Chicago, Midway-As a group of unfortunate Southwest customers stood absently in line waiting to get cattle prodded and dragged onto the plane in a burlap sack, one diva was planning something far more nefarious.
Though a boarding pass indicated that Samantha Allen was nothing more than a B45 as a Southwest customer and in life, she disregarded the designation and inched her way up to board faster. A look of absolute privilege washed over her face as she tussled her hair in the reflection of her phone. Inarguably mediocre even amongst the horde of constipated trolls also waiting to board.
This very special little snow flake certainly deserved to sit in a fart filled winged sausage skin, she owed herself that much. She had earned that right by devolving past the already lowly moral compass of other drooling customers. The other customers would just have to deal with it.
She worked at an L.A. Tan in northern Indiana and sometimes did yoga after all, which certainly put her on a skid marked pedestal of ginger ale and crushed peanuts. She was a B35 that day even though her boarding pass indicated otherwise.
Chicago, IL-On Friday, a painful text exchange between two adults who were incapable of dispensing actual thoughts or desires climaxed with the promise of intermittent status updates. The illusion of actual attendance had been precariously dangling from the beginning as words like, if, maybe and possibly were hurled about in regards to actually showing up to the party itself. But in order to cheer the person up who may or may not have wanted them there in the first place, a string of texts teasing an imaginary arrival followed.
“We’ll definitely try and get there at some point.”
“Still at this party, trying to leave soon!”
“Are you guys still partying over there? Might be able to come in about an hour.”
“Uber is surging! Going to wait it out a bit, save me a beer!”
“I’m with like 20 other people, is it cool if they come too?”
“Sorry man, it’s getting late, let’s chill at some point in the next 5 years! Hope tonight was a blast!”
The vague promises functioned only as a nuisance to the host of the party who was more or less indifferent to their presence while also confirming an inevitable fact that could have been solved in a text message with ten or fewer words.
But the game of mundane, inconsequential chicken must be played because we are human and we are cowards.
Rockford, Illinois-An e-cigarette and e-cigarette accessory store has created an offer that will submerge you in the illusive vape culture that has escaped so many. Rivaled only by the Free Masons in terms of barriers to entry and undying dedication, vape ethos has seemed impossibly distant to normal people. But VaperzParadize in Rockford Illinois is changing everything with their new vape starter kit. A kit that thrusts you into forbidden realm and gives you the tools you need to succeed at relentlessly sucking on a device that has roughly the same dimensions as a Capri Sun and filled with cotton candy flavored nicotine water.
VaperzParadize realizes that vaping isn’t just some transitory fad, it is a way of life. Something that defines you. To elevate the already predisposed assumption of sophistication that accompanies vaping, four completely essential items are included with all e-cigarette purchases.
- Fedora-Nothing accentuates four flaccid fingers awkwardly holding an e-cigarette like a fucking fedora. Pulled straight from Rob Kardashian’s new “Big Head Small Hat” line
- Criss Angel Master Mindfreak Volume 6 Blueray DVD-The only thing cooler than vaping is magic, more importantly not knowing how to do any magic, but being a celebrity magic connoisseur
- Blue Tooth Headset-Why bother holding a phone when you could be double fisting two vapes of differeing flavors while chatting with buddies about consuming loneliness and the prospect of being a failure of a father someday
- 10% off Tilted Kilt coupon-No real explanation needed for a 10% off coupon for a restaurant of this esteem. Buckets of domestics and wondering why you’ve been crying yourself to sleep for weeks. Also the feeling of cantaloupe flavored vapor delicately whisking a Wicked Boston Big Arse Burger down your cram-hole is completely unrivaled
So jumpstart your descent into the mist. Get the e-cigarette you needed not the e-cigarette you deserved.
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-An Uber driver with an unwilling audience trapped in the confines of his 2003 Chevy Malibu just dropped the “but” heard round the world. The passengers had been subject to several other uninteresting stories which passed with relative passivity, more or less exposing a somewhat sad life that paired perfectly with the scent of wet dog and cigarettes plaguing the soiled cloth interior of the car.
Though just as the riders settled into what they believed to be a 15 minute penance of mundanity, the Uber driver figured that because they had entered into a contract in which he drove them to a certain location in exchange for payment, it was the perfect time to unveil some deep seated racism.
“You know, I’m not a racist,” the Uber driver muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror seeking some type of conciliatory eye contact, the passengers braced themselves for the atrocity that was surely coming, the horrific amending qualifier that would cause one passenger to swallow his entire fist and the other to recite the entire script to the movie Last Vegas in ancient Hebrew.
