Hollywood, CA-The unanimous titan of creating semi-outdated popular music compilations has made another splash in a thriving mixed CD industry which appears as timeless and lucrative as gold or silver. NOW That’s What I Call Music! will pioneer in a new, more sophisticated era of music with an album compiled solely of vuvuzela covers. The 72 minute horn epic will be conducted and curated by none other than famed jazz vuvuzela composer Bill Biscane.
“The fact that any morsel of pop music created in the last five years is microwaved bath water affords me certain creative liberties while doing vuvuzela covers, actually the dull drone of a plastic horn is more challenging than anything you’d hear on the radio,” said Biscane meticulously rearranging his collection of colored plastic horns.
For only four payments of $19.99 pop music fans can hear someone slobber on a novelty toy for almost a full hour as they repeatedly attempt and fail to wipe their own ass.
Critics are calling NOW That’s What I Call Vuvuzela Music! ”The complete realization of the deterioration of popular music,” “Something to listen to while taking a painful, nutrient deprived dump in your piece of shit apartment,” and “An album that a grazing herd of inbred goats may enjoy, which makes its popularity that much more alarming.” So buy the album today!
Chicago, IL-On Thursday, an already stagnant conversation was mercifully put down like a sickly hound after an area dullard managed to muster arguably the most lukewarm joke in history. The discussion, which had all of the vigor and sophistication of the lips and buttholes comprising hotdog filler, involved an article that one of the parties had read online. Taking this is a que to wipe the drool from his chin and offer something utterly forgettable, Phillip Biggins sprang into action.
“So I says to her I says…”Yeah because if you read it online it HAS to be true!” That coupled with a well-timed eye roll and a self-satisfying grin gets them every time!” said Biggins of the woefully boring incident.
The statement that has functioned as a historical crutch for people with absolutely nothing to say, but still find themselves compelled to contribute.
“When I saw the polite smile and her visibly trying to think of an excuse for how to promptly exit the situation, I knew it was time to extend the joke by saying “Everything on the internet is true!”” continued Biggins, fondly recalling her sheepish smile, ripe with pity.
Biggins retreated to his studio apartment later that night and fell asleep by himself watching reruns of Two and a Half Men.
The only thing perhaps more discouraging than the conclusion of another forgettable day of wading through an endless retention pond of incompetent emails, is seeing the eager grin of a canvasser standing firmly between your train stop and your house. The prying eyes and glowing iPad want nothing more than a quick hour and a half hour of your time, your credit card number, and a simple monthly payment that will process until you die. Certainly a decision best made after riding 40 minutes sandwiched between two fucking slobs on a pee soaked, fart filled CTA train.
Instead of succumbing to the corresponding heckling experienced if you walk by without acknowledgement or god forbid offer a slight nod and politely mouth “Sorry,” I’ve been telling these leaching insects that I have to poop. The conversation generally goes something like this:
Canvasser: Hi do you have a min…
Me: I have to poop, sorry
All consuming silence
Bowel movements function as the ultimate defense mechanism against anything you don’t want to do as there is virtually nothing to say or do if someone is on their way to poop. It can be assumed if you’re telling them about it, there is some sense of urgency or at the very least a regularity that needs maintaining.
Not to say donating to any cause isn’t worthy, obviously with the appropriate research, helping those less fortunate circumstances is a fundamental necessity for all humans. But being ambushed and then humiliated for not making a decision to donate, after a filthy iPad with a poorly made infographic is shoved down your throat on your way home from work is an entirely different circumstance.
Pooping freed me and it can free you too.
Chicago, IL-In an effort to appease the perpetually deprived ego of men whose personalities can be distilled into the revving of a motorcycle engine, Harley Davidson has finally created a motorcycle those same men can have sex with.
“We realized that merely revving the motorcycle was no longer enough, sure it sounds really fucking cool and in theory it should get you laid a shit ton, but in reality most of these men were getting absolutely no pussy whatsoever,” said Frank Horvath, the designer of Harley’s new motorcycle, the Ham Beater V5000.
The name suggesting, inexplicably, that there were roughly 4,000 iterations of the bike before what is being called the Rolls Royce of masturbation forward motorcycles.
“The rider lays fully nude and flat on the cycle with toes pointed backwards, their assumed micro-penis can be inserted into a ribbed crevice roughly 2 inch deep. After a few pumps and a predictably quick finish the fluid is blown back into the face of the rider in an ultimate act of self-congratulations.” Continued Horvath adjusting his athletic shades and Affliction t-shirt.
