black and white countenance after one popularized by the rap duo Insane Clown Posse. During that time he was experimenting with Juggaloism. Juggal is the term of endearment with which ICP refers to their devoted fans, and they themselves and one another. Billy was more a casual Jugallo, though. Not a credentialed Jugallo for Lyfe. Which is to say he’d never had the pleasure of attending the Gathering (of the Juggalos), their annual pilgrimaje. However he was a one-time completist of the rap rock-slash-nu metal genre, and he had transformed the Canaan Country Day commemoration of its founder, Doctor J. Jerome Judd, into his own commemoration of the co-founder of the Insane Clown Posse, Violent J. 

(Some years after Billy’s rap palette matured to the extent it did, an infomercial for the Gathering of the Juggalos was parodied on the very same sketch comedy show that Doctor Lupustein made his much-heralded debut in primetime. It was very funny, and for a time the Juggalos became a kind of collective cultural punchline, especially among new media types, many of whom sent their Reporters out on Assignment, inland from their respective coasts to Cover the now-infamous music festival. From these hillbilly safaris, they brought back more low-brow fodder, masquerading as some socio-cultural taxonomy. Ironically cataloguing their various customs. What they drank, for example — Faygo, a budget-friendly brand of soft drink distributed exclusively to the Midwestern market. Their mating rituals — bartering beads or other goods in exchange for the baring of one's breasts, which are often also festively painted.] Their iconography — the Hatchetman, a silhouette of a running man with dreadlocks bearing a hatchet, is the trademarked logo of Psychopathic Records, and a symbol many Juggalos have tattooed on their person. Their terms of endearment — colloquially, Jugaloos and Jugalettes refer to one another as Ninja. This is because Joe Bruce and Joe Ulster, the Christian names of ICP frontmen Shaggy 2 Dope and the aforementioned Violent J, respectively, grew up dirt poor in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan. To entertain themselves, they watched television. Professional wrestling and horror movies were obviously their most profound influences. But, also, Kung Fu films. In popular folklore, the Ninja, or shinobi, was a peasant warrior whom the higher class Samurai warrior looked down upon for employing tactics they deemed to be dishonourable. Stealth assassinations, spying, sabotage, general sneakiness. But the ninjas weren’t concerned with anyone’s concept of honour. Perhaps as testament to their poor upbringing, these outcasts were concerned only with one thing — survival. And this their special set of skills, made them exceedingly difficult to kill. Jugallos, or Ninjas, likewise, live forever.    

Their war cry —

Although it wasn't all fun and games. You see they also documented a troubling pattern of harassment against female ICP fans [Juggalettes]. Okay, lookit. This is not to in any way excuse that kind of behavior [here it comes …], which is incorrigible [ … bu bu bu], But [Flex Bomb!] the notion that women being mistreated is somehow endemic to this tiny subgenre of a subgenre … well that’s just crazy, man. Ask yourself this. What about Grateful Dead shows? All about peace and love, right? Well, why don’t you ask Mary Ellen Moffet how the fairer sex faired on Shakedown Street, where the love wasn’t always so peaceful. The point is that The Genre of music — however fucking silly — has got nothing to do with it. At every fest, concert, rave, recital, drum circle, jamboree … you name it … wherever music is performed and judgment-impairing substances are served … you can bet that women are probably being taken advantage of if not outright abused. Pointing the finger at these mostly harmless hillbillies because they wear funny facepaint doesn’t make the rest of us any less ugly. 

Around about that same time the FBI officially classified the Juggalos as a criminal street gang. With backing from the ACLU, ICP, Inc. strenuously objected to this characterization of their fanbase, going so far as to file suit against the federal government, albeit unsuccessfully. Spurned by the courts, ninjas took to the streets, staging a hundred-or-so Hatchetman March on Washington. 

Whether or not the increased law enforcement scrutiny served to prevent any crimes from being committed, it no doubt resulted in many otherwise law-abiding juggalos being targeted and harassed by dragnet investigations and baseless accusations. 

Five or so years later, Donald Trump got himself elected president. 

Not so funny now, is it?) 

