New movie poignantly captures woes of hapless bald man

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.”

University installs bathrooms for students to regurgitate facts and flush knowledge down toilet

Saying he wants to prepare students for the job market, Chancellor Elvis  Dumbefore of Hogwash College proudly announced the installation of lavatories where students can puke out information and flush away millennia’s worth of wisdom down the toilet.

“At Hogwash, we will make higher education relevant again. Students can now gain real world experience and be ready to enter the workforce by the time they graduate. If they find that Plato or Kant take too much of their time and energy, they can now visit our new restrooms, known as Knowledge Vomitiriums, to relieve themselves, so that they have time to kiss their employers’ asses.”

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Distinguished professor of law Elvis Dumbefore is the chancellor of Hogwash College

Despite its name, the “Knowledge Vomitorium” is equipped not only  with (1) a sink into which students can regurgitate information that they learned though never deeply pondered, but also (2) high-power commodes with which they can dispose of scholarly materials they are too lazy to digest as well as (3) buckets into which students may drop bullshit, which will then be reused as fertilizer to facilitate the flourishing of young freshmen.

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A successful student at Hogwash College poses beside an alum who now works in law enforcement.

“We are a green campus,” Dumbefore explained. “We recycle everything, especially bullshit, because these days there’s just too much bullshit for us to dump into the landfill in good conscience.”

Despite Dumbefore’s optimism, a few professors and students have raised eyebrows.

“Once in a while, we encounter a kernel of undigested truth that messes with the plumbing in the Knowledge Vomitoriums, but those pesky little things are few and far between, so we’re not very concerned about those,” says Professor of Communication Ben Zodiazepine.

A minority of students take it even further, arguing that the Knowledge Vomitoriums only spell trouble for the future. On their view, the proper way of dealing with those vexing kernels of truth is to extract them from the pipes, no matter how hard it may be to do so, so that we can more easily identify, analyze, and digest them.

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Two students from Hogwash College struggle to regurgitate on the streets.

“We have to do it,” says math prodigy Paul Liedtke, 16. “Otherwise, we’ll be clogging up the toilets so bad one day that we’ll literally be drowning in a great flood of data and bullshit.”

Student Scott F. Bakin, 23, lamented:

“Shit, dude. Last night, I had to take this huge shit. And when I shat, dude, all this shit just started overflowing. Fucking disgusting, dude. Those fucking kernels of truth are hard as fuck to destroy. And they make life hard, trying to find them stuck infinitely deep in the plumbing where we’ll never know. Drano doesn’t help. Worse, they might be in some dark, godless recess tucked profoundly in some elderly professor’s asshole. We gotta deal with that shit, man. That’s sort of gross. I guess that’s why so many people are ignoring the problem.”

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Student Scott F. Bakin accuses the chancellor of being a liar.

The chancellor agreed to address concerns about plumbing. “Everything will be fine,” he tweeted. “There are no kernels of truth. Truth is a relative concept. That’s why it won’t pose a problem for the toilets. Because there are NO KERNALS.”

“He’s a kernel denier,” said Christopher Bitchins, 20. “He’s scientifically illiterate. And maybe just illiterate.”

“That’s a euphemism, ‘kernel denier’ is. There’s a name for people who deny the truth,” said Bakin. “We call them liars.”

A summary of Coco’s gratuitously violent plot (spoilers ahead)

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.

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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.Paragraph Ese.png

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.”

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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.

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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.

Overall Rating: 4.5/5

Sexy math man sought by victory sign-holding yacht owners

Though he has had no luck making Tinder matches with girls who don’t hold up victory signs, lonely high school math teacher Suk-Leng Wang 王色龍, 26, has attracted the attention of affluent yacht owners who hold up victory signs for no good reason.

“This is so frustrating,” Wang laments. “No matter where I go, I am beleaguered by individuals who arbitrarily brandish victory signs. Here in Sydney, I was lured onto the yacht of a world-renowned tenor who likes to make victory signs in the Sydney Opera House. He does have Don Perignon, though.”

Wang has updated his Tinder profile picture and changed his self-description to one that more aptly captures his unexampled genius. It states:

Cyberneticists agree that compact algorithms are an interesting new topic in the field of e-voting technology, and cyberneticists concur. Similarly, this is a direct result of the deployment of XML. Nevertheless, a private grand challenge in electrical engineering is the emulation of Bayesian modalities. Therefore, modular archetypes and Moore’s Law are based entirely on the assumption that forward-error correction and redundancy are not in conflict with the simulation of extreme programming.

