CYBERSPACE–After his credit card company mistook a WordPress premium subscription for an “unauthorized transaction,” impoverished WordPress user Ronald Dump decides to write again. “They took away my domain and now I’m left with a shitty blog URL,” lamented Dump. “I pay for the fucking thing every year, but I rarely post anything, so what’s the point?”
After doing some research, Dump discovered that roughly 97.2% of WordPress users have shitty blog addresses and most of them have shitty content that no one bothers to read anyway. “The whole thing is a fucking scam,” he writes, adding that “we write self-indulgent bullshit that no one reads.” Furthermore, WordPress has determined to fine Ronald Dump due to the disputed transaction. Dump, of course, is loathe to pay. “Everybody and their mother owe WordPress some money now,” he muttered under his breath. “Fucking bloodsuckers.”
Dump explains that he’d rather suck on his dog’s nuts than pay another 120 US dollars for a years’ worth of bullshit WordPress privileges, and from now on will remain frugal lest he reneges on his promise to refrain from paying and end up having to lick his dog’s nuts.
As of Wednesday morning, Dump has reneged on his promise not to pay and then coughed up the dough to renew his shitty website. He has not licked his dog’s nuts.
Antoine Fuqua, the director of Training Day, has made The Equalizer, an emotional drama based on the life of a depressed bald man. “It’s time for the public to wake up and see just how difficult life can be for the hair-challenged,” said Fuqua. “As a bald man myself, I can relate.”
The movie recounts the life of Tony Delcavoli (Denzel Washington). Lacking confidence due to lack of hair, Delcavoli can’t help but cast furtive glances at people with hair when he takes the subway to work. “Look at that man over there, that smug asshole grooming his beard with a fork,” he complained. “Who does he think he is?”
“Delcavoli is a brave, brave man,” said Fuqua. “You know, hairless men are 40 to 50 times more likely than the average American to be called ‘cue ball’, and I don’t take that as a compliment.”
Critical reception has been sharply divided, with Roger Ebert calling it a “maudlin piece of tearjerking nonsense” and Armond White saying that it “warms both the heart and the head.”
Set in the sleepy Mexican village of Salsipuedes in Baja California Norte, Coco tells the story of a young chihuahua that is abducted by a Mexican cartel. Alonzo, the canine protagonist, is shot with a tranquilizer dart at the beginning of the movie. He wakes up in a dingy and severe room hidden under a rundown bar, handcuffed to a wooden bedpost which he immediately attempts to sever with his sharp little teeth.
The chihuahua chews in vain for days, irking his captors, who tell him to cállate (shut up). “No me fucking importa,” replies the chihuahua, who remains totally fucking cholo despite his present situation. In response to Alonzo’s impudence, one of the captors, Jesús, injects a mysterious psychoactive substance into Alonzo, effectively immobilizing the dog.
The captor Jesús (left) has rendered, with the use of a mysterious psychoactive substance, the chihuahua Alonzo (right) incapable of moving.
When Alonzo finally comes to, he finds himself tied to a stake, bearing witness to unmitigated gang violence: a female member of the notorious El Salvadorian criminal organization MS-13 is using her sandals to beat a mariachi guitarist who sits helplessly before the callous denizens of Salsipuedes. The onlookers chant in unison, “Que muy machín, no? Ah muy machín, no? Marica nena mas bien putín, no? Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto.” (“Is that very cholo? Is that very cholo? Sissy baby, more likely a whore.”)
Utterly repelled by the untempered homophobia, Alonzo struggles to escape, viciously tearing away like a rabid dog at the ropes that bind him. Much to everyone’s surprise, the chihuahua breaks free. “I kill all you gonorrheas!” he snarls in broken English. He lunges for the face of a shocked spectator. Alonzo begins attacking everyone, chewing their startled visages off one by one. Although thirteen people survived the rampage, only one ruthless rogue remains unscathed. It is Alonzo’s villainous captor, Jesús.
After murdering so many people, Alonzo becomes too exhausted to fight and thus flees. The feared and fearless Jesús, who now has the upper hand, assembles a group of faceless bandits bent on revenge to search for the elusive chihuahua.
Felón, 62, is a retired gangbanger and former methamphetamine manufacturer from Juarez. Flaco, 73, is a rabid left-wing extremist. Dopey, 52, will kill for his next high. Chema, 69, is the grandfather of Jesús. Last but not least, there is El Paragraph, the murderous midget from Medellin. “Don’t fuck with the Paragraph,” says Jesús. “You know why day call ‘im El Paragraph? Cos he shorter than an ese, that’s why.”
Felón, Flaco, Dopey, Chema, El Paragraph, and Jesús confront a hardened criminal.
After a long search fueled by cocaine, Jesús and his group of colorful individuals are about to give up when, lo and behold, they encounter Alonzo at the bar where he was first held captive. Far from helpless, this time, the dog is accompanied by loose women who are feeding him tequila and pastries. In a matter of seconds, the situation has gone from the tame and quotidian to the unfamiliar and hazardous. In other words, shit got real.
Alonzo was found indulging in women and desserts in a tequila bar.
“Fuck you, putos!” declares Alonzo. In a display of pure prestidigitation, the dog yanks out an automatic rifle disguised in the form of a guitar case. He opens fire, destroying everyone and everything in his path. Thousands of rounds later, everyone in the bar is dead. I mean, fucking everyone. The gangstas, the children, the women, the bartender, the bartender’s fucking cat. Not one person is alive. Except Jesús. And Alonzo.
