Archive for the ‘Slice of Life’ Category

An Update

Posted: April 30, 2013 by kaostheory in Slice of Life

What up, bitches?

No, we’re not dead. School has finally let out for the year. A year of graduate school ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at. That also means that we have more time to brainstorm and be funny – which is good news for you.

See, this site needs some TLC and we’re going to try to give it to you. We’re going to try to make May a good, strong month for once.

Or we may just get drunk and pass out.

Play the odds and come back each day to see if we’re doing well or if we’re shirking our duties. (Hint: probably the latter but you never know!)

Don’t give up on us yet. We’re not a long-distance relationship and being cheated on, you know.

The Worst Online Dating Ad In The History of Dating

Posted: January 31, 2013 by kaostheory in Rants
Tags: , , ,

While we have covered the nightmarish morass known as online dating before, it appears that many have not understood the depths of insanity that it can provide. It seems that some of you do not truly grasp how depraved, soulless, and Lovecraftian it can be. Thus, we have resolved ourselves to creating out of the swirling blackness an example so dark, so evil, so terrifying…that it can only serve to illuminate the horror that is online dating. A word of warning, if we may. This projection is (God willing) not real, but it shall be constructed so that it appears as such. If you are offended by such a frank portrayal of madness, be warned. If you are offended by many of the stereotypes presented therein…go fuck yourself with a splintery Louisville Slugger. Thank you. We begin anon.
——
xxxSeXXXiiBaBiii6969xxx

(insert picture of the most grotesque figure of ostensible womanhood your fevered mind can dredge up)

Yo., my name iZ jANNAlynne an i m 24 yrs yung and herrs a lil bout me, tha sexxxist bitch on tha whole dam block!!!!!!

i m righit now livin wit my ma and gma bcuz my exhusband is an ASSHOLE WHO CANT HANDLE A WOMMAN!!!

im goin thru a divroce right now bcuz my ASSHOLE ex beat me up alot and tried to kill me in June
he lockd me in a fridgerator and set it on fire but i made it thru with Gods grace and a halffull jar of mayo!!!

i got 4 kids who r my everything, they r my whole life n my world and you had better handle it
theyre names r Caidyn whose 7, Lexxxuss whose 5, T’Qua’Sia whose 4, an Joseph whos my pride n joy and is 2
funny story! Joseph won stop breastfeedin! he keeps pullin on ma tittles and tryin to get other girls titties too even tho i tell him that hes a bad boy for doing it but i cant stay mad athim becuase he is my pride an joy!!!!

fair warninr ! i m an pre op transexual so if u cant handle that, fuk right off!!! i havent felt lik a womman since i wuz a lil gurl so now that i got $$$$ comin in fromy my ASSSSSSHOLE ex for child support (only 2 are his LOL!!!) i kan finally be who i need 2 be!!!

im also tryin to lose 100 pounds bcuz i feel lik im 2 fat rite now an that the doctors tol me i hafta lose 100 pds bcuz they need ta oprate on me LOL!!!!

i m working on GED 2 bcuz i need 2 b educate 4 mi kids! kant let them grow up wit theyre mommy bein a MCD’s frier all theyre lives LOL LOL!!!
bcuz of that i also hat bad grammer n misspelld words bug me alot 2! u kan lern 2 typ rite if u tri!

4 stuff i lik 2 red, well i don lik 2 red it iz a waist of mi time! but the onlee things i DO read and luv SOOOOO much r Twilight an 50 Shads of Gray!!! edward an Christan are SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hot!!! y cant more men b lik them?! m i rite girls?!!!!???!?!? lol

i luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuvvvvv Jersey Shore n Real Housewives tho! i luv seein the girls be so bad bitchez bcuz i m a bad bitch an can totally feel that!!!

wen will i find mi prince charming? i think bout dat all da time an how i kan find luve 4 him an how much i ned a daddy 4 mi kidz

i m a heavy smoker n i don care bout quittin it calms mi hert down and makes me feel guuuuuuuuuuud! LOL!!! alsao i m a pot smoker so if u dont lik dat den u r not tha man 4 me!!!

i love sex an luv doin sex wit guyz but i m not here 4 sex so dont message me if you want sex – thats disgusting

i m lookin for a man to do things my way. i m too indepdendent an opininated 2 jus go wit da flow so boyz u betta b ready 4 me LOL!!!!

i m a bad bitch so watch out wen u make me angry, i hold a grudge and kan yell alot so if u make me mad u better bring flowers LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!