The rest of us will continue to look on, unsurprised, with vague annoyance and confusion.
Indianapolis, IN-An Indianapolis resident is still struggling with the perceived fame that accompanies almost attending the open casting call for American Idol back in 2003. Phillip Biggins, the only one aware of this non-existent happening, now desperately attempts to stay connected with the less famous people surrounding him. Tethered loosely to reality by the indifferent applause of strangers in karaoke bars in Indianapolis.
“I’ll tell you what, I was damn close to registering for the initial round of auditions, I woulda’ made that competition spicier than the cocktail sauce at St. Elmo! Wooo!” screamed a tearful Biggins, after his fourth mediocre version of Hallelujah at Wild Beaver Saloon, Indianapolis’ best dam karaoke bar.
“Pro-tip tell the crowd your dog just died before the song and watch the applause roll in, sympathy is the key to any memorable performance” continued Biggins with the knowing grin of a crafty veteran. The audience surrounding the stage, having heard the comment, appeared completely horrified.
With a repertoire of somber songs, a persistence that affords him at least ten songs a night and a propensity for trying way to hard Biggins is the perfect celebrity hype person for any karaoke bar.
“He’s up there a lot…and he doesn’t really ever buy any drinks…Though I guess his version of On Eagles Wings is fairly tolerable,” said owner of Wild Beaver Saloon, Boyd Hopkins. Biggins maintains that he resembles a beacon of hope for the plebian customers, a karaoke mentor of sorts, a reminder that karaoke doesn’t have to be fun.
Hobart, IN-A boomerang video of a child being born has compiled 19 views from horrified followers. In what is being called the official deathblow to the wonders of childbirth, the video loop of the child’s head rapidly popping in and out with a backdrop of Shape of You by Ed Sheeran, functioned as the official birth announcement for one social media savvy couple in Hobart Indiana.
“We’re always pushing the limits on social media, last week we did a duckface selfie from inside of the toilet of a porta-potty at a construction site! It was hilarious!” said Cameron Holloway while reviewing the additional SnapChat footage of the birth, which featured various his filtered facial reactions instead of the birth itself.
Other ingenious social media efforts by the couple include: a time lapse video of a 45 minute poop, placing the SnapChat flower crown filter on a deceased person at a funeral with the tagline TFW Skrillex drops the beat way too hard and an engagement proposal while riding the roller coaster, Top Thrill Dragster, at Cedar Point during a vacation to Sandusky Ohio.
As social media continues to evolve, the suffocating frequency and objective stupidity will drown the few simple joys left in life and leave us questioning the sanity of friends and family alike.
Chicago, IL-A new fitness center located in River North of Chicago is causing quite the stir amongst the several wealthy people that can afford classes there. “It’s a community and a family, with absolutely no judgement, no pretense and a love for all walks of life,” said one member dabbing his forehead with a freshly caught lobster.
The boutique studio is known only as Theory X and is described as a tibata and barre hybrid with a splash of hot yoga and a garnish of spin with a colonic finish.
Each class is a wholesome, one of a kind experience, which occurs four times a day at hundreds of identical locations across the country. Tailored specifically to instill a sense of purpose, community and undying hubris that absolutely anyone able to pay $300 a class is more than welcome to enjoy.
“All members are required to wear brand new Lululemon to every class, with tags being heavily scrutinized, so the workout ends up being about $450 per,” said another member daintily sipping a slightly chilled acai infused Figi water, positioning herself for yet another post-workout selfie, the slight glisten on her forehead serving as a beacon of hope for anyone stupid enough to simply run outside.
“You can’t put a price on fitness though! Or instagram content for that matter!” Continued the member forgetting that fitness is objectively free. The promotion to buy 10 classes then also pay for the 11th, and then be locked into a 5-year-long blood contract has almost expired, so ask yourself…are you ready to #Theory?
Des Plaines, IL-Something incredible happened on Tuesday night of last week in the sleepy town of Des Plaines. Phillip Biggins, manager at the local Plato’s Closet, received a sign from Facebook. A digital Star of Bethlehem nestled in his newsfeed, beckoning him to post well wishes for his best friend’s birthday that would have otherwise passed unnoticed.
