BLOGOSPHERE—Lacking the joie de vivre to take up meaningful hobbies like sewing and spelunking, a woman visited her husband’s blog ten years after its inception. “I had no idea that Ronald has been writing about me,” Sheryl Sans-Blurb, 47, said after reading an article entitled “Wife Makes Historic First Visit to Husband’s Ten-Year-Old Blog”. “Otherwise, I would have visited his blog a long time ago.”
“I’ve been writing about you for quite some time already,” replied Ronald Dump. “You’re always drinking milk and watching TV beside me while I type about you on my 17-inch laptop.”
Notwithstanding Sans-Blurb’s unforgivable negligence, blogging experts remarked that the visit is a rare event that will go down in blogging history. “It’s almost like some law of nature,” said one WordPress reader. “Spouses seem to be as averse to visiting each other’s blogs as they are to discussing the intellectually stimulating intricacies of tax law. They never do it.”
Unbeknownst to Dump, Sans-Blurb noted that she will never again visit his blog. She opts instead to continue to do whatever she’s been doing for the past ten years of her life, because it is just that much more interesting.
BLOGOSPHERE—Saying that he will kill himself if he doesn’t get more than two ‘likes’, blogger Ronald Dump, 32, went on a massive liking spree in a last-ditch effort to achieve fame and fortune, subsequently developing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.
“I spent more time ‘liking’ everyone’s blog than I did watching porn. That is unprecedented,” declared an inattentive Dump, who continued to ‘like’ everyone’s post while he talked to reporters. “I will do this until I get more likes. If I don’t, I will kill myself.”
Dump rudely avoided eye contact throughout the interview as he winced in pain clicking ‘like’ buttons. To ease the pain, he periodically sipped on a tumbler of single malt whisky with the help of his other hand. “This is also unprecedented,” he mumbled with a cigarette in his mouth. “I usually use my other hand for recreational purposes while the first hand clicks on pornography. But I’ve discovered that that’s a real waste of time, and blogging is more important.”
The single malt, in tandem with a Tupperware full of Xanax, also serves as a means to take his own life should he not become an internet celebrity. Additionally, Dump has set a large revolver in his desk drawer and lots of ammo in case his firearm jams. “I swear to God I will blow my brains out,” he said. “Fucking ‘like’ me already. I ‘liked’ you. What the fuck else do you want?”
Unfortunately, Dump has had no ‘likes’ since he ‘liked’ everyone’s blog. He is nowhere to be found and has not answered our phone calls since Monday. While he may simply be suffering from writer’s block, the assumption is that he has killed himself.
Dump’s last words were, “I would rather kill myself than ‘like’ myself.”
HOLLYWOOD—Saying that he doesn’t care what other people say about him, a gay man bravely donned a quintessentially heterosexual black blazer and button-down shirt Friday morning.
“I am wearing a heterosexual suit and serving straight up daddy realness,” declared LeBar. “I don’t care what society says about me. I have panache, energy, nerve, individualism, and suaveness.”
Georges LeBar, 57, spoke at length about mankind’s heterophobic herstory. “Straight men have been nice to us, and we totally fucked it up. For hundreds, if not thousands, of years, we’ve burned and kicked and lynched and drowned and mutilated them before throwing them to the lions and torturing them with pickup trucks and banishing them from society and raping everyone and their mothers. The modern man is different. We have compassion for our straight brothers, and we’ll take a leaf from John Stuart Mill’s book.”
LeBar added that gays should stop calling straights “breeders” and “maggots” because such derogatory terms are “fucking stupid.”
He declared, almost condescendingly, “Being a man is almost an act of treason in a gay-dominated society. But to all my straight buddies hiding in their man caves, it’s okay. Just come out. We’re all friends.”
Calling each other “irrational” and “annoying,” potato farmer Tom Bruise and his wife Lucy quickly resolved all marital conflicts by not talking to each other. “It totally works,” said Bruise. “Ever since we resolved to shut our respective traps, I’ve been angrily washing the dishes while she texts her friends, and we get along just fine.”
The couple reported increased sleep quality since they stopped talking to each other. During bedtime, they would face opposite directions with their eyes wide open in the dark. “The empty gap between us on the mattress keeps growing, and I keep feeling that I might fall off the bed,” the husband said, elaborating on his marital life. “And the sex is awesome. I jerk off and eat Doritos all day. Awesome.”
Lucy explained to reporters, “My husband doesn’t want to talk, and that’s fine. He’s just being himself. As his wife, I support him and his being himself and everything he does. He can be his own sad little bitch self who fap fap faps away ’til the second coming.”
Tom and Lucy indicate that, since remaining silent, the resentment that has festered in their marriage for the past five years has all but dissipated. “I love her,” said Tom. “I love him,” said Lucy, rolling her eyes. “I’m so grateful we’ve decided to shut the fuck up.”
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.”
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.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
“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.