“But,” said the cab driver before launching into a lunatic story in which race should have been completely irrelevant. The statement prior to the qualifier obviously making him exempt from any kind of judgement, as, if someone audibly states they are not racist, it gives them free reign to spew hatred at will.
The ride mercifully ended at some point or another, the driver fell asleep, like every other night, alone to the laugh track of Last Man Standing with a 5th of Vodka and a tear soaked pillow.
Mundelein, IL-Strip club attendance has plummeted in recent years, as enthusiasts grow shrewder in the struggling economic environment and the invention of Pornhub forcing the regulars into hiding, existing only as a pair of eyes through worn shudders. That coupled with the ability to listen to Cherry Pie by Warrant on Spotify at virtually any point in the day has rendered the age old past time of pathetically sitting in the dark in a pair of soiled sweatpants all but extinct.
But one gentlemen’s club in Mundelein Illinois isn’t ready slide into irrelevance, like Jade on stage 9, that quickly. Aptly named “Moon Tits,” has rolled out an elaborate customer reward program that could rejuvenate the dying industry. Any customer that has a debilitating gout condition and spends over 40% of their salary at the club will be eligible for a BOGO cold cut sandwich with purchase of a pint of skim milk.
“People come for the women but stay for the cold cuts and skim milk here at Moon Tits, the only place where you can see tits in anti-gravity while enjoying a heaving deli sandwich,” said strip club owner Jake Fleming, pouring a massive glass of Dean’s.
So pop on your favorite pair of Champion sweatpants and Skechers Shape Ups and come out to Moon Tits for your chance at a glass of milk and a fist full of cold cuts.
Chicago, IL-The collective population of Chicago has reached a milestone 5th year of never feeling anything over “alright” in regards to physical or mental health. Whether in the process of getting a cold, having a cold, recovering from a cold, hungover, Sunday scaries, crippling boredom, seasonal affective disorder or allergies, residents are generally believed to be running at about 40% capacity.
Given the lengthy duration of feeling vaguely like complete butthole on any given day, the cause often becomes blurred and indistinguishable as the varying illnesses seamlessly transition. For instance someone huddled in a dirty quilt at your workplace hurling into a wastepaper basket may claim it’s just a high pollen day even though it’s mid-February and airborne allergens don’t generally cause the evacuation of your insides into a soiled pair of khaki pants.
Mild sniffles evolve into god splitting headaches and alcohol fueled bubble guts as weekday transitions to weekend and lingering hangovers grow harder to shake with each passing year. Allergies become the flu, which somehow becomes an existential crisis on a Wednesday in February, as it grows more impossible to determine which ailments are associated to their respective causes.
The city hopes that by increasing taxes, eliminating schools and bringing back the Chi Town Rising New Year’s Eve Extravaganza featuring a Fat Joe impersonator, that it can remedy the woes felt by its residents.
Mundelein, IL-An area woman who has been spewing her uninteresting consciousness onto Instagram for unfortunate followers to lap up and occasionally give an obligatory “like” to in an effort to maintain a dwindling friendship, has come under fire after followers realized there was virtually no difference in her daily “vibes” posts.
In order to fill the momentary gap in which there is absolutely nothing else to announce, share, react to, or offer an ill-informed opinion on, one woman has resorted to posting a flurry of heavily filtered selfies with indeterminable, albeit emotionless expressions accompanied by thoughtless captions like “Friday Vibes.”
Followers became suspicious after every single day of the week’s vibe appeared identical, raising concern whether or not the person is a computer program attempting to convince the world it was human.
“People deserve to know what I’m feeling! Even if it’s literally nothing at all!” said the woman passively scrolling through an endless world of meaningless content.
(This in no way reflects the person below who vehemently opposes vibez pics, tho the picture was just too perfect not to use)
Rockford, Illinois-A new NBC gameshow, transcendent in both idea and relatability, has been sweeping the nation since its highly anticipated debut on Monday night. Did I Shart My Pants or Nah? Is the newest hit game show that has brought the country to its knees.
Hosted by someone who looks like Steve Harvey’s brother and named Chip Crabs, the show involves married couples sitting in an elaborate contraption and exchanging farts, after each rip, they are required to guess whether or not their partner sharted their pants. Judges then check under garments for blowouts to determine if the guess is correct. Each correct guess earns them a crisp two dollar bill, with the potential to earn up to $60 in exchange for humiliating themselves on live television.
Several obscure critics who actually watched the show are calling Did I Shart My Pants or Nah? “A bath in the sewage of mankind,” “A fart filled romp,” and “Nothing can break up the week like breaking wind!” So tune in to Did I Shart My Pants or Nah? to find out which contestants will have to use the prize money to buy a new pair of pants!