Chicago, IL-On Saturday, a Chicago man spotted at Joe’s on Weed wearing shamrock sunglasses, green plaid pants and a shirt that said “Its magically delicious” with an arrow pointing towards his piss soaked jeans, ended his night attempting to beat off before passing out completely alone in a familiar computer chair. This circumstance is by all accounts a successful Saint Patrick’s Day for the braindead fucking locusts lapping up green colored Coors Light off of a urinal cake at Fin McCool’s.
“The shirt was hilarious! I mean whoever the fuck thought of that shirt KNEW that it would make chicks wanna suck on your junk! Sure I pissed myself in the first 20 minutes of the day, and ended up shitting my pants an hour later, but still!” said Terry Horvath, at a completely epic brunch in which him and the rest of his goddamn goons brought their own green food coloring to.
The perfect Saint Patrick’s Day is being crammed like sausage skin into a brutally overpriced bar where the Ed Sheeran blasting makes it impossible to actually spend time with any friends. These are the times you’ll cherish for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky you’ll only hate 98% of the bar, the other 1% are likely unconscious on the floor making them somewhat more tolerable.
“I’ll leave it at this…I was Fit Shaced last night…hahhaa” continued Horvath knowing he’s a burden that no city should have to shoulder.
Chicago, IL-On Saturday, a man was seen staring whimsically out of a window at New Wave Coffee in Logan Square, his left hand rested limply yet somehow thoughtfully placed on a mint copy of A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. The book appeared blatantly without wear, with all of the shine and smugness of a freshly bought copy from Barnes & Noble, making him instantly superior to any other primitive dregs strewn about the coffee shop.
“It looks like a really good book, I’ve been threatening to read it for over 5 years now. People seem pretty impressed with my ability to carry a book around for half a decade,” said Terry Horvath
Though he’s never actually read a single page of A Confederacy of Dunces, it’s proven to be a perfect prop to brood over at varying breweries and coffee shops around the city.
“The mere thought of reading the book is so powerful, so overwhelming, that I end up just moodily staring into the abyss hoping that an attractive woman notices and approaches me,” continued Horvath, tracing his finger seductively over the smooth cover of the book.
Rockford, Illinois-Nick Cannon has officially shut down production on the highly anticipated Lego adaptation of the marching band themed comedy Drumline. The Lego universe had previously found success adapting unlikely movies such as The Passion of the Christ, There Will Be Blood and The Legend of Bagger Vance, but there will be no such luck for Drumline after conflict arose surrounding the build of the drums themselves.
“Legos appear square shaped whereas drums are more circular,” said Cannon, slowly pantomiming the drawing of a square and then a circle. “If this was a movie about xylophones MAYBE, but there’s no way this will ever work!” continued Cannon as he stormed out of production in tears.
Feeding movie goers a beer can full of someone’s dip spit and backwash has been extremely successful in the past, with the most shining example being the inexplicable Pitch Perfect trilogy. But in this case Nick Cannon has heroically refused to sacrifice his creative integrity.
Instead Cannon will begin production on a Minions adaptation of Madea Goes to Jail, a far more challenging endeavor.
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-On Monday, an employee who had spent Sunday like his last day on earth, decided to forego taking PTO and just gut it out. Bottomless mimosas at brunch had evolved into a flurry of Old Crow Whiskey shots and finally culminated in a goat shaped nitrous balloon and the butt bonging of a 24oz 120 minute IPA. But instead of taking a suspicious sick day or using a coveted PTO, Bill Naquin did something that will live in tedious corporate infamy until roughly Q4 of 2019.
“I figured that if I dug deep enough, I could find the courage to sit in a stationary position and stare at the blinking cursor of a word document for seven and a half hours,” said Naquin, recognizing that the task at hand wasn’t too much different from his normal daily routine.
Naquin’s ability to endure severe hangovers and remain continually ineffective at his job have landed him firmly in the world of corporate anonymity, as managers have noted his admirable adherence to the mantra: 90% of the job is just showing up.
“People should be really happy I legged this one out today, was touch and go for a while there after I skidded up my boxers while eating Panda Express. That cleanup ate up nearly half of the day! People seemed genuinely happy I was there though,” continued Naquin looking satisfyingly at an inbox full of unanswered emails, his coworkers looking on in horror at the sagging heap of skin crammed into the ergonomically correct desk chair.
