Chicago, IL-A man of humble constitution was seen frantically weaving in and out of morning commuters as he attempted to commence his regular, shirtless morning jog on one of the busiest streets in Chicago. He definitely hadn’t been preparing his entire life for this moment. He definitely didn’t just hit L.A. Tan and certainly didn’t lightly mist his body with extra virgin olive oil for a perfect sheen.
There’s absolutely no chance he could have anticipated people accidentally gazing up at him as he pranced about while screaming the words left and right. His face contorting into an abyss of pain and anguish caused by a lifetime of eating $18 Açaí bowls and wearing only Lululemon. Decades spent perceiving himself as the messiah of leisure running.
He didn’t want any of this. He only wanted a seamless, half-naked jog on one of the most crowded streets in the city in which the pedestrians would simply stand motionless and worship his physique in silence instead of go about their normal daily routine. Inconsiderate little insects.
At least he can go to bed knowing that several people unwillingly looked at his nipples. Rest easy sweet prince, for you convinced several people you’ll never see again that you contain some moderate athletic ability.
Chicago, IL-As formative memories dissolve through your thumb into a pool of blue light and the motion of endless scrolling, one shimmering vein in the suffocating coal mine of your head remains constant. A haunting tune lured out of hiding by tiny trembling fingers on an instrument that was born in a forbidden love affair between a flute and a goddamn tin whistle. The unwanted atrocity that was birthed would infuriate grade schoolers for years to come.
Loved only by the person foolish enough to try and teach 3rd graders music, the inexplicable obsession with the instrument could never be grasped by the students. The devotion to recorder maintenance, the torrent past of how the recorder came to be, the transcendant beauty it could produce if only it made a different noise when blown upon.
An unsubstantiated and blind zeal that was unsettling to everyone involved. Lowering their heads while maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with the class, they played their triumphant tune.
Nonetheless that plastic whistle with an engorged mouth piece and the only song anyone ever learned with it can still be found wandering the disintegrating, wallpapered hallways of your mind. Always seeking a glimpse at the outside world. Hot. Cross. Buns. Hot. Cross. Buns. One a penny. Two a Penny. Hot.Cross.Buns.
Hollywood, CA-Yesterday, the nutrient deprived, loose bowel movement of ignorance that Rosanne Barr managed to squirt out of her hate filled heart provided enough lubrication to send her entire steaming hot coil of a show into the eternal depths of an unmarked porta-potty in Northern Indiana.
Rosanne now begins her redemption tour. And the only thing that can bring someone back from the depths of ignorance and hatred is performing as a beloved, day-walking human hybrid who only hates one thing…vampires.
“Much like my show and myself, it will all be very tastefully done, the script itself was actually written by the kid from Two and a Half Men, very beautiful stuff!” said Rosanne, taking a discreet pull from a can of spray paint in a baby pool made of deli meat.
Her inability to comprehend that this is a terrible idea disappearing into the air with intermittent fart streams.
“Once I play Blade in the musical remake, all will be forgiven. Blade transcends race and his hatred of vampires is as patriotic as it gets! The country will have no choice but to forgive me for my obliviousness and ignorance!” continued Rosanne, slyly adjusting a pair of athletic sunglasses.
We are all witnesses to humanity’s final plunge into madness and despair.
Chicago, IL-The newest way to spend money that you don’t have in order to generate Instagram content and spare yourself from any type of self-reflection or original thought is officially here! Escape Hole is the newest player, in the luxury, leisure self-confinement industry. But unlike other escape rooms in which guests are forced to solve ill-conceived riddles with coworkers and family members they find tolerable, Escape Hole is the first ever solo escape room.
Guests are locked in a tiny room, containing only a baby pool filled to the brim with a combination of Heinz Mayonnaise, 2% milk and your choice of scented or unscented Vaseline. The room itself has a variety of burlap lined holes and crevices, each unnaturally small, for the person to strip down and try and birth through.
Unlike other escape rooms, you’ll feel the crushing paranoia of having to probe and prod the different crevices to find out which one you can desperately cram your flesh into to ooze out the other side.
But there is light at the end of the tunnel! If you escape successfully, your greased and scratched body will be spewed into the adjoining Fuddruckers where you can enjoy a heaving burger with other lonely, pathetic participants.
New Carlisle, Indiana-The dying toy industry isn’t done fighting yet. It won’t be mercifully put down like a Paddington Bear overrun with rabies behind the woodshed after a couple of 40’s of King Cobra. Its brain matter won’t be found on the sidewalk like a Furby after being bludgeoned with a sock full of quarters due to paranoia after smoking a cigarette dipped in formaldehyde.
No. It will continue to evolve and cater to the depravity of humankind, as evident in the newly minted Minions Fleshlight launched by Hasbro.
Licensed Fleshlights are generally reserved for porn stars, and or beloved glory holes, but because virtually everything in existence is branded or licensed, and because our species has devolved to a point in which this particular licensing seems like a good idea, die hard Minions fans will be able to finally prove just how dedicated they actually are. A gruesome game of a chicken to see who blinks first, the customer or the crudely fashioned Minions fleshlight.
“We saw a lot of adults oddly wearing around those idiotic looking Minions beanie hats, and figured why not stick with the times and absolutely fucking ruin something,” said Hasbro CEO Grayson Horvath stubbing out a cigarette into a an Angry Birds shrimp deveiner.
