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.
South Bend, IN-After years of flirting with the prospect, namely through a steady helping of eye stingers and false alarms which required boxers to be checked, one area man finally achieved something that most people only dream about.
“So I’m sitting there…the bathroom is a full flight of steps down…I’m having a great time staring into oblivion…and I say fuck it…enough foreplay! Today is the day I finally just dump my pants,” said Phil Biggins, through a string of violent coughing fits which only added to the unpleasantness of the stench invading the train car full of dismayed passengers.
The log resting limply between the ankle elastic on his pilled sweatpants represented to many, the next evolution in mankind. A shift in thinking that involves simply giving up. The ideology that a shit stained pair of sweatpants shouldn’t be just one man’s burden, but rather the burden of anyone within 200 feet of ground zero.
A long, dull sigh that accompanies walking slowly to the waste bin and sleepily throwing away another pair of ruined socks. The routine almost second nature.
“I had come so close, so many times…now this chapter is closed, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for me,” concluded a teary eyed Biggins, after a productive sneeze into the face of a newborn child.
Hammond, Indiana-Several Instagram followers were filled with an overwhelming sense of pride when a friend posted a picture of an object they just purchased on Instagram last week. “Just knowing that she is still capable of purchasing is a huge relief,” said one follower staring at lifeless object, somehow hypnotized by the boastful effigy of unbridled consumerism. Without this documentation of spending, it would be otherwise impossible to verify someone’s happiness.
Though the determination to purchase the item and the subsequent actual purchasing took under three minutes and contributed to a never ending cycle of acquisition, it is still unquestionably a feat worthy of celebration. And nothing is more jubilant than a picture of a stationery object. Pictures like these are what social media applications were built for, sterile receipts containing no humanity.
Even incorporating a person actually enjoying the purchase would compromise the otherwise tasteful and engaging picture of an object sitting in space. Simply stoic. Garnish with a self-satisfied caption, a shout out to the company that made it and several orgasmic hashtags describing how it’s the happiest day of your life and you’ll be poised to get four likes in no time.
Chicago, IL-On Tuesday, a man was seen standing obediently in the exit aisle of a CTA car like a stupid fucking hound waiting for an owner that would never return home. Outgoing passengers wrestled with the heaving mound of flesh before being birthed to freedom and glancing back in anger at the person gazing lifelessly into their iPhone, but the inconvenience of other passengers was of no concern to this very good boy who waited patiently by the door…stop after stop.
“Nothing will make you feel more alive than the stale air of a train platform hitting your face as the doors open, nor the feel of someone struggling against you to get off the train before the doors close, and most importantly, the happiness of your owner as you greet him at the door after a long day,” said Terry Naquin, visibly a human but somehow inheriting the intelligence and demeanor of a goddamn inbred dog.
With nothing better to do in life than perpetually riding a train, waiting to deliver a pair of slippers and a newspaper to a fictitious owner, this loyal old mutt will ruin train rides daily until he’s finally shipped off to “live happily ever after on a farm” somewhere.
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.
Rockford, IL-In a panicked effort to uphold some perverse interpretation of something being called white heritage, which its existence in itself is baffling, inbred families and mutant friends alike gathered to erect a statue of Tim Allen within the confines of a highway median on the outskirts of Rockford.
The monument will be constructed from expired deli meat, bandages, Bluetooth headsets, unpaid credit card bills and DVDs. Vaseline and goat semen will be used as adhesive to hold the sagging structure in place. It will be surrounded by an above ground pool, which reverant bigots are encouraged to take a malnourished dump in for good luck before wading through the filth of their ancestors in order to kiss the discarded toenails that make the feet of the structure.
The monument is said to serve as a beacon for racists everywhere, a guardian of inequality, a visual manifestation of the sadness they stand for and the fundamental ability to crawl around in the hateful poops laid in above ground pool by like-minded idiots.
Rockford, IL-An Illinois man who recently completed his transformation to indistinguishable white dude, by way of getting a high and tight WWII style haircut, confirmed that he is more heroic than his grandpa who fought and died on the beaches of Normandy in World War II.
“I never claimed that what he did wasn’t courageous, my existence just transcends anything he did or could have hoped to do,” said A.J. Lauder examining his impeccable frown and puffed chest in the bathroom mirror at
“Posing for curated Instagram pics is essentially the same as taking another man’s life to protect the freedoms your country allows, as is drinking buckets of Coors Light and matching hella chicks on Tinder. These dog tags engraved with Imagine Dragons lyrics, are actually made from spent bullet casings and tungsten steal, bought them off of a Facebook ad,” continued Lauder between rips off of an enormous vape pen.
Bravery isn’t measure by the ability or willingness to do the right thing in a dire situation, nor is it standing up for oppressed groups otherwise unable to do so…it’s a combination measurement consisting of how hard your fade looks after a fresh trim, the amount of pomade used on a given day and the ability to not crack a smile in even the most enjoyable circumstance.
Bravery is going to a barbershop, getting the exact same haircut as every other thirty year old dude and skimping on the tip.
Deer Creek, IN-Concert footage taken from an Eddie Money cover band at a matinee show at Deer Creek has been deemed sadder than Manchester by the Sea. The footage was taken, and posted gleefully on social media, by someone you went to high school with that remains firmly planted in your home town like an old oak tree draped in Pacific Sun and slathered in Hooters buffalo sauce.
The grainy video, taken from a Samsung Galaxy S3, surfaced on Instagram and functioned as a beacon of contempt to anyone who questioned the state of that person’s life. Taken from 600 level seating, zoomed in enough to see hints of the Eddie Money cover band on one of the video screens, and ripe with boastful hashtags (#bestlife #blessed #somuchfun #livinthedream), the video purposed for envy, instead instilled sadness.
The pinnacle of the last decade for this person, distilled into a 12 second Instagram clip, was arguably more depressing than a back to back feature of Faces of Death and Manchester by the Sea.
Chicago, IL-A guy riding the CTA on Monday morning was spotted proudly wearing his big boy backpack. Originally thought to be an enormous goiter, because of his inability or refusal to place the object on the ground where it belonged, turned out to be a Jansport backpack filled to the brim with an outdated Encyclopedia Britannica edition.
“My mom wakes me up, wipes the dribble from my chin, then uses the same tissue to wipe my butt first thing in the morning, then she fireman carries me down the stairs and feeds me coco puffs, then she packs my backpack up nice and tight and lets me ride the train all day long!” said Colin Cummings, an object of hatred for everyone riding the train.
Cummings, a 35 year old strip club DJ intern of 10 years, says that wearing his enormous backpack on the train has given him the confidence he needs to DJ matinee sets at Industrial Strip in Hammond Indiana every other Tuesday. “When I wear my backpack I’m the center of attention, just like at the strip club! I see the ladies staring!” continued Cummings swaying obliviously.
Cummings existence remains an inconvenience for humanity as a whole, who can only find solace knowing that he’ll likely die alone and have a sparsely attended funeral.
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.