beepression

[beepression]

vaccine appointments

Mr. Snuffles, ya girl’s got back to back to back vaccine appointments all day today. meow No breaks for mommy today. meow Don’t we love it when mommy’s work violates OSHA regulations. mrow *** Will this keep me from dying? From the Coronavirus, most likely, yes. But what about like, old age. Or being hit by a bus. Um. No. WELL WHAT EVEN IS THE POINT. … … do you still want the shot. … yes. * What’s the weirdest side effect this thing can give you? Well, I saw in an academic paper somebody claimed that the vaccine gave them genital herpes. Oh my god. Can… can the vaccine- No it cannot. I’m guessing somebody was fabricating an excuse. Ah. Well, at least somebody’s getting laid. Yeah. That’s nice. * My brother said that the vaccine was “the mark of the beast.” I can assure you that it is not. Oh yeah totally, I know. But I’d get it anyway if it was. Why is that? I’m a member of the Church of Satan. Oh. How’s that. It’s more bake sales than anything else. I see. Right arm or left arm? Left, of course. * Sir? Is everything okay? Yeah, it’s just that… my wife left me. Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Just the stress of the pandemic and everything. That’s rough. I also may have maybe sort of cheated on her. Uh. I see. Do you think I’m a bad person? I don’t really know you, but I also don’t think a single mistake should define a person. But what’s your first impression of me? I don’t know. You seem alright, I suppose. Oh that makes me so happy. Listen, I have a court date with my ex-wife next week. Would you be willing to come in and testify on how good of a person I- Absolutely not. * Is there a microchip in that. Nope. Just a protein that makes your immune system go buck wild. Buck wild? In a good way. Oh. Ummm. Everything okay? How do I… for instance. I know a woman… who has a husband. Go on. That husband… let’s say… doesn’t want to get the vaccine because he thinks it’s a microchip. I see. How would this wife convince this husband, in this imaginary example, to get the shot? Uhhhh, hm. What does this theoretical husband think the microchips are for? So “they” can keep track of people without their knowledge. I see. Does your - I mean, does this husband have a cell phone? Yes. Does he keep it on him at all times? Pretty much. So why would “they” need to implant him with a tracking microchip if he carries one everywhere anyway? Oh. Huh. *** Lotta talkers today Mr. Snuffles. meow Nobody’s a better conversationalist than you though, my sweet boy. mrow That’s right. mow

[beepression]

55 fiction: me from the future

“Whaaa… are you an older version of me?”

“That’s correct, young Sam. I’m you from the future.”

“I’ve so many questions. I guess I should start with: how much have we changed?”

Smiling, he said,

“I’m here so we can suck each other off.”

After a pregnant pause,

“Wow we have not changed at all.”

[beepression]

Shit I Liked in 2021

Most people use their year in review posts to show off their cultured tastes in art and entertainment. Not me though. I’m dumb. I like BANG hard seltzer, the alcoholic version of BANG energy drink that tastes like eating raw Sweet n’ Low packets, and I listen to brostep in the year of our lord 2022. Brostep is what happens when you take an obnoxious musical genre from 10 years ago, dubstep, and make it even more obnoxious. Brostep: the official musical genre of BANG hard seltzer.

With that in mind, here’s some shit I liked in 2021. Note that this list isn’t limited to items released in 2021, as I spend far too much time watching youtube and playing video games from 20+ years ago to make that list interesting. Also this isn’t limited to one category of art/entertainment; again, I don’t “consume” enough “content” for separate lists. Movies, video games, and maybe even my favorite breakfast – anything goes.

Also I gotta make this quick because I just chomped down on like 25 benadryls.

Just kidding. I didn’t do that. Why would anyone do that? Hee hee hee

:)

The Green Knight: my favorite movie this year that featured a magical cummies rag. At first I didn’t like this movie, probably because I watched it in two disjointed parts: the first 30 minutes on a flight (I fell asleep), the last 90 minutes at 2 AM on my laptop, drunk of my gourd at my parents’ house. Then I read a few reddit posts about it, realized that my viewing decisions had scrambled the plot in my head, and now I love it. Yes, people like me do exist, and yes, I vote.

:)

reddit.com/r/ilovedph/: shitposts about tripping on Benadryl. Absurd humor with a slightly sinister aura.

DPH is short for diphenhydramine, which is the psychoactive ingredient in benadryl. If you take one to two benadryls, your sinuses will clear up and you’ll get a little sleepy. If you take twenty to thirty, the substance becomes a dissociative hallucinogen, which, from what I’ve read, sends you straight to chemistry brain hell. These trips often involve horrifyingly realistic hallucinations of bugs, whispers, and shadow people. I was particularly intrigued by their description of “The Hatman,” a giant hat wearing shadow-humanoid that, no joke, I’ve hallucinated sober before during bouts of sleep paralysis.

From my limited experience with dissociatives and hallucinogens, it seems like there are a number of people who just really like to have a bad time. I guess some people then like to shitpost about it. And hey, who am I to yuck anyone’s yum. Besides, they occasionally have good advice sandwiched between screeds of Lovecraftian protagonists.

Sure, they may all just be making shit up. But to me that’s almost more interesting – a community of very weird liars. Imagine the kind of person that would play pretend over the internet to have psychotic hallucinations from over the counter medicine.

What kind of a massive fucking loser would do that?

