The Kardashian’s contouring techniques have consistently taken the world by storm. Having your face look like a tiny nubile duck receding into the dark or a spray tanned pool ball melting under a heat lamp at Johnny Garlic’s are highly sought after skin adaptations. A method that combined with a selfie-stick and a flower crown Snapchat filter will make you look like the two dimensional airbrushed mall shirt you’ve always wanted to be. Though much like humanity as a whole, contouring is in a constant and necessary state of evolution. And a new contouring technique invented by Kim K could render the contouring you’ve always known as obsolete.
The new method is vintage, contrarian Kim, zigging while others zag. Smooth skin that appears sculpted from the finest of hardened Vaseline is so last year. Ground beef is all the rage in deep fashion circles this year, and thus Whopptouring is born. Whopptouring is an ingenious way to apply makeup and give your face the illusion of looking like Burger King’s signature burger. From the grey, flaking skin tags of imitation beef hanging on for dear life to the uncanny replica grill marks, your face will appear as though it was the bastard creation of a disgruntled high school student, who is trying to scrape together enough change for a depressing trip to 6 Flags Great America.
The graveled texture with pooling grease pockets will give your face that “neglected asphalt after a summer rain in Hammond Indiana” look that you’ve always been seeking. This being perfectly offset by the pitched black skid marks to give you that replica “straight off the grill” swagger. So transcendentally high fashion that it makes people physically ill to look at. Genius.
So, watch as Whopptouring becomes the hot new trend for winter and latches onto the world like a parasite dropping an enormous, stinking egg sack into on a fresh host.
A kettlebell that had remained dormant for years has finally been stirred. Having sat stationary for well over a decade, located in a spot that at the time seemed optimal for working out, the dust riddled kettlebell was painstakingly moved to another corner of the house. Its old location now inhabited by a standing lamp. “I think after this move I’ll definitely start working out with it every day.” said Terry Roberts who had solemnly promised the exact same thing 10 years earlier.
Like most people that own kettlebells the purchase was prompted immediately after seeing the movie 300. Momentum was lost almost instantly after a singular misguided, poor formed workout yielded neither a hulking chest nor 8-pack of washboard abs. “I don’t think I’m naïve in thinking that I should have looked like I was carved out of marble after that workout…maybe next time it will.” reminisced Terry, exultantly looking at the new placement of the kettlebell.
Since it’s widely known that moving the kettlebell from place to place every 10 years qualifies as part of the 300 workout, Terry should be completely shredded without any other alterations to his lifestyle in the next 40-50 years.
A mass text sent to around 50 people that stated “Happy Turkey Day! Hope it’s a good one!” elicited no response from any of the included contacts. “I put a lot of thought into this mass text, it had to be perfect.” said Martin Schuster optimistically. “I couldn’t decide to use one or two exclamation points, I finally landed on two because I think that really captures that Turkey Day spirit!” Continued Schuster.
It can generally be ascertained that two exclamation points accompanied by a generic well-wishing is enough to convey sincere affection between humans, but this text somehow fell short. And though “Happy Turkey Day! Hope it’s a good one!” may seem like a deeply personal message tailored specifically to meet the emotional needs of each and every person on that 50 person mass text list; it was resolutely disregarded. In fact it joined the other genericized digital waste that traditionally plagues inboxes. Schuster remains hopeful for a reply nearly 9 hours after the text was sent.
“It must have been a really impactful text, I haven’t heard anything yet so people must be really reflecting on it. I’m just happy to have changed a few lives.”
Renowned fantasy expert Bill Biscane has boldly predicted that someone currently playing in the National Football League could either go off or do absolutely nothing for fantasy teams around the world this weekend. “Look…he’s either going to go berserk, do nothing, or do something in between.” Confirmed Biscane, a knowing grin forming across his face. Biscane has been making gutsy forecasts like this for years, forecasts that anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the game of football could never make.
“Would I start him? Maybe but in that same respect maybe not. It’s really a complete 50/50 and depends on how your team is structured, the fear is that someone else could score more fantasy points, in that case I would not start him.” Continued Biscane adjusting a pair of nonprescription glasses.
With this kind of hard hitting analysis, it’s easy to see why they leave this highly esteemed profession to people who really know fantasy football. Watching football all day and casting out vague predictions is a difficult, gritty job but goddamnit someone has to do it. Having potential implications on an imaginary game is a responsibility very few can handle.
“Any player could do anything at any given moment, they could also do nothing…so in that sense every player is both completely startable every week and also completely unusable…do you follow?” Concluded Biscane, his voice brimming with confidence.