Biggins dutifully obliged to the tendering, as he always did, knowing that it was not truly a birthday, engagement, childbirth, or otherwise, until his generic affection was sitting lifelessly on the person’s wall. He clicked into the profile and recalled a lifelong friendship as tears began to form. Filled with profound trials, tribulations, adventures and the seamlessness of being true family, the bond between them truly was something to be cherished.
He had gotten drunk with him for the first time, caught the winning touchdown pass from him at state, and been saved by him from a pack of feral wolfs that had taken hold of the city back in 1997. What could be written to express his profound gratitude for it all? Then in an uncanny moment of clarity, it came to him, an acronym.
Nothing is more earnest than an acronym, especially when expressing an intricate web of human emotions. HB would be the technical acronym for Happy Birthday, though it didn’t have the right ring. Biggins stared at the cursor for several seconds wondering how he could make it more meaningful, something only he and his friend would understand.
Then it came to him, HBD, the D signifying day in the word birthday. Inspired. He proudly examined the uninteresting platitude once more before posting into the oblivion.
Several Chicagoans got quite the unwelcomed surprise when arriving at their office and discovering that their umbrellas were covered in eyeballs, human hair and other assorted debris. Like most commuters they had all but forgotten that they were even a holding an umbrella as they hastily jabbed their way through the crowded streets. “I generally just open my umbrella right when I get out of bed in the morning and forget about it! Who wants the hassle of maneuvering that thing? By not thinking about it, I can keep it in one place and let other people do the worrying!” said Ashley Adams giggling as she shook some additional blood from her umbrella onto an unwitting coworker.
Several others around the office around the office followed suit, negligently shaking off hair and eyeballs much to the chagrin of the office cleaning staff. They all ended up having a good hearty laugh about it in the end. “When I saw that Ashley’s umbrella had blood on it again, I couldn’t contain myself, we all just started laughing! Then the hair on mine, it was the icing on the cake! I can be so forgetful sometimes, I noticed several audible thumps but just assumed it was the rain and not someone’s scalp!” said Allen Williams wiping tears from his eyes.
Being forgetful can be hilarious and zany especially when it causes direct grief on strangers, but it’s not all fun and games, at another office the mood was far more somber.
“Losing a massive chunk of hair that got snagged on umbrella wasn’t a great way to start the day, may even classify it as a full blown day ruiner.” Said a downtrodden Steve Jones who was on the receiving end of umbrella negligence. “On the plus side I’ve been getting pretty decent at parkour.” He continued as several others around the office nursed varying injuries.
As the rain continues to fall, the moral dregs come gurgling out of the stinking potholes and cracks, adding insult to injury to your soaking wet jeans.
Chicago, IL-Chaos ensued last Saturday at the first annual North Roscoe Village Pigeon, Mussel & Fidget Spinner Street Fest when a Bastille cover band, that was hired to perform for anyone boring enough to attend a street fest, refused to play the dated hit “Pompeii”. The street fest started as most do, with physically and mentally mediocre people gathering to celebrate their ordinariness by paying to stand on smoldering asphalt and drink $8 Green Lines.
Thousands of people swarmed the street fest for their chance at eating a fly ridden, sun baked, Chicago River Zebra Mussel or a freshly slaughtered pigeon filet served on wilted lettuce for the people publicly declaring their gluten intolerance. The arts and crafts table set up for the kids was a nice addition according to neighbors. For the small fee of a $200, kids were allowed to collect the bloodied remains from the pigeon feast and make their very own pigeon bone fidget spinners!
All seemed well at the festival as moms wore chic, Instagram worthy headdresses crafted from pigeon feathers and dads took turns sinking each other in a zebra mussel infested dunk tank. The sun began to set and the late 2000’s cover band, which would serve as the highlight of the year for most of the pathetic festival goers, took the stage.
The band began to play what was assumed to be the only song ever created by Bastille, bellowing “Hey ay oh hey oh hey ay oh ay yo,” but as the crowd worked itself into a frenzy they stopped. “You know we’re not gonna play that pussy shit! We play Bastille deep cuts only!” screamed the lead singer at the restless crowd.
The entitled crowd screamed in agony as their perfect festival appeared ruined, several people ended their lives by way of zebra mussel to the forehead, knowing they would likely never witness a Bastille cover band play “Pompeii”. Others retreated, hoping to reorganize another street festival for next weekend featuring an Eiffel 65 cover band.