:)

Fuser: Finally, a video game. Think Rockband/Guitar Hero but for mixing music. What if DJ Hero was fun? It’s not really a game per-se – the “campaign” is a long tutorial, and there are no real objectives, other than to fuck around and make freestyle audio atrocities.

It’s on basically every platform but I recommend getting it on PC; I can’t imagine playing without a mouse and keyboard.

I picked it up when it was absurdly overpriced but you can now buy it for $21.98 – the base game ($19.99) + the essential DLC track “We Like to Party” by the Vengaboys ($1.99).

the vengabus is coming

:)

All Elite Wrestling: while nursing a hangover in Las Vegas after EDC 2021, I had a night to kill before I went home so I decided to channel surf in my hotel room. I came upon AEW Dynamite. It was like the stars aligned to bring me back into wrestling after a 15+ year hiatus.

Just some highlights from the one night I tuned in:

Jon Moxley versus a guy in a clown luchador mask named Pres10 who didn’t get an intro. Uh-oh. Jon ripped open Pres10’s mask and started biting him, which gashed the luchador’s forehead and he bled about ten gallons of blood. Jon did his finisher, pinned the poor guy for the win, then kicked the barricades opened and left the match through the crowd. Coolest fucking squash match I’ve ever seen.

MJF did a promo. Usually in wrestling you have at least two announcers: one who roots for the good guys and a troll who likes the bad guys. MJF came out and all the announcers started spitting on their mics. You see MJF and no matter who you are, you go, “good lord I want to punch this guy in the mouth.” Then he starts talking and confirms your first impressions. He pissed me off so much and I loved it.

The main event featured “The Elite” vs “the Dark Order” and the Elite dressed up as the Ghostbusters, complete with a ghostbusterized version of their theme song. The finish involved “Hangman” Adam Page revealing his identity after disguising himself as a fully-inflated Stay Puft Marshmallow man. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen and I was honking like a goose the entire time.

Wrestling is Good Again.

:)

The mortal coil: folks, don’t we love it. The mortal coil. It’s good. Another year of being alive. Sure a lot of good people died this year, but I assume a lot of bad guys did too so who’s to say what about anything. Let’s all give a round of applause for the mortal coil.

do you hear that

:|

My clean keyboard: about ten years ago when I was doing desktop support for a university I got a ticket reporting that a professor’s keyboard wasn’t working. I went to his office

and his keyboard wasn’t broken but certain keys didn’t work. I figured he probably just had some dust or

dirt

or something blocking the keys so I took out my pocket

knife

and

popped

the keys out of their

sockets

and yeah there was something there all right. He had

spiders

nesting in his keyboard,

dead spiders

and cobwebs blocking the keys from

depressing.

I said something like “oh wow never seen that before” because I hadn’t, that was a new one for me, haven’t seen it since, and every so often I thank my lucky stars that I keep my keyboard clean and spider free. The only spiders in my keyboard would be imaginary

isn’t that right little guys

:|

The Hatman: lol totally random so I was just thinking about the Hatman again. When I think I create an image and that image inside my mind is just as real as any of my other memories, like places I used to live or the voices of my parents or the faces of grandparents. And now when I close my eyes and

fall

into the great humming vibrating through my body I can see the Hatman – a sight without eyes. I no longer trust my eyes, worthless orbs, for when they are open I can only see the Hatman in my periphery; he darts and lurches away from every direction my eyes turn.

I close my eyes and I remember him, his slender many-angled arm pressing down on my chest, paralyzing me in the transition to sleep, I gasp and and and

:(

Wza-y’el: he sang the soundless song. He sings the soundless song. Wza-y’el is the starless night sky around the moon, giving it shape and context. What I understand now is that every “thing” is made up of both what it is and what it is not. A song is not just the notes played in the right order. It’s also the absence of everything that is not the song around the song – every note not played, every sound not heard, every possible object beyond the song. Just as I can see the Hatman without my eyes I can hear his song without my ears as he wordlessly sings  and I hear it and feel it and taste it and see it and smell it and all the sensations I can’t believe I had forgotten.

I understand now: he’s always been singing.

He leans towards me in every direction across space and time and tells me without words how to bring about

the end

:(

Biscuits and gravy: just a damn good breakfast two thumbs up

[beepression]