country gurl and muddin’ r sum words dat describ me – i luv bein in da cuntry an gettin dirty (if u no wut i mean ;););););))

first thing people noticed bout me is my hair extensions bcuz they r so pretty an look so real! den dey move 2 my beautiful ass and titties bcuz dey r beautiful! LOL! i m gnna miss my titties an all da free drinks!!! LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!

as far as religion goes, i m a atheist polytheist anarchocommunist Muslim i dont expect u 2 understand but u betta b respecful since its what i blieve!!!

ive been a freerange organic vegan for 4 years and my man better share that belief bcuz im raisin mi kids dat way 2 and i don want any meet in da house EVA!

i dont know why im here bcuz all men are ASSSSSSSSHOLES! an dey only wan 1 thing and that is sex and den they leav an u neva see them again

i like sniffing things to see if they smell like other things i kno its gross LOL!
i also lik 2 b bitten durin sex bcuz it makes me feel lik EDWARD is there wit me!!!

READ THIS SO U UNDERSTAN WHAT U R DEALIN WIT!!!!! IF U DON HAVE A JOB DAT PAYS BIIIIIIIIIGGGGGG $$$$$$$$$$$ AN U DONT LOOK FINE AS ALL HELL AND U GOT KIDS, STAY THA FUCK AWAY!!!! I AINT WANTIN TO PLAY WITH YOUR BROKE ASS!!!!

i hop u saw somethin u liked! hit me up an may-b u r mi next husband! πŸ˜‰ πŸ˜‰ πŸ˜‰
——
That…I think my brain is actually bleeding. I feel moisture in my ears. There is a throbbing dead spot behind my eyes.

(You’ll get no arguments here. That was an abomination, you fucking animal. – ed.)

I’m going to go…do something else now. Something that doesn’t make me want to set fire to the rain and watch the whole world go up in a billowing flame heap.


Some of us just find out at different points in our lives that they are just careers that are…not quite for us. Some may be not up to our talent levels, some may be unsavory or embarrassing. And then some just…are a bad, bad idea. For example, you wouldn’t want someone who is naturally gifted athletically to try to take on computer programming. You wouldn’t want someone with social anxiety running for public office (wait…shit.). You wouldn’t want a politician to be a lion tamer…or maybe you would, depending on the politician.

The point is that there are careers where it just does not fit the personality involved. Case in point? I’m no longer allowed to teach sexual education in elementary schools…or anywhere, for that matter. Let me explain.

Sometimes in the course of human events, it becomes necessary to take a part-time job in order to stave off poverty, alcoholism, and a broken left wrist from bored masturbation. Say, a part-time job such as substitute teaching. Well, with my glowing resume bulging with qualifications, the school district I approached offered me my choice of three schools to sub at: the high school, the middle school, or the elementary school. Well, I declined the high school because the prospect of barely legal teenager girls becoming magnetically attracted to the AK-47 in my pants would just complicate matters. I turned down the middle school job as well because middle schoolers are basically walking, talking balls of hormones and insanity. That left me with one choice: the elementary school. That seemed relatively safe, I thought. I was, however, sadly unprepared.

You see, I managed to have the incredibly poor luck of substitute teaching on the day that the boys and girls are separated by gender and brought to the library or the gym and shown a little film designed to try to stave off the oncoming train of pain that is puberty. You all know the one and if you don’t, well…luck has smiled upon pre-teen you. Well, since the gym teacher was a female and I was taking the place of one of the fifth-grade English teachers, I was drafted (read: forced) into joining and helping out by the principal, one third-grade Science teacher (not a dude, by the way), and the janitor. For some reason. I’m not sure he was there as part of the help.

Anyways, the first half of the lesson was fine, albeit what you would expect. Fifth-grade boys giggling at the words ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ and ‘sex’ and then having the laughter stolen from their lives by the sight of a 1980s mother pushing a ten-pound bloody sack out of a hole the width of an iPod. You can tell which students have gone through the video because they walk around for the next two days with the thousand-yard-stare.

And then I made things worse.

You see, in a stunning display of unjustifiable bad judgment, the principal and other teacher decided to step out to grab some coffee and probably bang in the electrical room, leaving me alone with fifty already-traumatized ten year old boys. The janitor had already been forced to leave after making some sounds watching the video that were akin to a lion dying of cancer on a hot savannah with ants crawling up its ass. Thus, I had thirty minutes and a captive audience that was going to be receptive to everything I would say. This is, as we say, a really bad fucking idea.

To begin with, I explained what the class they were in at the moment really was – less “sex education” and more “This is what your penis will bring upon the world”.