To this day, nobody knows how Billy did it. Shucking and jiving his way like Catherine Zeta-Jones through all them lasers. Then again, as far as the other students were concerned, well, none of them much cared. You might suppose he would have been lauded by his classmates as a crusader — sort of a combination of Robin Hood and Ferris Bueller — sticking it to the curmudgeonly principle. But it wasn’t like that. Not even close. For a fact, everybody thought that Billy — the Insane Class Clown — was weird. Whenever he pulled off one of his big scores, they collectively rolled their eyes. Mostly they were worried about getting into a good college. Canaan Country Day fostered a highly competitive environment. They didn’t have time for Billy’s shenanigans. So while he would have relished in their tacit approval, or perhaps even having a partner in crime, as all the best stick-up men do, Billy was left to work alone.

The Lieutenant Colonel on the other hand was very curious indeed about how Billy had thwarted him for the last time, so help him god. Worse than the crime itself, Billy had also managed to lock the bulletproof encasing in such a way that nobody could get the damn thing out and wipe the grease paint off. For hours on end, he enhanced interrogated him. But Billy wouldn’t budge. This despite the Lieutenant Colonel pulling out all the stops. Intermittently he’d leave the room. (Canaan did not yet have a dedicated interrogation space, so he resorted to retrofitting the maintenance shed.) When he returned with the sweet old Mrs. Huey to play good cop to his bad Lieutenant Colonel, Billy still kept his cool. So Judd put him on ice. He left him there alone from fourth through sixth period, playing at full volume a selection of his favorite music, courtesy of the Margaritaville station on satellite radio. Still, Billy wouldn’t say a word. Judd was beginning to begrudgingly respect his adversary’s resolve. The boy had sand. He would know, having himself withstood an all-inclusive stay in a beach-front villa at the Hanoi Hilton. Then, in that exact moment that the Lieutenant Colonel was starting to admire his fortitude, without breaking eye contact, Billy farted, audibly and olfactorily. At this, the old fart finally went fucking ballistic. How’d you do it? You little pinko commie pissant! You’re not worthy of a Canaan Cadet! (The school had no military affiliation, he just liked calling the kids that. Cadets.) You disgust me! You’re scum! 

It went on like this for some time, until finally, like an old dog barking at the wind, the Lieutenant Colonel wore himself down. Billy, for his part, still hadn’t fucking blinked. So Judd returned his gaze with as much contempt as he could muster and asked one final question. The rhetorical type, that better not come with some smartass answer. He said, son, what do you have to say to yourself? Billy looked down in repose as if to truly consider this condescending query. Then he answered.

Whoop whoop.

What did you say to me, maggot? 

Whoop whoop. 

Are you whooping? 

Whoop whoop. 

God damnit, boy, stop whooping at me!

Whoop whoop, Ninja.

You will address me as Lieutenant Colonel!

Whoop whoop. [With these latest whoops, Billy gave a mocking salute.] .

Don’t play games with me, Mister Wolff.  

WHOOP WHOOP!

Stop it, I said! You stop it this instant! 

WHOOP WHOOP!!

This is your final warning! Cease whooping at once!

WHOOP WHOOP!!!

Nihilo sanctum estne?

Billy stopped. Suddenly his expression was sorrowful, as if he meant to convey, here is where it ends. I will fight no more forever. 

Now the Lieutenant Colonel paused, satisfied with himself. He knew the boy would break. They all do.

Do I have your unconditional surrender then? Go on. I want to hear you say it. I, Billy Wolff, am a gutless little worm, and I hereby submit. 

Billy leaned across the desk ever so slightly and whispered: 

Whoop. Whoop.

Expelled! Wilhelm Wolff the Third, I expel thee! 

[charmcoin]

well so like the guy at the speaker was like we're out of 10 inch tortillas so we can't make your burrito but i can give you a couple free taco coupons so i was like OK whatever and i get to the window and he hands me my food and the bag is awfully heavy for something that supposedly does not contain a burrito. and i get home and there is in fact a burrito. so i guess they just used the small tortillas and made a Cheesy Double Chode Burrito and i also still got 2 free taco coupons. but they didn't give me the sauce i ordered so they should still be destroyed

went to taco bell. they were out of tortillas. May as well happen

[icegabrielle]

WGM Favorite Couples