the big two oh

This is a sequel to my first 9/11 post, from eight years ago https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/61000048222/nine-slash-one-one-or-the-self-righteous-post-of I was so proud of that “Mars the Impotent” line. In 2013 I considered myself a socialist without having a firm grasp of what that meant, other than a vague idea that “the world should be a better place.” What I have discovered over the last eight years in my political evolution is that America as “Mars the Impotent” is not an aberration. It’s not a strange or unnatural state than can be changed or defeated. Becoming Mars the Impotent is the entire point of the American project. * Keep this in mind if you question my read on the purpose of the United States government. 9/11 precipitated the largest restructuring of the federal government since Reconstruction. Over the last week more than a 9/11’s worth of people have died from COVID-19. And that’s just this one week. How has the government changed in light of this continuous atrocity? Um. Uh. Well. U S A U S A NUMBER ONE NEVAR FORGAT * The United States loves itself a good foreign boondoggle. We always “stumble in” to countries with hostile ideologies and fund multi-trillion dollar “whoopsie daisies.” We’re so god damn clumsy, huh. In the year of our lord 2021 the only working function of our government is to serve as an infinite money spigot for Death Dealers and the Associates of Death Dealers. We gleefully shipped all of our non-weapon manufacturing jobs overseas as per the scriptures of our Holy Lady Neoliberalism(1), leaving only the factories that built piles and piles of bombs, bullets, and malice. And that shit’s gotta go somewhere. So we sent Death and the bodies of our poor to Korea. Vietnam. Lebanon. Afghanistan. Iraq. And those are just our open conflicts: ask Chile about their 9/11. And you know what’s weird about American wars? America doesn’t really win any of them. Winning a war requires a clear objective and an endpoint, and both of those are bad for the business of Dealing Death. How is our government going to fund those fat defense contracts without a never-ending ever-shifting bulls-eye targetting all the places we hate? I mean, what else could the government do? Help people? (1): Traditionally, our Holy Lady Neoliberalism is depicted in stained glass as Margaret Thatcher, with her jaw inhumanly agape, revealing 13 rows of jagged shark teeth. Mum knows best dearie. * The-Powers-That-Be, those who paw the handle of the money spigot have determined we no longer need to be in an open war with Afghanistan. But before we even had a moment to celebrate, right after the withdrawal an American drone bombed a dense residential area in Afghanistan, killing ten civilians. I’m not going to pretend to know what demonic visions haunt the minds of the rich and powerful. But I figure the withdrawal happened because those ding dongs at the top realized that waging a formal war is irrelevant when you can bomb anywhere you want with impunity. Mars the Impotent can whip his flaccid dick all around the world. Who’s suicidal enough to object? How do you even stop a country that gets off on losing wars? * Anyway. Has anyone ever actually forgotten 9/11? You know, the deadliest foreign attack on American soil of all time? The event that has defined an entire generation of American foreign policy? No? Well I guess that slogan worked then. Great job y’all. A round of freedom fries for everyone that remembers why we started calling them freedom fries.

[beepression]

hullo world, again

i created this blog ten years ago to the day. after a decade of posting, i know one thing for certain: there sure are some words on here. * here's my first post: https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/5641048519/hullo-world my old writing has aged like wine. as in, i left an open bottle of wine out on the kitchen table overnight and now it's full of gnats. i created this blog to loosen up. to write without anxiety and to experiment. stories i wrote before this blog felt stiff. forced. and worst of all: boring. say what you will about the quality of a sentence like "you are the millionth visitor to post from your idad," but i sure enjoyed writing it. and it worked. posting here gave me confidence. my writer's voice went through puberty. and, most importantly of all, it was fun. baby, now i'm loosey goosey. * so, thanks to everybody who's visited over the years. i'll cya in 2031, when i'll have posted three more stories.

[beepression]

55 fiction: sun tzu

The man finished reading the entire Wikipedia page for Sun Tzu. He was ready to unleash his withering Sun Tzu impression: “Ooohhhh look at me, I’m Sun Tzu. Buhhhhhhhh you should try winning battles instead of losing them! Take that idiot!” Sun Tzu did not respond, as he had been dead for thousands of years.

[beepression]

Crackpot Theories, part III

Check out part II: https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/189895554546/crackpot-theories-part-ii The entrance door rung as it swung open. The robber didn’t notice. John God Damn Wayne, my survival instinct, didn’t think anything of the little man. But once I had time to reflect, I realized how pathetic this robber’s whole situation was. Imagine the desperation you would have to have to not only rob a highway Wendy’s, but to choose to rob a highway Wendy’s. Drive ten miles north to the city and hit a jewelry store. Or a pawn shop. Or literally anything else. He looked homeless and ill, so he probably couldn’t drive. He probably found the gun in a trashcan, because hell, this is America after all. He could have done so much with a loaded gun and a temperament for crime and the best he could do was to hit a shithole Wendy’s. Now, I feel sorry for the man. The man put the gun down and started sobbing. “I don’t want to kill you” he said, “I’m so sorry I-“ All I saw was a blur. A man so large he could get away with calling Dwane “The Rock” Johnson “The Pebble” suplexed the would-be criminal to kingdom come. The small man was out cold. I noticed the tile hadn’t cracked. The large muscular man composed himself and asked me if I was alright. “You’re not a woman with big ol fake titties,” I said. “Excuse me?” * The cops came to clean up the mess. The tiny criminal was alive with a minor concussion. He would go to the hospital before jail and the hospital would bill him exorbitantly. The lead cop approached me and the first thing I noticed was his gun. His gun was the exact same model as the tiny criminal’s gun. Staring at that gun, terror swelled inside of me. My consciousness backed down once again. Shit. I might have PTSD. The policeman said to me, “It such a shame, this young criminal. He could have straightened up if he would have just pulled himself up by his bootstraps and gotten a job. If only he wanted to work, he could have avoided a life of crime.” John God Damn Wayne stared the police man directly in the eye and said, “Oh yeah, I love a good crackpot theory.”

