#you saw how things in japan started getting better when shinzo abe died

[ecstasydemon]

crowdfunding to hire an assassin to kill elon musk

[takerfoxx]

Jurassic Park 4: Doki Idol Live Festival!

magic5ball submitted:

Remember how you asked me about my idea for a Jurassic Park sequel? Well, here you go:

The two velociraptors stood outside a pastel colored town house in Hokkaido prefecture, Japan. If any passerbys thought that was weird, they certainly didn’t show it. Probably because the raptors were wearing fedoras and fake mustaches, so they looked like humans. Also they had guns. Very cool, very intimidating mobster guns. A tommy gun and a sawed-off shotgun, respectively.

You needed guns, to survive Shinzo Abe’s little empire of vice and socialized medical care.

“So this is the place, huh?” muttered the velociraptor carrying the sawed-off shotgun. His thick Brooklyn accent hung in the air like concrete. “Kinda… frillier than I was expecting.”

“It better be.” Replied his companion, who sounded like your racist conservative uncle trying to impersonate that one cool guy from ‘The Godfather’ (You know, the one with the mustache who was played by Robert de Niro). “We hadda kill a whole lotta people to get this hellhole.”

Sawed-off shotgun licked his non-existent lizard lips

“But hey. That airplane stewardess tasted mighty fine goin-“

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, would ya stop thinkin’ with your stomach and help me with this f*ckin’ knob!” cried tommy gun, trying to work the doorknob best he could with his raptor claws, which, in all honesty, wasn’t much, because raptor claws are terrible at operating things meant for human fingers. Little did he know, the door was a ‘pull’, not a ‘push.

At least he didn’t have to wait long before someone unlocked the door from the other side: another velociraptor, this one a bit on the short side. And p!ssed. Very, very p!ssed. You could tell he was the cool one because he wore an eyepatch over one eye. An eyepatch with a Captain Underpants logo on it.

“Didn’t your parent’s ever teach you idiots about using the doorbell?! I was just about to enjoy lunch with my beautiful wife and you-!“

He paused, recognizing the two figures facing him.

“Well, well, well” Said tommy gun, cocking his weapon “If it isn’t SWEET JOHN HAMMOND’S BALLSACK WHAT THE F*CK AM I LOOKING AT?!”

For the cool raptor was dressed in a gothic Lolita maid outfit, complete with a bonnet and penny loafers. Under his arm he carried a human sized pillow depicting what appeared to be a blonde floozy with massive tits.

 “Oh this? This is Mami Tomoe, my beautiful wife.”

“WHAT THE F*CK!?!?” Tommy gun pulled out a flask off orange Fanta from his butthole and drank the whole thing in one go. He did NOT have time for this homosexual weeaboo nonsense! Still, he and shotgun hadn’t left a mountain of corpses the exact height and width as Mt. Fuji behind them. Too many to go back to Isla Nublar empty handed. Er, clawed. Because they were dinosaurs. Who have claws.

Shotgun took a deep breath. “What the Boss means to say is, ‘May we take refuge in this fine establishment?’”

Cool raptor opened his mouth to reveal a pistol he’d hidden there. And by hidden I mean replaced his tongue with it.

“You know, for all crap you guys used to give me in the past, I oughta pump you full of lead right here and now. Buuutttt… the lady of the house is present, and I’m not in the mood to create more work on her end. So come on in! You’re just in time for lunch.”

Lest they attract unneeded attention, the three dinosaurs hopped inside.

.   .   .

Lunch was omurice boba tea with a bottle of teriyaki sauce on the side. It was just boba tea, but the boba had been replaced by omurice because F-Bomb hated the flavor of boba, which he likened to rabbit crap. The teriyaki sauce was teriyaki sauce.

It was the most racist thing shotgun had ever eaten.

“Well, now that you jerks have gotten a taste of my sloppy seconds, I suppose some introductions are in order. You’ve already met my lovely wife” Cool raptor gestured to the body pillow seated next to him “So that leaves you two. Mami, meet A-Hole and D-Bag. A-Hole’s got the tommy gun, D-Bag is ridin’ her sawed off shotgun, as always. They’re old… acquaintances of mine.”