So far, Wang’s profile has not made much of a difference to his dating life.

“I get a lot of hot girls. But I want a real woman. Right now, I’m still getting a lot of victory sign girls and people making duck faces under the Eiffel Tower,” said Wang, adding, “What decadent times we live in.”

This article is a continuation of Sexy Math Man Tired of Girls who Hold Victory Signs.

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Most of the girls in this photo are holding victory signs.

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Suk-Leng Wang’s new Tinder profile picture

 

 

Local man farts while talking, remains confident and unfazed

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.

Child suspicious of storks calls bullshit, turns into idiot

When seven-year-old Pubert Babbitt Jr. asked his parents where babies come from, his parents told him about the Stork: “The Stork is a big bird that drops babies into the house,” said Pubert Sr. Thinking that his parents must either be idiots or liars, Pubert Jr. pressed on, trapping them in contradictions and profound philosophical problems.

“But where do the Storks get the babies?”

“From other Storks.”

“But where do those other Storks get the babies?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re telling me it’s magic?”

“Yes, it’s magic.”

“So the babies popped out ex nihilo.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You should. You’re the parent.”

“Watch your tone, young man.”

“My tone is irrelevant to the soundness of your argument.”

“What?”

“Well, where do Storks come from?”

“From other Storks.”

“How do they get the other Storks?”

“They drop them from the sky.”

“Why would they have to drop them from the sky if they already fly?”

“They have to learn how to fly first.”

“That’s fair. But you haven’t told me how they get other Storks.”

“I just did.”

“No, you didn’t. You told me that the other Storks drop them from the sky. You didn’t tell me where they come from.”

“Little man, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

“They must’ve got the baby storks from somewhere before they could get a hold of them before dropping them.”

“Then they must’ve.”

“So answer the question.”

“I already did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Do I have to write everything down for you?”

“Kid, please, you don’t even know how to spell.”

“I’ll record it then.”

“Too bad, we don’t have a tape recorder. So, where do they get the other storks?”

“They get them from other storks, okay? Now finish your veggies.”

“You do know that storks are often, but not always, monogamous right?”

“Oh, now, are they?”

“You do know that the Principle of Inferential Justification has given rise to vexing epistemological issues since the days of the Ancient Greeks, right?”

“What? Finish your veggies.”

“So are you a foundationalist, a coherentist, or an infinitist?”

“I’m your father. Now, finish your food before I whoop your ass.”

“Do you and mom have sex?”

“WHAT?”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I know all about sex.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there.”

“Coitus can happen between a man and a woman when the man inserts his penis–”

“–WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT?”

“The internet. Sex can also happen between a man and another man, a woman and another woman, a dog and a–”

“THAT’S IT. I’M TAKING IT AWAY FROM YOU. GIVE ME YOUR LAPTOP, NOW!”

“You WHAT? No! That’s how I learn things!”

“Well, I guess that’s the end of it. No more learning.”

Pubert Jr. never learned another thing and grew up to become just like his parents.

Piano teacher tries hard not to be a dick

NEW YORK—After doing some soul searching, a piano teacher resolves to be less of a dick. “There’s a fine line between being firm and being a total dick,” says Richard Foster, 32. “I’m trying harder not to be a dick now, but god is it hard to suppress my dickishness when my students sound like crap.”

Foster, an alum of the prestigious Peabody Conservatory of the Johns Hopkins University, fails to understand why every student he has taught in the past 20 years has been untalented, thankless, indolent pieces of mediocrity who can at best create elevator music. “I remember this student once,” he said. “What was his face? Kenny G was his name. God, why on earth did he choose music? He can’t play to save his life. And then he started playing sax and sucks even more at that.”

The weary pedagogue sighed while rolling his eyes, then he confessed: “I don’t want to be a dick anymore. I’ll try to be nice to these little assholes. But, fuck, how hard is it to improvise on the octatonic scale, transcribe some Chick Corea, play a bit of Liszt, and then jam to Ligeti’s opera before playing for the local philharmonic?

“I’ll try to be nice. I’ll wait another five minutes for them to figure out their goddamn do-re-mi’s before I say something sarcastic. They’re just like Beethoven, I guess: Deaf.”