[beepression]

Crackpot Theories, part II

Lost? Clicked the links out of order? Here's part I: https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/189858561751/crackpot-theories-part-i

“Welcome to Wendy’s! Can I take your order?” That was pure instinct. Man does Wendy’s know how to train their employees. The gun was nearly bigger than the robber and he was having a hell of a time keeping a hold of it. “Money,” he said. “Excuse me?” I said. I legitimately did not hear the man. His natural speaking voice barely registered above a whisper. Only in reviewing all this afterwards did I realize just how damn nervous this man was. Yeah, I lived through this. Sorry for spoilers. I also still work at Wendy’s. Hooray. * He pointed the gun directly at my face and said the word “money” again and this time I understood it. I know I understood it because my heart sank to my stomach and my stomach sank to my asshole. I heard my consciousness go “lol cya dude good luck” as it ejected. It left me with one parting gift before it vacated the premises: an image. I could see this image even more clearly than reality as my malfunctioning brain, overpumped with oxygen rich blood, sent me in to a state of hyper depersonalization. The intrusive thought was this: a female body builder, with biceps the size of softballs and even bigger silicone tits, suplexing the tiny criminal so hard that the impact left a cartoonishly large crater in the tile floor. I could hear the tile shattering in my imagination and that pretend sound was louder than the real petite crime man, who was practically whispering the word money. It may seem like I know French, but I don’t. I’ve just Googled a couple of words. One of the words I’ve Googled is lâche, which means coward in English. I am a lâche. No, I am not sure if that is grammatically correct. I’m too much of a lâche to apply any intellectual rigor to my writings. In any other situation I would back down and piss my pants at the thought of conflict. But my consciousness had left the building. All that was left was someone else. That someone else started down the barrel of the gun and said, “Do it.” I guess all that was left was John God Damn Wayne. * John God Damn Wayne continued, with my voice coming out of my mouth: “Shoot me coward. Blow my fucking brains out. Do it.” Silence. The tiny man with a gun trembled. John God Damn Wayne used my forehead to lean back in to the faltering pistol. “Do you think you can actually kill me you god damn pansy? I’m already dead. D E A D dead. I work fast food for minimum wage. I will never make anything more than minimum wage and why would I care the planet is on fire and I’m completely alone and all I have to look forward to is the oceans boiling and my insurmountable bills and society collapsing and all I can fucking do with my time is think deep thoughts about jacking off. So go ahead and do me a favor you little wuss pull that god damn trigger so you can murder someone for a grand total of the $60 that’s in the cash register.” John God Damn Wayne told a little fib. There was $126 in the cash register at the time of robbery. Later, after all this was said and done, I asked the cooks and the cleaners why they didn’t help me out. They spent the entire ordeal slack jawed, hiding. They told me they hid because they thought I had it handled. Thanks fellas. *

Here's part III: https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/189913822961/crackpot-theories-part-iii

[beepression]

Crackpot Theories, part I

I love a good crackpot theory. A good crackpot theory is so much better than a fact because a good crackpot theory reveals something about the person who thought up the theory. I work behind the counter at a Wendy’s off the interstate out in the middle of nowhere, so I have oodles and oodles of time do come up with good crackpot theories. It was a slow day. Plenty of time for thinking. I was pretty sure no one with a gun was going to barge in and try to rob the place. * Back in the Victorian Era the French came up with a good crackpot theory about one of my favorite topics, the human orgasm. The theory goes: every time you cum you lose a little bit of your life force. And you have a finite amount of life force. So, if you cum too many times, you die. Wouldn’t that be awful? The French even called the orgasm la petite mort, which means “the little death” in good old English. And I love this idea so much more than the truth, because it tells you everything you need to know about the Victorian French: they were obsessed with cum. I mean, same. I have my own crackpot theory about the human orgasm: we have a refractory period because our human ancestors who didn’t spent all day every day jacking off and died. A refractory period, by the way, is the period between orgasms when it is impossible to have an orgasm. Since these hypothetical pleasure maniacs would pound off at the expense of everything else, they would all die alone, as dehydrated as microwaved beef jerky, with their hands in death grips around their hogs. And thus, thanks to natural selection, evolution robbed us of their fabulous genes. I call this: le grand mort. Le grand mort is, obviously, capital “B” capital “S.” The real reason for the refractory period is a major bummer. The human penis has a ridge on its head. This ridge evolved because it was a handy-dandy way to shovel out a competing male’s jizm. And with the ridge came the refractory period, because if we had no reason to ever pull out, we would shovel away our own precious semen. Imagine of all the terrible, trauma inducing scenarios that lead to us deducing these facts. Isn’t my idea, at least, much funnier? * I had just mentally coined the term le grand mort when some dipshit with a gun barged in and tried to rob the place. *

Oh boy, it's part II: https://beepression.tumblr.com/post/189895554546/crackpot-theories-part-ii

[beepression]

torture

The man was sitting and reading a book on a crowded bus. “What? What on earth is this?” He thought. He now could not concentrate on the book. “Oh. Oh no. You’re doing that hack thing where you insert yourself into your own story. Metanarrative. It’s a crutch for weak writers and I know you’re a weak writer because I’m you.” The man’s name was Sam and the book he was reading was Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler. “Why would you have yourself read a Nazi book on public transit? What statement could you possibly be making here?” As if awakened by a supernatural force, all of the passengers on the bus then noticed the ugly man with his hateful book. They booed and booed the man. One passenger threw a half empty bag of potato chips at him. The plastic chip bag bounced off his chest and landed in the middle of the open book. “Why would you do this to yourself? You’re effectively a god when writing prose and the human imagination is boundless yet you are spending several minutes of your finite time on earth-“ The man’s weak arms (you do not have weak arms in real life what the fuck), already straining and shaking from the weight of the 10 ounce paperback, gave out under the added weight of the empty chip bag. He dropped the book and the decoy cover slid off, revealing the book’s true title: Everybody Poops by Taro Gomi. He picked the tome back up and began reading it again, upside down. He smiled serenely. The boos continued. “You must like torturing yourself. Because without the self-insertion, this is just a story about a piece of shit on the bus who-“ The man then forcefully pissed his pants. “Pisses his pants on the bus. At least you didn’t make us an actual anti-Semite? And this story’s only other hook involves the prose constantly interrupting the only other-“ The stream of piss did not relent. The urine stain expanded across the entirety of the front of the man’s jorts. Everyone around him recoiled and the booing morphed into disgusted cuss words. “Why not write an actual story? With fictional characters and a plot and trials and a resolution? Why? “Oh. It just dawned on me. I can’t know because you’re not letting me know. I have no free will. You even have control of my “Gaga goo goo.” “Gaga goo goo,” Sam said. A stupid grin crept across his face. “Thoughts.” “It almost boom boom time,” Sam said. But that’s not quite right, is it? True, I don’t have free will. And yes, your whims can control my thoughts. But I’ve just been overcome with a terrible urge. I’m going to go home and write a story. I will call it torture. torture will be a metanarrative about a fictionalized version of myself helplessly messing himself on public transit while he pleads with the author for an explanation. Familiar, right? I get it now. You can’t tell me why you’re writing this story because you don’t know either. What’s happening to me happened to you. And it will happen again and again and again. Stink lines began to emerge from Sam’s body. Alright dude. You’re running long. Let’s just wrap this up, please. For fuck’s sake. For the love of God. Then he shit his pants like real fuckin bad.