John Barleycorn-Is that a cool spring breeze tumbling across a dewy field, as the sun bathes the ancient walls of a majestic castle? No, but a complete stranger blowing in your face immediately after a Rumple Minze shot is similar enough. Settle into this cozy little slice of Ireland with traditional Irish fare such as; Buffalo Chicken Wraps and buckets of Michelob Ultra, just like what Ma and Pa serve across the pond. Because the bar is always charmingly full, you and your date will be forced to interact nose to nose and because it’s unbearably loud, well you’ll be screaming sweet nothings in each other’s bleeding ears all night. So May the road rise up to meet you. So, may the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, GET BLACK OUT DRUNK ON BOGO VEGAS BOMBS!!!!! (Que Drake air horn noise)
Sluggers Bar & Grill- Chocolate. Flowers. Professional style batting cages. These are the ingredients needed for a perfectly romantic first date. Imagine snuggling up as an unpredictable pitching machine launches 90 MPH fastball right at your head. The laughs and flirting that occur moments after your life passes before your eyes are memories that you’ll share forever! After you’ve gotten a very noticeable first date sweat going, allow your heart to melt along with your feet as you traverse the pleasantly sticky floors and adoringly dance the night away to some smooth and silky music from local jazz favorite Pitbull. The 10 guys swarming you, furiously grinding and spilling drinks are the perfect mood setter for whatever happens next ;). Is that a $6 Coors Light resealable can in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Deuces & Diamonds-Can you ever go wrong with bottle service AND a wading pool? Treat your date to the ultimate illusion of classiness as you wade around in a tiny pool filled to the brim with the piss of absolutely anyone on Clark Street that day. After you dry off, or don’t, you can feverishly make out on one of the sweaty, faux leather couches. Just make sure you’re both wearing Fox Racing gear and you’ll blend right in! If you’re lucky, maybe your date will get pulled up for the weekly Fireball bikini contest! This little lap of luxury will be our little secret.
Trace-The essence of Nickelback has been the foundation of countless successful first dates and because it’s buried deep in the heart of a quiet, discreet part of town you’ll be able to sip buckets of domestic beer ever so intimately.
Duffy’s Tavern-An amiable little dive bar with no shortage of personality. Romantic lighting that’s bordering on consuming darkness transforms even the most hideous gremlin into prince charming. Prepare yourself for an enchanted deep fryer that will always keep you guessing…is that a chicken tender or fried ostrich feathers? Nothing keeps things exciting like a little spontaneity and with a $20 all you can drink deal well you’ll be spontaneously hurling into a potted plant in no time!
Staring deeply into the previous night’s bar tab, my tongue was nothing more than an abused piece of sandpaper searching hastily for saliva within the arid confines of my mouth. Had someone convinced me to drink Boones Farm out of an ashtray last night? I sat up promptly. My brain plummeted into my stomach, submerging itself in half digested Fireball whiskey and Sutter Homes minis, then immediately careened back into my skull ricocheting and vomiting poison into all of my nerve endings. I laid back down and the engulfing pain briefly subsided, I could feel my heart beating in my toes. Today was going to be fucking hell.
It had taken everything in me to get dressed while resisting the persevering urge to boot. To evacuate everything that was in my body and start over. There wasn’t time for such a luxury; it was time for something else…the ultimate war of attrition. Riding on a stale, congested train that more likely than not smelled like wet goat. The thought of such an endeavor was dizzying in itself, not to mention what waited at the end of that horrible commute, eight hours of plowing through high importance emails with a god splitting headache and unpredictable bubble guts. The debilitating walk to the train only added to the dread which was quickly transitioning to fury.
I glanced briefly in my reflection in the glass at the Addison Red Line stop; the terrifying creature glanced back at me before mercifully averting its eyes. There in the middle of the station stood a transcendent douchebag that appeared to be handing out pamphlets to whatever chicken shit street fest was coming up that weekend. Fuck this guy. My ability to camouflage my subhuman state was nonexistent. As I approached he turned and faced me wholly. My hangover had apparently also robbed me of my depth perception as we stood unnaturally close. “Not today pal,” I snarled expelling a noticeable gust of sour morning breath that appeared to linger under his nose. Pal? Why the hell did I say pal? He stood paralyzed with confusion after several seconds of immeasurable puzzlement his face contorted into a sheepish diffusing smile. I could sense a sentiment of devastation having been rejected by such a horrid looking specimen.
I shoved past him and walked toward the train, leaving a booze fueled eye stinger for him to reflect on, as I turned around it appeared he was shaking other passengers hands. He looked uncomfortable as he stood in my enduring stench. I briefly took my ear phones out and overheard two people discussing how crazy it was that Rahm Emanuel was shaking hands at the train stop. Through my bleary eyes I didn’t even recognize the insect. I was happy to know that even through an insufferable, delirium inducing hangover, my instincts could still sense the presence of a crook.