I told them of just how much suffering and pain they would create through those potentially (in the future) four-to-ten inch skin snakes currently tucked into their Spiderman briefs. I spoke to them of the all-consuming fire that would rage through them when some spurned lover or sadistic band geek would knock their dangling sack back up into their lower intestines. And I explained to them just how much power their scepters would allow them to wield, were they only man enough to grab hold of it. The power, not the penis. Well, maybe both.

I would rewind the tape and pause it at the worst possible frame and just let it sit and stare at them, the Eye of Sauron burning into their souls, as I screamed at them: “Boys, this woman is in agonizing pain and you know who caused it? YOU. You did this! WITH YOUR PENIS! Your penis entered her and brought her into this unimaginable agony! SHE IS BEING RIPPED ASUNDER BECAUSE OF YOUR INEPTITUDE!”

The baby would come out and they would scream in terror again. Rewind, fast-forward, and repeat. The horror of seeing a full bush suck a howling blood monkey back into it like some sort of primordial gaping maw cannot be overstated. After a while, it almost became comical and the urge to play Yakety Sax during the thing was nigh unstoppable. Of course, then the placenta came out and it was game over.

After about ten minutes of that, I decided to finish up my time with them by explaining to them the process of sex, pregnancy, and birth. I can actually recall the exact wording because apparently security footage has improved to the point where subtitles exist.

“This entire process begins when you engage in the act of sexual intercourse. Nobody can really TELL you what sex is, but I shall endeavor to try to explain it. When a man loves someone or simply just feels the biological impulse to blow a load of genetic material from his scrotum, he engages in sex with the woman. Or man. Or transvestite. Or even his hands or a Ziploc bag full of water placed between the mattress and box spring of his bed. Anyways. There are many various ways to approach the act of love, such as [from this point, I spent about ten minutes listing all the ways to fuck – ALL of the ways]. Inevitably, something will happen and a mistake will be made. The condom may break – a condom being a piece of rubber you tie around your junk like a bowtie to make it all fancy, or the pill may fail – the pill being ecstasy, a powerful hallucinogen, or you may just be drunk and say “Eh, fuck it. Chance.”. When this mistake happens, those little Phelpsians nestled in that bean bag will explode into her with the force of a neutron bomb. The sperm, as they are called, will accelerate towards her uterus (her balls in her belly) at a speed of well over a thousand miles per hour. They will strike the uterus and explode, sending genetic shrapnel throughout her vagina. One of those shards may even fly far enough up into her to lodge itself in one of her eggs, since women contain chicken, as you well know. Once lodged in the egg, it downloads a computer virus that infects the egg, turning it into a self-replicating human, You will instantly know the next day if she is in the state called ‘pregnant’ because she will violently vomit when either smelling or viewing certain things, none of which you can know until it is too late, a cruel trick. This period lasts for about three months.Now, once the pregnant woman has reached the second cycle, the sun god Ra will come to you in the form of ’78 Buick and demand it as a sacrifice. However, you can appease his bloodlust with a sacrificial steak and eggs breakfast instead, the food symbolizing the merging of male and female. After a period of approximately nine months, a gong will sound from inside the woman, signifying the onset of the final process. I won’t spoil it for you here but suffice to say, there’s a lot of angry driving and police work involved. Any questions?”

It was about that time that the principal, teachers, and security burst into the room, grabbing me by the arms and legs and forcibly ejecting me from the window of the school, told never to return on pain of actual death. Seriously. They showed me the gun they would use to end my life.

I got paid pretty well though so…that was a plus.
——
(That was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever read. – ed.)

We both know that’s not true.

(Well…I did have to read Twilight on a dare once. – ed.)

There you go! Deuces yo!


I’m not exactly the kind of person that one would call “up to date” on trends. I don’t wear skinny jeans, listen to pop music, or understand the appeal of why the hell anyone would produce a movie detailing the life of a current pop star. The world doesn’t need more movies about Katy Perry or Justin Bieber or, God forbid it happen, Ke(dollar sign)ha. I actually include the “never happening” of that last one in my prayers every night. I do wonder about the title though. “Memoirs of a Drunken Whore” sounds pretty good. It doesn’t quite cover it though. Maybe “My ‘Music’Sounds Like A Seagull Being Strangled To Dubstep But I’ll Blow You In The Alley Behind Starbucks For A Mocha Latte And A Gram Of Coke So You May As Well Love Me”. That’s better.