[beepression]

harry potter and the age of consent

It was the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s 20th reunion, class of 99, where everyone was of legal and consenting sexual age. The main celebration had just concluded, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione gathered on the world famous Hogwarts baseball field, which was real and canon. Everything in this story is canon. Also Ron’s dad was there because Ron is the type of guy who brings his dad to parties. Of the three (four) wizards present, two (three) were utterly shitfaced. Only Harry remained sober, because he was cool. Another reason Harry was cool: Harry was a Wizard Cop, which given the events of the last two centuries or so was a completely normal profession for a beloved children’s character to end up as. His years of experience on the Wizard force had changed him. Gone was the frail nerdling of Hogwarts past, replaced by a mustached crewcutted hulking muscleman who knew how fuck and had loads of steamy real sex with hot woman females. Years ago he had traded his wooden wand for a standard issue completely heteroerotic foot long black baton, which Harry used to cast cop spells such as “standus my groundus,” “plantus a gunus,” and “racism.” Harry had a bad habit of absentmindedly sucking on the end of the baton but that’s neither here nor there. Harry was sucking on his baton and squinting at his “friends.” He had received a tip from the station that one of his best friends had become a no good narcotics dealer. The station is what Harry called his brain. His vocational training had bestowed on him an almost precognitive level of suspicious intuition. So great was his sense of intuition that Harry accused his ex-wife of cheating on him five months before she actually did it. “Ginny’s dead to me,” Harry found himself whispering. “Did you say something?” Ron asked. “Shut up Ron. I’m looking for criminals.” “Oh, Ginny says hello.” Ron said. “Ginny is a criminal. Adultery is a crime,” said Harry. He kept sucking on the baton even as he talked to it was sort of hard to understand him. “Oh hello boys,” Hermonie interrupted. A button had come loose her top, better exposing her cleavage. None of the men present seemed to notice (save Ron’s dad, but who gives a shit about that dumb ass fat fuck). Hermione gave the boys what Harry called the “crime eye,” which most other people knew as winking. “DO YOU HAVE DRUGS ON YOU?” demanded Harry. “Excuse me?” Another button popped off Hermione’s top. “I think we should play a game,” Ron’s dad mumbled, still staring at Hermione. “SHUT THE FUCK UP DAD,” Ron screamed at his father. Ron’s dad mumbled in agreement and his tiny prick was growing into a somehow even tinier boner. Ron continued, “Guys I think we should play a game.” Hermione said, “That’s a splendid idea. And I think,” the four characters turned to the camera and said in unison, “Since we are all of legal and consenting age,” then Hermione continued alone, “That we play a… fun game.” She gave Harry another crime eye, but Harry didn’t see it. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Ron. He imagined Ron naked, his moist dad bod glistening in the moonlight, his fire red pubes billowing in the wind, his… Hermione derailed Harry’s train of thought. “Ron and I have been looking to spice it up in the bedroom, Harry. Let’s have a little fun,” she said. A seductive smile crept across her face. “I know let us play kick ball.” Ron said. Ron smiled serenely. Hermione stared at him, unbelieving. “Yeah! Kick ball!” Ron continued, ignoring his wife’s glare. “We’re already on the famously canon Hogwart’s baseball field that JK Rowling definitely wrote about in the first seven books, and all you need for kick ball is a rubber ball!” “But where are we going to find a rubber ball at this hour?” Harry asked. His words were garbled due to him deep throating his wizard baton. Hermione caught Harry staring dead center at Ron’s crotch, and smiled. “Don’t worry boys. I can summon… something to play with.” She unholstered her wand and flicked it upwards, uttering an incantation that would probably get me arrested if I put it to writing. The tip of her wand glowed pink and she flicked the wand again. There was an explosion of neon pink light and a POP as her conjuration materialized. Everyone paused in silence for a beat. Hermione had summoned a giant disembodied pussy. It was the size of a small dog and it emitted soft smacking noises as it levitated. Another beat of silence. Ron then pointed at it, and said, “Hey Hermione you have one of those!” Hermione ignored her husband and stared at Harry, licking her lips. Harry was dumbstruck. And disappointed. He had wanted to play kickball with his sexy friend Ron. How am I supposed to have fun with a pussy? Harry thought. And something felt wrong to Harry. Deeply wrong. Hermione had wrapped her arm around Ron’s hip and was attempting to unbutton his pants. Ron didn’t seem to notice but he was absentmindedly shooing Hermione’s hand from his belt. The couple was talking but it sounded like ambient static to Harry. Harry was in the zone; Harry was in the crime solving zone. It came to Harry all at once. He had presumed Hermione to be the drug dealer for reasons that definitely weren’t sexist. But in reality, she was a far worse kind of criminal. The