Cincinnati, Ohio-In an effort to preserve one of humanity’s most delicate and rare assets, the Cincinnati zoo has agreed to slaughter two giant pandas and replace them with the Walmart Yodel Kid, who will perform for zoo attendees if thrown the correct amount of petting zoo food.
“At a certain point we as humans have to shift to preserving what’s truly important, this was one of the easier decisions we’ve ever made” said head zookeeper Alphonso Knudson, blindfolding the pandas and preparing them for death by firing squad comprised of the zoo’s top donors.
An entire species can be forgotten if they can’t yodel in front of a bunch of drooling, phone wielding assholes at a goddamn rats nest in northern Indiana. The bastard child of Simon Cowell’s deadbeat second cousin. Someone born for a CBS reality show destined to fail.
“Prepare yourself you bastards!” yelled Knudson as the bullets rained down on the pandas and they fell to their anticlimactic death to the cheers of blood thirsty onlookers.
Fuddruckers, Hammond-A picture of several uninteresting clouds accompanied by the caption “dreaming,” offered absolutely nothing to the unfortunate community of people too cowardly to unfollow an Instagram user whose posts had driven many to the point of app deletion in recent weeks.
Tops of coffee mugs, heaven, pictures of menus, eating, squirrel, animal, close-up selfie of their forehead, living…all an uncanny airline snack mix of ordinary yet somehow oddly unfamiliar.
The swarm of content all fueling the only measurable happiness in life, dying with the most likes. As the yodeling Walmart kid once said, “Whoever dies with the most likes wins,” You momentarily look at the idiotic picture and consider the prospect of ending the cycle of obligatory likes.
But they liked the picture of the piece of shit art you made last week and the throwback you posted of yourself huffing duster with someone who looks like Tim Allen, so you begrudgingly continue the cycle.
A dutiful social media follower who takes their responsibility of exchanging meaningless likes very seriously.
Have you ever wanted to mindlessly lap up a stranger’s stagnant toilet bowl of digital waste, but didn’t want to deal with the backbreaking hassle of actually holding your phone? Popsocket. Who the fuck has the supernatural focus required to not perpetually drop a five ounce ergonomically correct rectangle? Popsocket.
If you’re like most people, your withering hands don’t have the strength or coordination to do something as advanced as maintaining a loose grip on something you use virtually every day, that’s why the makers of Big Mouth Billy Bass have created an idiotic circle that attaches to the back of your phone and announces to the world you’re an incapable little pissant.
The nipple extension, as it were, can pop in or out and provide the additional mental and physical strength your rapidly deteriorating body and mind need to grasp the only reality you know. Be ready to enter any room like the overconfident mass of characterless beige matter you are AND have the added benefit of never having your phone slip! Buy some more garbage today!
Chicago, IL-On Tuesday, a man was spotted wearing a pair of oversized white DC shoes, complete with massive tongue and a lifetime of regret. The shoe, generally reserved for 8th graders who are overcompensating for bottomed out self-esteem, appeared peculiar on a fully grown human with the means and presumable intelligence to wear something else.
The look of pride on the man’s face suggested the same imaginary sense of importance as any teenager debuting a new Hollister sweatshirt at a local piece of shit mall in Northern Indiana, a strange misguided superiority. The look of someone whose peak human experience was as an illiterate, puberty ridden adolescent.
“I looked sweet in 8th grade, and though I wasn’t athletic or smart or funny, and pretty much existed like a tub old bath water sometimes exists, my shoes were dope as hell, I had some piped out jeans AND I almost touched Lindsay Mumford’s boob once,” said Terry Lapadat adjusting an oversized Fox Racing shirt.
By refusing to surrender the enormous skate shoes, Monster Energy shirt and wallet chain, he is refusing to give up on the mindset of Skate or Die…steadfastly defending a state of perpetual puberty and refusing to abandon the dream of perhaps even one day touching a boob.
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina-After decades of painstakingly seeking the cradle of Mexican inspired American-tourist forward cuisine, Celebrity Chef Rick Bayless has finally unearthed the mossy keystone from which everything was born. Following several days of grueling travel to reach a remote fishing village known as “Myrtle Beach,” Bayless set forth to uncover the mysteries that had lay dormant in the city’s underbelly since the beginning of time.
In particular, a quaint beachside bungalow known by locals as Señor Frog’s became an object of fascination for Bayless. Señor Frog was originally a name given to a beloved goat who regularly graced the bar that kind of looked like a frog if you were drunk enough, he was immortalized in the bar name after being decapitated in a gruesome Jet Ski accident.
Bayless spent countless nights there, submerging himself to the point of madness, as wet t-shirt contests were held, lava lamps were butt chugged and free beer koozies were given to people who agreed to be kicked in the nuts by Dog the Bounty Hunter impersonator. This was culture. This was heaven.
“Farm to table nitrous balloons, hand crafted Red Bull Vodkas rimmed with organic Stacker 2 energy pills, 60/40 ground chuck blend shaped into a fist, and a VR gravity bong experience, will all be available at my new restaurant Donkey Dick’s Bar & Grill,” said Bayless furiously scribing pre-emptive Trip Advisor reviews.
The bar will cater to people who want to appear interesting and adventurous but are actually quite dull. Wading through a cultureless abyss of Michelob Ultra buckets and acid fueled three legged races.