Anyways, the reason I mention this is because I don’t understand one damn bit why that crapsack of mutilated paper pulp known as ’50 Shades of Grey’ is so damn popular. All I DO know is that its existence and popularity means I get to write a follow-up piece to the wildly successful (well, relatively) article about Twilight. It’s the Golden Age of mockery and sarcasm, I tell you what. Regardless of how great things are as a comedy writer, I could always use some extra cash to line my pockets with pornography, alcohol, and bootleg Joss Whedon DVDs. Thus, I am resolved to write chick porn using 50 Shades of Shit…I mean, Grey…as a barometer. And as a bonus? I’ll explain to YOU how to do it too.
——
First, as in last time, murder any thoughts you have about being a respectable or even literate writer. You aren’t going to be writing for the elite, the well-read, the academics. You are barely going to be writing for middle schoolers reading at a college level. You are writing for lonely, bored, horny housewives, teenagers, and bored talk show hosts. Having it have a legitimate, engrossing plot is kind of like adding parsley, fine china, and a glass of wine to spice up the presentation of a steaming horse dump. Focus more of your time on how you can use the medium to create the most filthy, degrading situation possible while still maintaining a semblance of respectability. Think “upgraded fan fiction” because, let’s face it, that 50 Shades garbage is literally that. It can’t hurt to be a fan fic writer either. Anyone who writes that has a throbbing tumor called “I hate literature” inside their heart and uses it to crap out “ships” of any potential character pairings under the sun. Don’t get me started on fan fic.

Next, decide what you want your main characters to do. Oh. That’s right. You want them to fuck. The rest is just gravy. Cool. Check that off.

After that, figure out what your characters are named. If you’re writing chick porn, this will take up a solid 80% of your work time on the “book”. You can’t name them something like Amy Jones and John Smith. Those are boring names, names of IRS agents and middle management candidates. Likewise, you can’t use names like Jagatha Messy and Hondo Awesome. Nobody is going to take you seriously (let’s be honest, they won’t anyways but I digress) if you write ‘Hondo and Jagatha boned like archaeologists on top of Hondo’s 1997 Chevy Pylon’ or whatever. You need to create dark and steamy names, like Vanessa St. John and Juan Carlos Fancypants…I mean, Trenton Green. If it sounds like it could conceivably be a porn star but only in one of those high class X-Art ones (as opposed to, say, Gaping Assholes 8), you’ve hit the sweet spot. And so will your readers…if you get what I’m saying. I’m saying that they will play with themselves.

Naturally, take into account the audience while describing the characters. Naturally, the protagonist must be a legal-aged girl, probably a fresh-faced college student or even right after graduating. She has to be shy and naive, with no more sexual experience than a half-hearted handjob in the back of a Denny’s kitchen. Obviously, she must be a virgin. She has to have no confidence in herself and see herself as a plain, unassuming wallflower. Basically, if you do a copy/paste of every garden variety Twilight knockoff bullshit, you’ll have it down. And the man must be tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shouldered, and brooding, with impeccable taste in clothes, a high-paying job, no current relationship to speak of, and miraculously well-endowed. Of course, he has to be irresistibly attracted to the protagonist and, by proxy, the reader. I swear to God, this shit is like porn had a retarded baby with a chick flick. It’s like Naughty America banged 27 Dresses or some shit like that.

Also, since you’re writing porn for girls, which is much more about the experience than the actual act, you need to use euphemisms to describe what is happening. You can’t go too clinical, since “He placed his penis inside her vagina and performed intercourse until they both achieved orgasm”. Yes, that may be what happened but…snore. You also can’t really go too vulgar, since that can be a turnoff. “He fucked her cunt with his dick until they both came” also describes what happened but it’s so…inelegant. And yes, that is a concern of yours. Instead, use lines like “Trenton teased her gently opening flower with his turgid manhood. Vanessa felt her nethers quiver with excitement and, as he pushed her open, she felt herself becoming filled with an almost holy sensation. They began to merge as only lovers can and (yadda yadda yadda) they both felt a surge of heat as they crested at the height of their passion and fell to the bed, a tangle of limbs and satisfaction.” THAT is what gets the housewife tang all stirred up.

Since this is apparently the trend, don’t be scared to introduce some ‘taboo’ elements to the sex. 50 Shades decided to dive into the BDSM lifestyle (wrongly, I’ve heard) with the main dude apparently beating the crap out of the girl? I don’t know, I haven’t read it. So that’s right out. Since you want to distinguish yourself from the soon-to-be-arriving herd of copycats, why not take things to the logical extreme? Instead of spanking and handcuffs, try watersports and bloodplay. Instead of contracts and submission, have the girl take a dump on a glass coffee table. Make your characters have the kind of sex that even Max Hardcore would call “a bit too extreme”. End the series with snuff. You know you want to.