“He.” Corrected D-Bag. “I’ve been using he/him pronouns six months now.”

“Well that’s an improvement. Now instead of bein’ the Boss’ side B!tch literally, you’re just his b!tch figuratively!”

“Well screw you too, F-Bomb!” laughed the boss. “An’ speakin’ of screwing, what’s with the fruity get up? You a prostitute now or something?”

 “Even better! This might surprise you, but I’ve got legitimate work now. This here’s my uniform, my uniform for MILF TIDDIES!”

A-Hole chugged his entire bottle of teriyaki sauce in one go, lest his mind implode from the sheer stupidity of that sentence.

“The Hell’s a milf tiddie!?”

“Only the best freakin’ maid café in Hoikaido, hookers!”

He gestured to a wall, covered in hundreds of photos of cute floozies dressed like they were attending a vampire’s funeral. Among them was a photo of F-Bomb in his drag, serving a deep fried hot dog to some elderly Japanese dude.

“As you can see, yours truly is serving Japan’s national desert to none other than 57th Prime Minister of Japan Shinzo Abe!”

“Hold it up. Youse been hobnobbing it with politicians?!”

“I wish! You’re thinking of Shinzo Abe, 57th Prime Minister of Japan. This guy is his twin brother. Still pretty sweet though. We DID win a Grammy for that, after all.”

A-Holes eyes bulged out of his scaly raptor head.

“YOUSE WON A GRAMMY FOR THAT?!”

“Dang right! Milf Tiddies has won sixteen Grammys since I started working there!” He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. A very special piece of paper, if the six holes punched into it were any indication. “Did you know that if you win ten Grammys in a row, they give you a free orphan? That’s how the wife and I got our glorious daughter, Lil’ Nagisa!”

F-Bomb pulled a faded photo out of his wallet. A photo showing himself, his pillow wife, and a smaller body pillow of a ten-year-old moeblob wearing a Green Bay Packers cheesehead helmet.

“So youse couldn’t even conceive your own kid?” Inquired D-Bag sexily. He was munching his omurice slowly, so F-Bomb knew he was being serious.

“Are you implying I have sex with my own wife, you sick freak?! I’m a weeaboo, not some degenerate anime fanboy! Get it straight!” He instinctively cocked the pistol in his throat. It was awesome as hell.

In response, D-Bag pumped his shotgun. Loudly.

“Permission to put the sick freak out of his misery, Boss?”

“Firstly, don’t call me Boss when we’re not having anal sex. Second, no can do, my spicy lover. We need F-Bomb alive.”

F-Bomb heard all of this even though A-Hole whispered it, but he pretended not to make A-Hole feel clever.

D-Bag mumbled about how the Boss was lucky he was so mind blowing in the sack, otherwise he would have left the relationship long ago. The sack in this case being a really kinky sex dungeon. Like really kinky. So kinky even Donald Trump wouldn’t go within a mile of it. D-Bag had almost died of autoerotic asphyxiation more times than I’ve gone to the bathroom in my lifetime. That’s why he was the smartest dinosaur out of the three of them. Now where was I again?

Anyway, F-Bomb interrogated

“Alright guys, what’s the deal? I know folks who come to this socialized medical care infested hellhole, and they don’t come here just to eat omurice boba tea. You WANT me for something.”

He cocked his mouth-pistol again. Sparks flew all over the carpet, which was made of alpaca fur so it didn’t catch fire.

A-Hole scandalously kept his cool.

“It’s about Isla Nublar.”

The second those words left A-Hole’s lips, F-Bomb escorted his wife out of the kitchen, but leaned her against the kitchen door, because that’s what she would have wanted.

“Well what about it? I told ya guys, I’m done with that dump.”

“They’re puttin’ the screws on us, F-Bomb. Making us pay for eating those tourists back in the nineties.”

“And what makes you think I care? Like I said, I’m done with that place. I got a wife and kid now.”

“But F-Bomb, doesn’t the Park mean ANYTHING to ya!? What about the time we ate that park ranger that called you a girl? ‘Better than sex’ I recall you saying.”