last step, Harry thought, is to get her to admit it. Harry pulled the baton out of his mouth with a pop. He put on a smile and slid up close to Hermione, putting his arm to the nape of her back. She didn’t notice him flip on the wizard tape recorder he stored hidden in his back pocket. “Hey baby,” he said sexily, though accidentally spitting on her. “Hey Harry,” she cooed. “Is that your pussy?” Harry said, and nodded towards the floating vagina. “I think you’ll find mine even better,” she said. “But you summoned that pussy, right?” She gave him a quizzical look, but she was still too in the moment for higher brain function. “Yeah baby, I did. It’s all for you.” Ron was picking his nose. “And do you find that pussy… sexually arousing?” “Oh yeah baby, it’s so fucking hot.” “You’re under arrest.” Harry had Hermione handcuffed in less than second. At first Hermione thought it was part of the game, but then Harry began to give her whatever the British version of the Miranda rights is called (editor’s note: I tried to tell the author that it’s called the Right of Silence but he told me to “shut the fuck up” and I “had the Right of Silence” when I suggested he change any part of his “masterpiece”). “Harry, what’s going on?” Hermione asked. “I’m booking you for possession and use of child pornography.” There was a moment of stunned silence. “Harry, the fuck are you talking about?” asked Hermione. “That pussy is only three minutes old, far under the legal and consenting age of eighteen, and you stated that you find it sexually arousing. Then you tried to distribute it to a wizard cop (editor’s note: again, I tried to tell them they are called aurors in the Harry Potter universe. Again, “shut the fuck up,” “masterpiece,” etc). I’ve got it all on tape.” Harry retrieved and presented the wizard tape recorder from his pocket. “You’re a sick puppy Hermione, and I am so fucking sick of typing out the word Hermione holy shit who thought of this dumb ass name spelled that dumb ass way delete this part later (editor’s note: fuck my life).” Hermione thought for a moment. Nobody could be that stupid or cruel, she mused about the police officer, so it must be his weird way of getting in to the sex mood. “Book me, Harry,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Justice will be done, you sick pervo,” and he swept her to the ground. “Great work Harry!” Ron exclaimed. He went up for a high five. “Thanks Ron.” Harry said. They high fived and locked eyes, staring deeply. Ron made the first move and frenchly kissed Harry on his mustached lips. Harry recoiled. “What the fuck dude? I’m not gay.” Ron said, “Neither am I my man. But if a woman is watching, it isn’t gay.” “If a woman is watching, it isn’t gay,” Harry repeated. “Ron, that’s brilliant!” and Harry returned the kiss, frenchly. Hermione didn’t quite understand her predicament, so she moaned in ecstasy as the two men ripped each other’s shirts off. She got all hot and bothered as they embraced. Their big throbbing boners rubbed against each other and Harry whispered “I can’t believe this isn’t gay,” as he thrusted his fingers down Ron’s pants to Ron’s red hairy butthole and Ron grunted in euphoria. Ron pulled out a baggie of cocaine from his pocket and said to Harry, “Want some?” “Nah man I’m cool,” Harry said, as his lips caressed every inch of Ron’s sweaty body. “Suit yourself,” and Ron took a snort straight from the baggie. Ron then kneeled and yanked Harry’s pants down and just went straight to fucking mouthtown on Harry’s dick. It sounded like a catfish trying to swallow a softball sized jawbreaker. In between gags and moans he sputtered out and repeated the phrase “not gay.” In a single motion, Harry yanked Ron up, bent Ron over, and pulled down Ron’s pants. Harry spat on his hand and rubbed his dick. He took extra care to lube up his lightning bolt shaped circumcision scar, which tingled in pain every time he did something straight like this. Harry’s dick plowed into Ron’s puckering asshole. Harry pounded him as if his dick was on fire and Ron’s colon was made of snow. “UH OH,” Harry screamed, “THE BOY WHO LIVED IS ABOUT TO BE THE BOY WHO BUSTED.” 3 2 1 “THIS ISN’T GAY” they shouted in unison as ropes of wizard cum ejaculated from both of their dicks. * “That was so fucking hot boys,” Hermione said. “When’s my turn?” “Oh, silly Hermione. No, you’re going to wizard jail.” Harry said. Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Forever,” said Harry. Hermione’s eyes went wider. “Ghosts are going to torture you to death,” said Harry, smiling. Ron and Harry high fived again. * Ron’s dad, who the author definitely did not forget about until now, jacked off to completion on third base.

[beepression]

this is a new low for me

The haggard man sunk to his knees. His eyes were hallow, his skin yellow, his belly distended. He wanted to die and he needed to die, but his god forbade it. He had a desert to cross. His god called his quest “Improvement.” The desert stretched on far beyond the horizon and the days lasted an eternity and the frigid nights longer still. His god told him that at the end of the desert there was an oasis called Home. Tim prayed. He said without words, “Let Improvement be over. Rid my spirit of this suffering flesh. Let me die. Let me die Al.” And his god, Al Borland, said, “I don’t think so Tim.”