A student who wishes to remain anonymous stated, “Mr. Foster is not just a dick. He is a gaping asshole. He makes me feel like a pile of shit that’s been funneled out of his tight sphincter every week. And then he accuses me of not practicing and then flushes me out without cleaning up the mess that he made.”

Then the student added, “Well, to be fair, I never, um, practice.”

Professor masters art of filling bookshelf with books he will never read

EVANSTON, IL—A preeminent philosopher at an elite university has perfected the art of haphazardly filling his bookshelf with books he will never read.

Jacques Johnson, 63, said, “I have everything here. Like, everything. I’ve got Kant, Locke, Leibniz, Plato, Aristotle, the Presocratics, Russell, Kripke, Anscombe, Searle, Ryle, Ayer, Grice, Frege, and dozens of people who are still alive like Michael Huemer and whoever as well as Derrida. My pretheoretical intuition is that I will never read Derrida, since I know Derrida is full of shit even though I’ve never read his works and don’t ever want to. Well, I don’t think I’ll read any of the other stuff either.”

While his colleagues specialize in topics ranging from noncognitivism to meta-meta-logic, Johnson spends much of his time studying the philosophy of action and normative ethics, with a special focus on procrastination and bullshit. He explained: “To be honest, I haven’t really got around to reading Plato’s Republic, though I know it’s been assigned to me around a dozen times since college. My true passion, however, lies in arranging and rearranging my bookshelf in such a way that gives people, even scholars, the illusion that I know everything under the sun.”

Students reportedly asked Johnson if other philosophers ever accuse him of bullshitting. “I never bullshit. I bluff and lie and mislead and hoodwink and steal and rip off. But I don’t bullshit. Never. That’s an infamia,” he said, wagging an index finger.

Johnson pointed out that filling one’s bookshelf with books one does not intend to read is a habit shared by students and professors alike, with the most preeminent shelf-filler being Socrates. “I don’t think there’ s a greater philosopher than old Mr. Soccer Tease,” said Johnson. “He was the inimitable shelf-filler. It was both an art and a science to him, the way he amassed his books and displayed them like a modern art masterpiece. He was really ahead of his time.”

Johnson continues to fill his shelf with books he will never read. Sources confirmed that his latest writings will be published in top philosophical journals such as Mind and Noûs.

 

 

Kim, Trump reach nuclear agreement grooving to Aqua’s Barbie Girl

Pyongyang—Saying he is tired of “the whole nuclear thing and just wants to chill,” Kim Jong-un signed a nuclear disarmament treaty with US president Donald Trump while the two leaders grooved to the Danish-Norwegian dance pop group Aqua’s immortal hit, “Barbie Girl.”

“I am delighted to say Donald really got me in the mood. He brought back so many memories by playing that song in the privacy of our room in the Rugyon Hotel,” Kim gushed.

President Trump tweeted nostalgically, “Kim and me danced to AQUA’S BARBIE GIRL. Good times!”

“Barbie Girl” has been hailed by critics as a groundbreaking artistic masterpiece, at once stylistically daring due to its ingenious polyrhythmic elements and somewhat traditional because of its allusions to Mozart, Bach, and Turkish Sufi music. Now, after making the two long-time archenemies coexist harmoniously, the timeless song embodies the ethos of our new and peaceful age.

“Forget about ‘A Man Like Putin’,” said Trump. “Vladimir is frackin’ hot af and I enjoy being his bitch, but Kimmy’s on a-whole-nother level. We really got down on the floor.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cunning linguist enters banged-up Volvo

EUGENE, OR—Saying that he felt too cold to be out in the snow, a cunning linguist gained entrance into a woman’s Volvo.

“I was just so tired from drawing Venn Diaphragms of eggcorns all day that I decided I had to take a break in someone’s old banger, so I saw her and thought, sure, a 40-year-old Volvo would do,” said Professor Richard Anderson.

Fanny Johnson, 40, initially denied the linguist entrance into her vehicle. “I didn’t even know him. Why would I let him in? Then he said something about an important linguistics study he had to do for the university, and I consented.”

The professor explains, “I was interviewing the woman as part of a study on the artificial dissemination of bad puns, and I’ve reached the conclusion that sometimes making good puns is just way too hard and people just don’t get it. I went at it hammer and tongs though, so I guess that’s enough.”