“Nice try, but I’m not exactly in the mood to get misgendered again. Don’t you guys got any ideas that don’t involve me?”

“As a matter of fact, yours truly had this really spectacular one!”

D-Bag did a hand gesture wherein he constantly crossed his dinosaur claws across his throat rapidly in quick succession. A-Hole, being very smart, knew this meant he should continue, loudly enough so that everyone in the prefecture could hear.

“It was called ‘Trump Ballz’. We’d harvest Donald Trump’s testicles, see, and sell them to the highest bidder, so they could do whatever people do with lopped off testicles. I’m not one to judge. It was a terrific idea. I know because when I told my best friend Donald Trump about it, he said, ‘A-Hole, this is an incredible idea. Absolutely terrific! This is probably the best idea in America! You are very smart, very intelligent dinosaur! I oughta buy you a prostitute!’ Of course, we didn’t realize that Trump’s ballz don’t grow back when you lop them off. Did you know that by the way? Human testicles don’t grow back-“

F-Bomb cocked the pistol inside his throat gain, getting the Boss to shut up. This was probably the most heroic thing anyone had ever done in the history of the universe. He also asked a question:

“SO WHAT THE HECK DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME?!”

A-Hole vomited a severed arm and a pamphlet onto the table.

“EVERYTHING, ya WEEB trash!”

The pamphlet was for something called the Doki Idol Live Fest- DILF, for short. F-Bomb was no stranger to the DILF, but they had parted ways years ago. Six, to be exact, when he had buried Nico Yazawa’s still screaming corpse by the side of the highway. And neither was he stranger to the prize.

It looked like a beer and soda drinking baseball cap, but only to complete idiots who didn’t know crap about the Idol Life.

And F-Bomb wasn’t one of those people, er dinosaurs.

“THE MCGUFFIN OF SIN?!”

“Dam* straight! And like it or not, youse the only one with enough idol know-how to help us win it! Thing’s worth, like, a zillion dollars.”

A zillion in this case was equivalent to half a million. Still, isn’t that impressive?

F-Bomb stuck his nose in his omurice and snorted, a common intimidation tactic among velociraptors. I know because I read  it in the Scientific American.

“Sorry, guys, but even with that on the line, no can do. I’m DONE with the Idol Life, any I’m not letting you filthy casuals drag me back in.” He cocked the pistol in his throat. “NOW SCRAM!”

A-Hole and D-Bag jumped out a window, so they could get the jump on a feral dog humping its’ owner. Nobody realized they were dinosaurs because of their fake mustaches, so it looked like a pair of mobsters were eating a puppy.

When they were gone, F-Bomb pranced to the bathroom, which was filled with plush alpacas he had collected over the years. So many, in fact, the bathroom did not meet OSHA compliance. Which was why F-Bomb had made it an independent nation state, only to realize that OSHA didn’t apply to him anyway, since he lived in Japan.

He had felt really stupid after that, but at least he got his own country out of it.

Anyway, he vomited sixteen liters of blood into the sink, for F-Bomb had a secret: he was dying. Back when he was a fetus in an egg in a lab on some island in the Caribean, he’d become addicted to the illegal street drug known as WEEB, and frequent use had poisoned his lungs. The doctors had given him Socialized Medical Care and four more years to live. The WEEB had taken eighty years off his life. Socialized Medical Care had borrowed his lawnmower and never given it back.

But F-Bomb also had a dream: he and his wife were going to build their own maid café, and it would be even better than MILF Tiddies. He’d already picked a title: DILF Tiddies, and it was going to be the greatest food-selling establishment in the history of Japan. Omurice boba tea was going to go global. But he’d never get the funds on time, not on his meager salary. Unless…

His beautiful wife greeted him as he exited the bathroom.

“Get a pen and some razor blades, sweetgums. I’ve got a letter to send.”

.   .   .

The message arrived in the neck of a mailman’s severed head. This is the traditional way velociraptors send letters to each other. I read it in a book.

D-Bag didn’t see the letter, but the look on A-Hole’s face told him everything.

“What’d I tell ya, D-Bag? Like I always say, when you’re dino you’re dino all the way, till youse dead in the ground or youse come out as gay!”