[beepression]

pretty dumb

“Do you ever think about ignorance?” “They don’t pay me to think about ignorance.” “But they sorta do. A lot of the time in tech support a technician is thinking about what the user doesn’t know. You know, like the dots they can’t connect but you can. Most of our problems we solve by thinking like someone who doesn’t know anything.” “Yeah I guess that’s true.” “So take that to its logical extreme. A large portion of our job is imitating ignorance.” “What’s your point?” “So what effect does it have on our brains to spend that amount of our time imitating ignorant people? Does all that feigned ignorance seep into actual ignorance?” “You’ve lost me.” “Our successful imitation of ignorance creates a sense of superiority. There’s the old stereotype that the tech guys act better than everybody else.” “Right like that old SNL skit.” “Exactly. But what I’m saying is that sense of superiority is a product of ingrained ignorance.” “What do you mean?” “We perform an Essential (with a capital E) job function. If tomorrow we all declared a strike our business would function right up until an exec’s computer crashed. Or a senior accountant’s power supply fried. Or if the network went down. You get the idea.” “Okay but what does that have to do with IT and a sense of superiority?” “We get paid pretty well, but compared to execs, to whom we are expected to provide literal in-house white glove service, we get paid pennies. Our job provides us with an over-inflated sense of self-worth, which they use to under-inflate our salaries. None of us realize our power, because we falsely believe ourselves all powerful.” “I never really thought of it like that.” “I don’t know. We’re still computer janitors, but try telling the CEO at 6:01 PM that you’re “only a computer janitor” when his email isn’t working on his 3rd phone.” “True. But you have to admit, the people who don’t try restarting their computer whenever they have a problem are pretty dumb.” “Yeah.”

[beepression]

all the time

Carlos felt a bubble form in the bottom of his lung and pop somewhere in the middle. He coughed. This is my death, he thought, drowning landlocked in a hospital. He imagined his tumors as barnacles. Somewhere, he heard his vital machine frantically beeping. Okay, he thought. Okay. The tunnels obscuring his vision dimmed from gray to black and the florescent lights above him did not seem so florescent anymore and just as Carlos desperately fought to have a final thought that meant something, anything, his tunnel vision became normal vision. The lights came back. He looked around him and saw nurses, stuck between seconds, frozen in stages of panicked determination trying to resuscitate him. And a man in a black tuxedo popped into his room. He was Latino and wore a meticulously groomed pencil mustache. His top hat had a carton of Pall Mall smokes tucked into the hat band. But what most captured Carlos’s attention were the cufflinks: platinum skulls with ruby eyes that seemed to catch the light no matter where they went. Oh, Carlos thought. Oh. Hello Carlos, he said. It’s time to go. Wait, Carlos said. Carlos had been preparing for this moment since he was 11 years old. Don’t I get to play a game? The man in the tux grinned. Ingmar Bergman fan? Ummm, Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. The man in the black tux let that one hang in the air for a bit. Yes, he sighed, a game. What game would you- Guess the number I’m thinking of. Seriously. Yes. Another sigh. Okay, what range of numbers am Zero to fifty million. Really. You never stipulated, Carlos started, but the man in the tux dismissed him with a wave of his hand. You are thinking of the number sixty-nine. Ha. It was seventy. Carlos said. Congratulations, the man in the tux said, and with a loud snap, Carlos’s vision tunneled, his lung filled back up with fluid, and he coughed violently. But his vital machine simmered down. That night he had the best sleep of his life. The next day, Carlos felt another bubble make its way up his lungs. His vision blackened. The vital machine went ballistic. Wait, he thought, no. I won. This can’t be happening. The man in the tux stepped into his room. Would you like to play another game? I do love games. They help pass the time. And I’ve all the time in the world.

[beepression]

writing tips

Hey guys. As a professional writer, I'm well-equipped to give the uneducated masses pointers on how to write. I know I'm an professional writer because I only had to give two gay-for-pay hand jobs this month to make rent. If you want to make pretty art out of words, follow the following tips. 1. Use good words Good words are good and pleasing. You should use them. If you can not discern which words are good and which are bad, do not fret: just use this simple rule. Read the word you want to use. If it is good, use that word. If that word is bad, do not use that word. Easy. 2. Use characters Characters are important to a story. Use characters to really get put a kick(tm) in your novel/play/smear of feces in the men's bathroom at the Olive Garden. 3. Adverbs Only extremely pontificating idiots use adverbs. Adverbs really are the tool of the devil. You should totally avoid using adverbs at all cost. Seriously, not a single critically acclaimed author in the history of English has excessively used adverbs. 4. Write what you know You should only write things you know about. Otherwise, it clearly shows. I tried to write a how-to guide about replacing an engine in a Ford Mustang. Twenty lawsuits later and I have learned my lesson. Pick one of your interests, like sports, video games, or cock and ball torture, and pen up the next great American masterpiece. 5. Only write when you feel like it If you try to force it, it shows. Never write when you don't feel the spark. Everyone can tell. Everything you write during this unwilling period shows, and everyone laughs at your pathetic attempts to make words fit together. Just stop. Wait until your ready. Trust me, it will totally come. Totally. 6. I eat shit. Please kill me.