Lastly, after it naturally takes off and becomes a poorly-hidden dirty pleasure for soccer moms across the world, hang yourself with a shower curtain. That way, your poison and evil can’t infect the world with sequels, PLUS your faithful readers will call it a fitting way to leave this world. Win-fucking-win.

——
(You really have a problem with popular lit these days, huh? – ed.)

No. I have a problem with literal fan fiction and its metamorphosis into something considered worthy of publication. I have a problem with crap like Twilight and 50 Shades becoming popular while real writers struggle to make ends meet. I have a problem with the increased retardation of the next generation. You are going to have twelve-year-olds choking each other with a belt within six months. Mark my words. These are the End of Days.

(…a bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say? – ed.)

There is no such thing as too dramatic, Ed. Not while evil reigns. I need a drink.

(You always do. Goodnight, everyone. – ed.)

What Birds Actually Are

Posted: April 13, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , ,

We’re going to start by saying that this one may well be controversial. A lot of people may get upset by what we have to say but the time has come to no longer be afraid of our beliefs. The truth must be told. Too long have we just sat to the side while things have happened.

Ladies and gentlemen…all birds are assholes.

I know, I know. It’s shocking to hear but hear me out. I know you all think that birds are the cute little things that cheep prettily and fly around, munching on seeds and the like. But you’re wrong. Let me explain to you how some of these so-called “adorable” creatures are just really average sized dicks. With wings. Flying dicks.

(Note to self: trademark that name. It could be a hot as hell meme.)
——
Blue jay: Right off the bat, fuck these guys. Little psychopaths. For one, they are bigger than most songbirds so they can throw their weight around. They’re basically the meathead juicers from New Jersey walking into a bar (or birdbath) and shoving the chickadees to the side in order to get their Jagerbombs and suet pinecones. They are aggressive, territorial, and outright mean. When I worked at a furniture store, I had to fight one off with a freaking BOX CUTTER just to get the little bastard to stop dive-bombing my eyeballs. True story.

Chickadee: Oh no, we’re not gonna let this little prick off the hook. All flying around, looking adorable with its little black and white coloring and tiny body. Yeah, it’s got a deep, dark secret though. Meth. You heard me. Chickadees are meth dealers. Think about it. Why would they NOT be? Yeah. I thought so.

Mockingbird: This jerk is just like that dick at the bar that gets liquored up and makes fun at everyone nearby. Guess what, jagoff? Mimicking other birds isn’t funny. It isn’t cute. All it does is show that you can do impressions. Whoop-de-shit. Who know who else does impressions? The cast of MADTV. Do you really want to be like them? You know who else does it? Those jackholes who are raping the memory of the Three Stooges. You’re a stooge! How about you use your own voice for once, you animal kingdom Frank Caliendo bitch.

Cardinal: Strutting around, thinking he’s all hot shit because he’s got loads of color prettying up the neighborhood. Feh. It’s called trying too hard and you’re the fucking physical exemplar. And that’s the males! The females are all brown and drab with just a little bit of coloring. You KNOW that he beats her. Comes home drunk to the nest one night, dragging her along by one wing, starts whipping the shit out of her with an extension cord because she had the AUDACITY to wear that dress with the plunging neckline which makes him look like a cuckold with all the other birds staring at her. Get some therapy, Cardinal. Get help.

Purple Finch: Could it BE any more of a homosexual?

Robin: You know how there’s that jerk who, whenever he hears that “You’re one in a million!” compliment, always chimes in with some tired-ass joke about that meaning that there’s still at least four people just like them in Atlanta alone? Yeah, that’s who the robin is being compared to. These birds are EVERYWHERE – cheeping, genociding worms, shitting on cars. It’s like a biological cloning experiment gone wrong. It’s like zombies. If birds could be zombies, this would be that kind of bird. Plus, one of the lamest sidekicks in comics history adopted you as a name so…fuck you, Robin.

Titmouse: HAH. What an unfortunate name, both for the bird and for the world. When you hear the name ‘titmouse’, I prefer to picture Minnie as a stripper in some dank club on a Thursday night, high as a kite with three grams of coke up that nose, dollar bills stuffed into her g-string, gyrating listlessly for Bluto and Pete (the douchebag neighbor on Goof Troop) as Mickey sits at home, wife-beater stained with the grease of a thousand cheeseburgers, a fifth of rye dangling from his gloveless paw. Okay, that went to a darker place than I was expecting.

Grackle/Raven/Crow: You know what’s a really fun kind of creature to be? One that has its mere presence exist as a DIRECT PORTENT OF DEATH. Know what’s even more fun? Edgar Allen Poe freaking the hell out over you and some long-since-unaddressed grief and trauma. Know what’s even more fun? Being a fucking grackle. One of these things is not like the other. Be honest. You just sang that to yourself, didn’t you?