Elmhurst, IL-On Wednesday, a man experienced what it’s like to truly risk it all for something you love, as his doughy frame nestled comfortably into the chaise on a moderately priced couch. A light perspiration had formed on his forehead as his body prepared itself for the ultimate sacrifice, that is it purchasing concert tickets online.
A calendar reminder had been dutifully made along with the link to buy the tickets, but like all things in life, nothing was certain. He would undoubtedly have to gut this one out, dig deep into his depleted vault of courage after it had been ravaged earlier that day when he heroically ventured out to get brunch with a slight hangover.
His unblemished hands, a result of a lifetime of inactivity, hovered over the keyboard trembling with the thrill of the hunt. As the violent browser refreshes reached a frenzy, the site finally pushed the ticket purchasing system live. The room began to spin and a mild erection formed, his body’s response to stimulation in an otherwise completely uninteresting existence.
As the tickets were added to the cart he promptly retched the morning’s spoils onto his keyboard and fumbled for his credit card as the countdown clock for the tickets in his cart began. This was bravery. This was transcending fear. This was living life on the edge.
Ticket order processed and his digital checking account appeared $25 lighter the result of the most exciting thing to happen to him in months.
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.
Chicago, IL-On Saturday, a girl was seen attempting to infiltrate various lively conversations at a local house party by waiting for a momentary pause in banter and asking “So…what does everyone do!?” The question was accompanied by an aggressive pointing motion toward one unfortunate soul in the circle, signifying that it was their respective turn to stammer through an explanation of a job they hate, to a group of indifferent onlookers.
The process unfolded in a predictably excruciating way, as each job description grew more ordinary than the next. A culmination of individuals wholly uninspired for at least forty hours a week. A complex web of personality and emotion distilled into a characterless corporate identity.
Several people suffered through their freshly poured drink as quickly as possible, desperate for a retreat to the kitchen where they could pound shots of vodka in solitude, others took this as the perfect opportunity to dust off their long forgotten smoking habit. Anything to escape the wrath at hand.
“I just try to engage everyone, I’m just a really engaging person…like when I’m at a party I can literally talk to anyone! I’m legit friends with like everyone that went to that party now…” said Sarah Kibby, meticulously adding party goers to her LinkedIn professional network, the only true testament of a real friendship.
The party ended uncannily early.
Chicago, IL-On Tuesday, an area man eased his way onto a crowded escalator like a dying old man into the last bath he’d ever take, though unlike lying motionless and in solitude in a pool of your own filth, the escalator during rush hour can sometimes beckon mild physical activity and vague awareness of surroundings.
“When I get on that escalator, it’s ME time. I require total stillness for personal reflection in the form of listening to the Chainsmokers and consuming fucking content. If you’ve got a problem with that you can take it up with my oversized JanSport,” said Terry McDonough, inching his way down the escalator as hordes of angry commuters miss yet another departing train.
The spiritual war McDonough wages transcends merely him, an escalator, and the furious mob behind him. By not allowing people to pass by McDonough serves as a beacon of indifference and a prophet of immobility. A revolutionary that is brave enough to admit that being stationary and refreshing uninteresting social media feeds is more important than being courteous.
Chicago, O’Hare Airport-A third party survey conducted by an unemployed copy writer from the now extinct SkyMall magazine, found that Auntie Annie’s remains America’s favorite microwaved airport soft pretzel. The survey universe consisted of several people farting it up in the Southwest cattle pens, as they wrestled for pole position for a flight that wouldn’t leave for another three hours.
The sample size was vaguely paunchy and unwell, wore soiled pajama pants and ill-fitting Life is Good shirts covered in old egg from Einstein Bros., an accurate representation of the entirety of the airport.
Four of five surveyed said they preferred Auntie Annie’s over any other microwaved soft pretzel options the airport had to offer. The one outlier maintained that buying a bag of pretzels from Hudson News and filling it with water to soften the pretzels before eating and drinking the salty water, was comparable to an Auntie Annie’s pretzel at a third of the cost.
After the survey, the ex-SkyMall employee retreated to his hidden compartment under one of the Sunglass Hut display cases, where he will slumber until an airport pretzel survey is requested once more.