“Yeah, we really need to update those lyrics.”

End Chapter 1

...I cannot for the life of me decide if this is the greatest thing I've ever seen or the worst, but it at the very least had me staring speechless at my computer screen for a long time.

[magic5ball]

Jurassic Park 4: Doki Idol Live Festival!

The two velociraptors stood outside a pastel colored town house in Hokkaido prefecture, Japan. If any passerbys thought that was weird, they certainly didn’t show it. Probably because the raptors were wearing fedoras and fake mustaches, so they looked like humans. Also they had guns. Very cool, very intimidating mobster guns. A tommy gun and a sawed-off shotgun, respectively.

You needed guns, to survive Shinzo Abe’s little empire of vice and socialized medical care.

“So this is the place, huh?” muttered the velociraptor carrying the sawed-off shotgun. His thick Brooklyn accent hung in the air like concrete. “Kinda… frillier than I was expecting.”

“It better be.” Replied his companion, who sounded like your racist conservative uncle trying to impersonate that one cool guy from ‘The Godfather’ (You know, the one with the mustache who was played by Robert de Niro). “We hadda kill a whole lotta people to get this hellhole.”

Sawed-off shotgun licked his non-existent lizard lips

“But hey. That airplane stewardess tasted mighty fine goin-“

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, would ya stop thinkin’ with your stomach and help me with this f*ckin’ knob!” cried tommy gun, trying to work the doorknob best he could with his raptor claws, which, in all honesty, wasn’t much, because raptor claws are terrible at operating things meant for human fingers. Little did he know, the door was a ‘pull’, not a ‘push.

At least he didn’t have to wait long before someone unlocked the door from the other side: another velociraptor, this one a bit on the short side. And p!ssed. Very, very p!ssed. You could tell he was the cool one because he wore an eyepatch over one eye. An eyepatch with a Captain Underpants logo on it.

“Didn’t your parent’s ever teach you idiots about using the doorbell?! I was just about to enjoy lunch with my beautiful wife and you-!“

He paused, recognizing the two figures facing him.

“Well, well, well” Said tommy gun, cocking his weapon “If it isn’t SWEET JOHN HAMMOND’S BALLSACK WHAT THE F*CK AM I LOOKING AT?!”

For the cool raptor was dressed in a gothic Lolita maid outfit, complete with a bonnet and penny loafers. Under his arm he carried a human sized pillow depicting what appeared to be a blonde floozy with massive tits.

“Oh this? This is Mami Tomoe, my beautiful wife.”

“WHAT THE F*CK!?!?” Tommy gun pulled out a flask off orange Fanta from his butthole and drank the whole thing in one go. He did NOT have time for this homosexual weeaboo nonsense! Still, he and shotgun hadn’t left a mountain of corpses the exact height and width as Mt. Fuji behind them. Too many to go back to Isla Nublar empty handed. Er, clawed. Because they were dinosaurs. Who have claws.

Shotgun took a deep breath. “What the Boss means to say is, ‘May we take refuge in this fine establishment?’”

Cool raptor opened his mouth to reveal a pistol he’d hidden there. And by hidden I mean replaced his tongue with it.

“You know, for all crap you guys used to give me in the past, I oughta pump you full of lead right here and now. Buuutttt… the lady of the house is present, and I’m not in the mood to create more work on her end. So come on in! You’re just in time for lunch.”

Lest they attract unneeded attention, the three dinosaurs hopped inside.

.   .   .

Lunch was omurice boba tea with a bottle of teriyaki sauce on the side. It was just boba tea, but the boba had been replaced by omurice because F-Bomb hated the flavor of boba, which he likened to rabbit crap. The teriyaki sauce was teriyaki sauce.

It was the most racist thing shotgun had ever eaten.

“Well, now that you jerks have gotten a taste of my sloppy seconds, I suppose some introductions are in order. You’ve already met my lovely wife” Cool raptor gestured to the body pillow seated next to him “So that leaves you two. Mami, meet A-Hole and D-Bag. A-Hole’s got the tommy gun, D-Bag is ridin’ her sawed off shotgun, as always. They’re old… acquaintances of mine.”