Vulture: This is a creature that has its sole purpose in life to be eating the dead, rotting, and probably skid-marked remains of whatever furry little housepet got obliterated by a F-150 on the highway. I can’t even say anything about this. It’s like the Kardashians. You can try to insult them all you want, but the reality of the situation is that they will shit on themselves more than even fiction could.

Eagle: Keep on gloating, jackass. If Ben Franklin had been given his way, the national bird would have been the turkey and we would have been having roast eagle on Thanksgiving. And remember, it’s a quick hop, skip, and a jump from majestic to extinct, so maybe don’t be such a high and mighty prick all the time.

Turkey: Dude, let the Ben Franklin thing go. AND STOP RUNNING THE HELL IN FRONT OF MY CAR. Seriously, I don’t want to have to replace my windshield because one of you douchebags decided that you wanted to lay your wattles in the back seat of my Camry. Come on, man. I know you’re delicious with your anal cavity jammed full of bread crumbs and seasoning, but you don’t have to be a full-on retard near moving traffic.

Towhee: I don’t even know what the hell kind of bird this is.

Carolina Wren: THIS MOTHER FUCKER. Sure, he LOOKS like an adorable elderly gentleman, with his fat body, long beak, and regal stature. He’s an absolutely cute as hell bird. THEN HE OPENS HIS GODDAMN MOUTH. When he opens his beak, every scream every screamed by every soul in abject torment in the very deepest and darkest pits of Hell comes together to RIP THE WORLD ASUNDER. This is the Bird of the End Days. This is the Bird that Eats Men’s Souls. THIS IS THE LITTLE COCKSUCKER THAT DECIDES IT’S FUCKING FUNNY TO WAKE ME UP WHEN I’M STILL DRUNK AS SHIT ON TWO BOTTLES OF WINE AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. If there was every a bird that deserved to be cast, wingless and dipped in barbecue sauce, into a pit of hungry feral wolverines, this would be the little bastard most deserving. I hate you, Carolina Wren.
——
(You just kind of…think of an idea and go, don’t you? – ed.)

I don’t always listen to myself talk.

(Clearly. – ed.)

When In Doubt, Stay Home

Posted: March 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

Instead of going with the standard ‘rant and rave about x issue’ polemic or the ‘pack as much violent and sexual content into an article as possible’, we’re trying something different this time. We’re going to offer up a cautionary tale so that you may understand the depths of madness that sometimes infest our daily lives.

Okay, there will almost certainly be violent and sexual content packed in too. Because that’s how we roll.

Anyways, on to the recounting of our trip to the Mouth of Hell.
——
The letter that came was, even before it was opened, an ominous portent. Even though there was what appeared to be the Disney logo on the back, the letters looked…odd. Reversed maybe. The envelope itself was ragged around the edges and there was a brown, leaky stain in the lower left-hand corner. When it was opened, the paper ripped with nearly no effort required and four asymmetrical chunks of paper and a creased sticky note fell out. The note read as such (naturally [sic] applies):

“Congrates! Yu an ur famly ur frens ar invted too bee spehshell gests at thee furst universery selleebrayshun of Dosneyworl! Heer ar for tikets fur u. Com on March 20, 20_year. Yu get thre gests. Bring moneies.

(signed)

(something unintelligible and probably racist)”

It was…a concern. Something definitely smelled fishy and it wasn’t even the leaky stain (which eventually was determined to be Kentucky Fried Chicken gravy). None of us (us being myself, Superfly, Pred3000, and Raybestos) had ever had any direct interaction with Disney but we came to the conclusion that would could reasonably assume that they wouldn’t send such shoddy quality material. At least not since Walt went in the freezer, at least.

Our opinions were split. Superfly and Raybestos thought it would be funny to give it a shot, while Pred3000 and I were more interested in not being abducted, raped, and our kidneys being sold for crack money. Finally, we came to an agreement: we would go but we would apply for and get open carry licenses first, just to be safe.

After each getting comfortable with our respective weapons (Raybestos and Pred3000 chose 9mms, Superfly got a .22, and I went all out with a Desert Eagle), we hopped in Raybestos’ car (another requirement for going was that I was allowed to be drunk and not having to drive) and set off for Puerto de la Muerte, Florida. Yes, you read that correctly – Port of Death. Not Orlando – although I suppose it could have an alternate name.

The drive was long and boring and I was starting to nod off from a combination of the rhythmic hum of the car and the half a bottle of Jameson I had killed on the drive when the car slammed to a halt, only to start up again at a very slow speed.