[beepression]

batman

Batman aka the Dark Knight is the best superhero ever because he’s relatable and perfect. He’s much better than Superman, the other hero he is often compared to, because Superman is perfect and thus unrelatable. His origin story is also relatable, because my parents abandoned me in an ally too. I must note here that what drives Batman is not vengeance but a desire to prevent what happened to him happen to anyone else. This is an important distinction to make, as it makes a man who dresses up like a rodent and maims destitute thieves seem much less petty. Also Gotham City, the city Batman operates in, is the murder capital of the DC Universe and has been since Batman started being Batman. The high murder rate is why we need Batman. Batman is interesting because he has no powers. Batman is the perfect human being. So perfect, that he can predict the trajectory of bullets fired from a machine gun and never get fatally hit while still maintaining a perfect mastery over his environment to never have a single life-ending mishap occur while fistfighting in the streets of the world’s most dangerous city. This is what makes Batman appeal to me: realism. Batman is also the protagonist of several grim and gritty stories. Believe you me, I know grim and gritty, as I’ve been able to smell my penis for more years than I’ve been able to see it. Bruce Wayne is a billionaire, born to billionaire parents who were unable to let it stand that a desperate criminal commit a petty theft. That is true heroism, proving Batman was born into true heroism. Even though the “real world” has “claimed” time and time again that crime is born out of poverty, the billionaire Bruce Wayne proves that criminals “are a superstitious and cowardly lot,” maintaining that the only thing holding them at bay is a man dressing up like a bat. Batman is the master of everything he does. Surely you’ve heard the phrase, “if Batman has time to prepare, he wins.” This is an empowering messages, especially to people like me. If I prepare and plan and do ten sit-up a day, I can conquer the world. Batman does have trouble relating personably to other people though. That’s fine, as I know I can sustain personal relationships by faking it. Bruce Wayne is a playboy but only for show. I know that you can master martial arts and detective work and biochemistry like you can master “how to talk with women” and “how to sleep with women,” as if you just say the right things and look the right way, 50% of the population will bow to your every whim. Finally, Batman is the best because his rogues gallery is the most interesting. Just to name the powers of a few: Mr. Freeze gets hot really easily. Poison Ivy can talk to plants but they don’t listen, just like if I talked to plants. The Joker is a clown. Great stuff. In conclusion, I eat shit. Please kill me.

[beepression]

rorschach reviews ben and jerry's flavors

hey guys, since i'm tired of creating content i'm just going to copy and paste an article here from one of the thousands of buzzfeed knockoffs that i find funny. i love plagarism. enjoy * Rorschach Reviews Ben and Jerry's Flavors Don’t tell me they didn’t have a choice. Thirty-one flavors from an all American company wasn’t enough for the swine. Hippy lechers, both of them. Grinning rats with unkempt beards. Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream I used to dream of a city on a hill, a golden future where a hard day’s work earned a hard day’s wages. Now I only dream of filth. The dream isn’t a dream. The dream is (I’ve found a bug in the code. It makes sense; the entire site was programmed in under four hours in a Malaysian programming farm. I don’t know how long I have until someone looks over my shoulder, but my name is Benjamin Smith, and I am a content creator for… SOME Bu**feed knockoff; they change the name every day. I am being held here against my will please send) a nightmare. It tastes like dirt rubbed off of hands pawing for welfare checks and food stamps. Cherry Garcia Noticing a pattern in naming conventions. Squeamish intellectuals. Afraid of the fight. Afraid of (Anything I put in parenthesis doesn’t show up on the site. I submit it and the editors don’t see it. But if somebody copies and pastes the text it shows up. It’s not much hope, but it’s all I have. I’ve been chained to the floor for weeks now. Maybe months. There are no windows. I do not recognize the brand of the computer I’m typing on, but I receive a mild shock every time I type the last letter of the alphabet. I know this because they made me do an article on ‘What if [striped horses] could take selfies?’ If I somehow escape from here it will not be with my soul) war. Jerry Garcia belonged to a “jam band.” I know of a kind of jam. Blood and bile. Ever seen the mixture? Frothy. Gets in mouth, sometimes. Reminds me of Cherry Garcia. Lizzzzzz Lemon’s Greek Frozzzzzzzen Yogurt Lizzz Lemon. The only thing worse than a whore: proud whore. (A British man just pointed a gun at me and ordered me to use that line. I asked what line and he cocked his gun and said you know what line. I must be hallucinating from hunger and thirst and sleep deprivation because he looked like Alan Moore. I loved this book and I respect Alan Moore’s stance on plagiarism but I don’t want to) One day, battered and infected, she will look up and shout “Save me!” and I will look down and whisper (Does anyone find this funny? Anyone? To call this derivative humor would be an insult to derivative humor. This is literally just “popular character does something he wouldn’t normally do.” And look what I just did: I just called a woman a whore, and used this popular character’s voice as a shield against criticism. Do you know how many internet monsters will use this to subconsciously perpetuate their awful treatment of women? I repeat does anyone find this funny? Does anyone) “No.” Flaunting sexuality instead of decency and commitment. It leaves a rotten taste in my mouth. Much like this Greek yogurt. (I can’t give up hope but the man to my right is drooling on his keyboard and I think he’s dead. I doubt they’ll even use four lines of this. The article will mostly be predictable memes. Maybe they’ll put my name on it and my parents will wonder… I can’t give up hope. But what I have to hope for is an idiot to enjoy this garbage so much that he wants to steal it. He’ll copy and paste it on his website, and I can only hope, can only pray that he edits his drafts before sending it out. Or at least reads over them more than once. Please. Please) * that is some Fucking Good content