“He.” Corrected D-Bag. “I’ve been using he/him pronouns six months now.”

“Well that’s an improvement. Now instead of bein’ the Boss’ side B!tch literally, you’re just his b!tch figuratively!”

“Well screw you too, F-Bomb!” laughed the boss. “An’ speakin’ of screwing, what’s with the fruity get up? You a prostitute now or something?”

“Even better! This might surprise you, but I’ve got legitimate work now. This here’s my uniform, my uniform for MILF TIDDIES!”

A-Hole chugged his entire bottle of teriyaki sauce in one go, lest his mind implode from the sheer stupidity of that sentence.

“The Hell’s a milf tiddie!?”

“Only the best freakin’ maid café in Hoikaido, hookers!”

He gestured to a wall, covered in hundreds of photos of cute floozies dressed like they were attending a vampire’s funeral. Among them was a photo of F-Bomb in his drag, serving a deep fried hot dog to some elderly Japanese dude.

“As you can see, yours truly is serving Japan’s national desert to none other than 57th Prime Minister of Japan Shinzo Abe!”

“Hold it up. Youse been hobnobbing it with politicians?!”

“I wish! You’re thinking of Shinzo Abe, 57th Prime Minister of Japan. This guy is his twin brother. Still pretty sweet though. We DID win a Grammy for that, after all.”

A-Holes eyes bulged out of his scaly raptor head.

“YOUSE WON A GRAMMY FOR THAT?!”

“Dang right! Milf Tiddies has won sixteen Grammys since I started working there!” He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. A very special piece of paper, if the six holes punched into it were any indication. “Did you know that if you win ten Grammys in a row, they give you a free orphan? That’s how the wife and I got our glorious daughter, Lil’ Nagisa!”

F-Bomb pulled a faded photo out of his wallet. A photo showing himself, his pillow wife, and a smaller body pillow of a ten-year-old moeblob wearing a Green Bay Packers cheesehead helmet.

“So youse couldn’t even conceive your own kid?” Inquired D-Bag sexily. He was munching his omurice slowly, so F-Bomb knew he was being serious.

“Are you implying I have sex with my own wife, you sick freak?! I’m a weeaboo, not some degenerate anime fanboy! Get it straight!” He instinctively cocked the pistol in his throat. It was awesome as hell.

In response, D-Bag pumped his shotgun. Loudly.

“Permission to put the sick freak out of his misery, Boss?”

“Firstly, don’t call me Boss when we’re not having anal sex. Second, no can do, my spicy lover. We need F-Bomb alive.”

F-Bomb heard all of this even though A-Hole whispered it, but he pretended not to make A-Hole feel clever.

D-Bag mumbled about how the Boss was lucky he was so mind blowing in the sack, otherwise he would have left the relationship long ago. The sack in this case being a really kinky sex dungeon. Like really kinky. So kinky even Donald Trump wouldn’t go within a mile of it. D-Bag had almost died of autoerotic asphyxiation more times than I’ve gone to the bathroom in my lifetime. That’s why he was the smartest dinosaur out of the three of them. Now where was I again?

Anyway, F-Bomb interrogated

“Alright guys, what’s the deal? I know folks who come to this socialized medical care infested hellhole, and they don’t come here just to eat omurice boba tea. You WANT me for something.”

He cocked his mouth-pistol again. Sparks flew all over the carpet, which was made of alpaca fur so it didn’t catch fire.

A-Hole scandalously kept his cool.

“It’s about Isla Nublar.”

The second those words left A-Hole’s lips, F-Bomb escorted his wife out of the kitchen, but leaned her against the kitchen door, because that’s what she would have wanted.

“Well what about it? I told ya guys, I’m done with that dump.”

“They’re puttin’ the screws on us, F-Bomb. Making us pay for eating those tourists back in the nineties.”

“And what makes you think I care? Like I said, I’m done with that place. I got a wife and kid now.”

“But F-Bomb, doesn’t the Park mean ANYTHING to ya!? What about the time we ate that park ranger that called you a girl? ‘Better than sex’ I recall you saying.”

“Nice try, but I’m not exactly in the mood to get misgendered again. Don’t you guys got any ideas that don’t involve me?”