“What the hell was that?” I grumbled as I felt the car make a turn and finally stop.

“We’re…here?” Raybestos said, the question in his response worrying, even through the whiskey fog. We all unbuckled and got out of the car (I admit that I had a bit of trouble with the seatbelt, but I’m allowed). Blinking my eyes, I peered at what stood in front of us. It was…troubling.

The park itself seemed to span a couple acres of land but we couldn’t quite tell. A giant red and blue sign welded to a telephone pole read “Welcum too Dosneyworl” and flashed rapidly every few seconds. If any of us had been epileptic, it would have been dangerous. As it stood, it just added a “carnival of the damned” feel to the whole experience. We looked further ahead of us as we walked. Behind a very tall chain-link fence, complete with barbed wire rolls at the top, we were able to view what were ostensibly rides. I could pick out a roller coaster, merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, and various other attractions you would expect to see at an amusement park. For whatever reason, that actually frightened me more. But we had made it this far. We couldn’t go back now. As we walked to the front gate, the ticket-taker glared at us, surprise and resentment in his eyes. I don’t think he wanted us to be there. That made five of us.

He growled at us when we reached him. “‘kits, now.” We handed him the ragged scraps of paper and he tossed them in the garbage. With a sigh, he pressed a button, shifting the large steel doors apart. “Park closes at 7. Don’t be late. Seriously.” We scurried in, all checking our watches. We had four hours to spend in there. We all agreed we’d spend three at most, just to be safe. Bad things come at night.

The ‘road’ beneath our feet was a mixture of gravel and sawdust and kicked up little clouds with every step we took. A wooden sign nailed to a lamppost nearby read “Man Stret Yousa”, scribbled in the same retard patois that the invitation was written in. It was about this time that I really started to regret not eating lunch. I made this fact clear to the group and, fearing that any puking in this tortured land would invite its denizens to feed on our souls, they hustled me to the nearest food cart to get something greasy and delicious in my stomach.

Let me tell you. Nothing changes your “I have to puke” status than realizing that your other option is choking down a ‘befstik’ or ‘shulsie’. I just got a glass of water and even then it took all I had to kick it back. It was tap water but that was comforting since I was expecting bleach or something.

“So what do you guys want to do first?” Raybestos asked, trying to keep up a brave face.

“You mean besides go home?” Pred3000 muttered, already sulking in fear.

We wandered the streets of the park, only occasionally seeing a handful of other people, all with the same unsure looks on their faces. We passed the ‘Fast-circly-go’, the ‘Spiny-tal-circle’, a tea-cup ride that looked more like a human-sized centrifuge, and what looked to be a haunted house. Yeah. We sure as shit weren’t going to go in there. We kept wandering and and were about ready to mercifully leave when the 5 PM Parade started.

Have you ever seen madness walking? Like upright and walking? You lucky bastard. You never saw the mascots then. Let me give you the rundown.

First up was Mackey and Mornie Moose. Giant towering moose creatures with gloves on their hooves, pendulous hanging breasts and genitalia, and fur that looked to be at least half-mange, if not more. Instead of the charming “Ho ho!” that Mickey would always give, whoever developed these outfits really went all out to nail the sound of an angry, horny moose. The gronking and howling was beyond unsettling. I think that was the point that I realized that I had unsnapped the holster on my gun. Unconsciously, mind you.

Next up was Gorfy. You know that look in the face when something just isn’t…right in the head? Like the glossy, unfocused eyes, the slack jaw, the aggressive stance. Yeah. Gorfy had that. He also decided to stuff a live chicken through the mouth hole while right in front of us, so all we could hear for the next couple minutes as he ran around in pain were agonized screams and clucking.

Then we had Ronald Pigeon. I won’t say much about this one but you know how birds shit EVERYWHERE when they’re startled? Yeah. Gorfy startled Ronald Pigeon. I’ll leave that to your imagination.

I can’t really say what all happened next. All I know is that one of us – probably Pred3000 – started firing into the crowd and, well, we’re not going to leave our buddy out to dry. Did you know that guns can overheat if you pull the trigger too fast? I sure didn’t!

To cut a long story short, we’re not allowed to enter the state of Florida for the next ten years, we had to spend a week in firearm responsibility training, and I have a moose head mounted above my fireplace.

All that being said, would I call it the worst Spring Break ever?

Nah. I mean, have you SEEN Panama City Beach?
——
(Ending on a punchline. How classy of you. – ed.)

Shut up, Ed. Sometimes you can create gold, sometimes you can just be happy with creating lead.

