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!
Chicago, IL-A new men’s fashion company, which will undoubtedly haunt any inch of available ad space during leisurely browsing sessions, has promised men everywhere that if they sign up for their hourly, curated clothing delivery service, they will for sure get laid…by CHICKS. That’s right, anyone who signs up for a five year subscription with Secret Man Club is guaranteed to either get laid OR beat off alone during the five year span.
“Being a member of the Secret Man Club gives you all the confidence of someone who owns a timeshare in Myrtle Beach,” said owner Chaz Tipton selecting a batch of idiotic looking pocket squares to send out to clients.
The five year span of hourly deliveries equates to approximately 43,800 pieces of useless garbage that someone less fortunate suffered to create, the perfect gift for that person in your life that loves being caught in the crippling spiral of consumerism and the prescription of clothing comparable to a parent dressing an incompetent child.
“We get feedback all the time from the hordes of desperate gremlins wearing suit coats, deep V-necks, jeans, and those brilliant square toed loafers, lurking in the shadows of bars before going home alone and tugging one out into one of our bespoke tissues,” continued Tipton sipping a freshly poured Redbull and vodka.
Secret Man Club only costs $100 a day, so neglect your well-being and loved ones and sign up today.
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.
Rockford, IL-On Tuesday, a man staring longingly into the microwave during his allotted 25 minute lunchbreak, which was taken dutifully at his desk, began wondering whether or not he could fit his head into the microwave and if it would take more or less time to cook than his low-fat glazed turkey tenderloin Lean Cuisine.
Two minutes and thirty seconds was sufficient to reanimate the glacier like fragments of abused turkey meat, flanked by a first harvest vegetable medley, which was comparable in virility to the sagging face and balding head of the employee, but the presence of bones could provide difficulty for the decade old office microwave.
Just as the prospect began to seem feasible and, alarmingly enough, more pleasant than a return to his desk, the microwave rang…signifying that, the cardboard nutrition that would fuel him through another day of baseless meetings and vague incompetencies, was ready for consumption.