“As a matter of fact, yours truly had this really spectacular one!”

D-Bag did a hand gesture wherein he constantly crossed his dinosaur claws across his throat rapidly in quick succession. A-Hole, being very smart, knew this meant he should continue, loudly enough so that everyone in the prefecture could hear.

“It was called ‘Trump Ballz’. We’d harvest Donald Trump’s testicles, see, and sell them to the highest bidder, so they could do whatever people do with lopped off testicles. I’m not one to judge. It was a terrific idea. I know because when I told my best friend Donald Trump about it, he said, ‘A-Hole, this is an incredible idea. Absolutely terrific! This is probably the best idea in America! You are very smart, very intelligent dinosaur! I oughta buy you a prostitute!’ Of course, we didn’t realize that Trump’s ballz don’t grow back when you lop them off. Did you know that by the way? Human testicles don’t grow back-“

F-Bomb cocked the pistol inside his throat gain, getting the Boss to shut up. This was probably the most heroic thing anyone had ever done in the history of the universe. He also asked a question:

“SO WHAT THE HECK DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME?!”

A-Hole vomited a severed arm and a pamphlet onto the table.

“EVERYTHING, ya WEEB trash!”

The pamphlet was for something called the Doki Idol Live Fest- DILF, for short. F-Bomb was no stranger to the DILF, but they had parted ways years ago. Six, to be exact, when he had buried Nico Yazawa’s still screaming corpse by the side of the highway. And neither was he stranger to the prize.

It looked like a beer and soda drinking baseball cap, but only to complete idiots who didn’t know crap about the Idol Life.

And F-Bomb wasn’t one of those people, er dinosaurs.

“THE MCGUFFIN OF SIN?!”

“Dam* straight! And like it or not, youse the only one with enough idol know-how to help us win it! Thing’s worth, like, a zillion dollars.”

A zillion in this case was equivalent to half a million. Still, isn’t that impressive?

F-Bomb stuck his nose in his omurice and snorted, a common intimidation tactic among velociraptors. I know because I read  it in the Scientific American.

“Sorry, guys, but even with that on the line, no can do. I’m DONE with the Idol Life, any I’m not letting you filthy casuals drag me back in.” He cocked the pistol in his throat. “NOW SCRAM!”

A-Hole and D-Bag jumped out a window, so they could get the jump on a feral dog humping its’ owner. Nobody realized they were dinosaurs because of their fake mustaches, so it looked like a pair of mobsters were eating a puppy.

When they were gone, F-Bomb pranced to the bathroom, which was filled with plush alpacas he had collected over the years. So many, in fact, the bathroom did not meet OSHA compliance. Which was why F-Bomb had made it an independent nation state, only to realize that OSHA didn’t apply to him anyway, since he lived in Japan.

He had felt really stupid after that, but at least he got his own country out of it.

Anyway, he vomited sixteen liters of blood into the sink, for F-Bomb had a secret: he was dying. Back when he was a fetus in an egg in a lab on some island in the Caribean, he’d become addicted to the illegal street drug known as WEEB, and frequent use had poisoned his lungs. The doctors had given him Socialized Medical Care and four more years to live. The WEEB had taken eighty years off his life. Socialized Medical Care had borrowed his lawnmower and never given it back.

But F-Bomb also had a dream: he and his wife were going to build their own maid café, and it would be even better than MILF Tiddies. He’d already picked a title: DILF Tiddies, and it was going to be the greatest food-selling establishment in the history of Japan. Omurice boba tea was going to go global. But he’d never get the funds on time, not on his meager salary. Unless…

His beautiful wife greeted him as he exited the bathroom.

“Get a pen and some razor blades, sweetgums. I’ve got a letter to send.”

                                                     .   .   .

The message arrived in the neck of a mailman’s severed head. This is the traditional way velociraptors send letters to each other. I read it in a book.

D-Bag didn’t see the letter, but the look on A-Hole’s face told him everything.

“What’d I tell ya, D-Bag? Like I always say, when you’re dino you’re dino all the way, till youse dead in the ground or youse come out as gay!”

“Yeah, we really need to update those lyrics.”

End Chapter 1