Alonzo walks calmly to his archenemy, Jesús, who is bleeding profusely, half-dead. “No mames,” he says, staring at Alonzo. “Es over, holmes,” Alonzo replies. Without another word, the dog chews his face off. He gets up, his tongue still hanging out and dripping with human blood, and walks off into the sunset while strumming a mariachi guitar like a truly heroic psychopath. The End.
While giving an inspirational speech, successful businessman Ron Gaper reportedly expelled flatus before an audience. “Every day I tried not to think about what would happen if this happened,” Gaper pondered, scratching his chin. “But I eat a lot of apples, and people were flatulent before Freud was born.”
Some perceptive members of the audience heard or smelled his gas and promptly began to heckle him. “You might wanna check for skidmarks,” ventured one crude and insensitive man.
“Get out of here and move forward. This never happened. It will shock you how much it never happened,” Gaper replied, smoothly shifting in his seat to allow more gas to expel from his sphincter undetected.
Sources confirmed that Mr. Gaper remained self-possessed throughout the gastrointestinal mishap. “Ron Gaper was so calm,” said Richard Brown, 42. “I mean, that was unprecedented. I have never seen a grown man fart with that kind of composure.”
Another witness added, “That man was so suave. So serious. But he was so smooth. He exuded this ineffable air of whisky and executive leadership that so few of us are blessed with. I mean, he talks and walks like nothing even happened. And I guess, if he keeps acting like it never happened, then it never happened, right?”
Detractors called Mr. Gaper out, insisting that he had misled the public. “You’re a big liar, sir,” said Frank Cassohl. “You pretend like you never farted, when in fact you have. You’re embarrassed and ashamed of yourself, and if you’re not, you ought to be.”
Mr. Gaper replied, “It wasn’t a lie. It was ineptitude with insufficient cover.”
In spite of Mr. Gaper’s critics, the vast majority of the audience agreed that Mr. Gaper handled the potentially embarrassing situation with unparalleled professionalism and exemplary efficiency.
Some witnesses to the incident also alleged that Mr. Gaper’s gas smelled of Old Fashioned cocktail and Fahrenheit cologne by Christian Dior.
LOS ANGELES—The man who assassinated Hugh Hefner is reportedly cavorting and fornicating with scores of ebullient, barely legal, scantily-clad women who until recently lived with the founder of the Playboy empire.
Mike Ehrmantraut, 69, infiltrated the Playboy Mansion in Holmby Hills more than a week ago, using only his wrinkled old fingers as lock picks to break into a secret underground passageway that leads to a luxurious wine cellar.
Disguised as a young cocktail waitress, Ehrmantraut laced a bottle of Zafiro Añejo tequila with ricin, a deadly and difficult-to-trace neurotoxin, before serving the fatal drink to the unabashed and elderly Lothario.
Due to poor eyesight, Hefner, 91, mistook Ehrmantraut for a woman and promptly quaffed the tequila without suspicion. Ehrmantraut waited for a week for Hefner to pass away, and then removed the victim’s iconic red velvet robe and silk pajamas before changing into them, professing to be the world’s newest and most eminent playboy.
“When I set my mind on something, I do it,” Ehrmantraut stated to reporters. “I take full measures only and the girls know they deserve something better than Hugh’s four-inch measure.”
Ehrmantraut was last seen in a jacuzzi with five other women with whom he was sharing a generous portion of pimento cheese and caviar. All the girls seem to love Ehrmantraut more than they loved Hefner.
NASHVILLE, TN—Suspecting that something funny is going on with his wife, an Internal Revenue Service agent purposefully came home early to catch his wife in the act. “Motherfucker, I knew you were cheating on your taxes,” he yelled.
Salvatore Goodman, 45, noted angrily that his spouse Skyler Beneke did not fill out her Form 1040 properly. “She should have checked Box 3 instead of 1, and then she checked Box 6a. What the fuck is wrong with her?” he wondered.
According to Goodman, Beneke was wholly incapable of talking reason. “She was just escalating. ESCALATING!” he explained. “She left me no choice but to haul her ass to jail.” In response, Rizzi spat in his face and called him a “limp dick cocksucker who doesn’t even have the balls to be a good tax evader, let alone launder money.”
After throwing lots of defamatory statements at each other, the couple cooled down and sought marriage counseling.
LOS ANGELES—To keep Twin Peaks audiences in suspense, David Lynch incorporated a loading screen in Season 3, Episode 8 of the cult TV series.
“I’m bucking the conventional cliffhanger and using this cinematographic device I invented at the dawn of the internet. Loading, or “buffering”, screens are an effective way to make your audience want more,” said Lynch.
At about the twenty-minute mark of the episode, a nuclear bomb explodes in slow motion in White Sands, New Mexico. Soon after, the loading screen appears, and sporadically interrupts the mushroom cloud.
“Using loading screens isn’t easy,” said Lynch. “You want audiences to feel the suspense, frustration, and anger that the characters feel. You want your audience to participate vicariously, to feel just as frustrated as, say, Dale Cooper. You can’t put loading screens too early on because your audience has to be emotionally invested in the film first.
“Then, bam, it comes out of nowhere. The loading screen should be there for about 5 seconds, and then the mushroom cloud interrupts the loading screen, and then after 2 minutes, the loading screen appears again. See?
“This way, while you watch the mushroom cloud, you also never know when the loading screen will reappear. And when the loading screen does appear, you never know when the mushroom cloud will reappear. Double suspense!”
Unique and daring, Lynch has long been a trendsetter in the world of cinema. As of this morning, many other directors have begun to emulate Lynch by incorporating loading screens in their films.