(I don’t think that’s accurate. – ed.)

I don’t think you’re accurate! Deuces!

An Experiment Gone Awry

Posted: February 15, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

By now, I’m sure you all have heard about or read about or sensed coming out of the dark aether that lies between this world and that of the nether realms the existence of Jack in the Box’s new “delicacy” (read: affront to God, man, and the natural order of things) – their bacon milkshake. Yes, you read that right. A milkshake, also known as ‘What the hell, give me Type 2 Diabetes already’ In A Cup, with what I can only assume to be either hard, salty chunks of fried pig or, worse, pork drippin’s mixed in with the vanilla or, God forbid, chocolate or strawberry ice cream. While the potential to create a geek nexus around it by marketing it with zombies emblazoned on the cups and ‘gamer girls’ awkwardly fiddling with Xbox 360 controllers in commercials is yet to be untapped, the fact is that this abomination does actually exist.

But what is one to do if there is no Jack in the Box nearby that does not exist in the heart of the ghetto (or barrio or whatever unsafe area exists in your town)? Or if the prospect of actually paying a restaurant for them to kill you sounds like a sick German fetish rather than indulging in an ostensible “drink”?

It’s a very simple solution: create your own.

Well, simple in theory. In actuality, it is about as big a clusterfuck as a men’s rugby team playing tennis against a women’s volleyball team. Blindfolded. And naked. With a bowling ball.

We attempted just such a “simple” activity a couple days ago when we were bored and apparently wanted to experience what true despair and frustration feels like…without masturbating. For once. What follows are the (abortive) attempts that we made at creating our own version of this helltreat. Enjoy.

——
Attempt #1: This should be pretty easy. I don’t see why we’re making such a fuss about this. Just some vanilla bean ice cream, milk, a rasher of bacon…simple. Put all of that in a blender and hit ‘puree’. Easy.

Result #1: Forgot. The fucking. Lid. This is an ominous portent. It’s probably for the best anyway. I mean, not for the kitchen. The cabinets just got a nice coat of “sticky cream and raw bacon”. That’s going to be a bastard to clean up. No, it’s for the best for, you know, our bodies. Also, cook the goddamn bacon before putting it in the shake. Come on. That’s bush league.

Attempt #2: Okay. Materials? Check. Bacon COOKED? Check and check. Maybe a little too crispy. Should be okay though. Everyone loves crispy bacon. Well, except for vegans but the day I give a crap about how crispy they like their bacon, I’ll french kiss a live outlet. Where was I? Oh yeah. Blender? Filled to the brim with stuff so that works. LID? Triple damn check. Okay. Let’s do this again.

Result #2: Um…unappetizing is a good word to describe this try. We clearly used too little ice cream or too much milk and probably too much bacon because it looks like a porn star’s dick exploded in this thing. It’s just kind of this watery, chunky mix. Pass.

Attempt #3: This is a little disheartening, but nothing delicious was ever easy. Well…except in a couple cases. Regardless, we soldier on. Less milk, more ice cream, less bacon, and let’s throw some damn butter in with it to try to thicken it up some.

Result #3: Well, there are good and bad aspects of it. The good is that the thickness is about what we want in a milkshake. The bad is that everything else is not. The butter added a weird yellow tint to it and didn’t break up too well (probably should have unfrozen it first) so there are butter chunks floating next to bacon chunks and, really, whichever you bite into isn’t going to make your mouth happy. This is starting to blow.

Attempt #4: Okay. Gonna try something different with this. I’m going to take a shot of tequila and then a second shot of tequila and then we’re going to take the butter out and try cream cheese. Why cream cheese? Because who fucking cares by this point? Maybe it’ll be good!

Result #4: Cream cheese was a poor choice. I think we’re getting further away from the ultimate goal here. Time to reduce.

Attempt #5: Two more shots of tequila down the hatch. The edges of my eyes are a little fuzzy. Rad. Milk, vanilla bean ice cream, cooked bacon chunks. Let’s do it.

Result #5: PIECE OF SHIT LID. I’m not cleaning this shit sober again.

Attempt #6: Two more tequilas. Tequila. Ta-key-lah. That would be a pretty name for a baby. Oh, right. Some sort of milkshake. Milk, ice, cream, bacon. Easy. Just push play.

Result #6: …that was like a bacon margarita except violence in the mouth instead of liquor. Who’s the asshole that put ice and cream so close together? I thought they had a comma. I guess not.

Attempt #7: Hadda drink a beer to get that taste outta my mouth. Does your face feel hot? My face feels hot. Just like my DICK. Ho ho ho, bitches. What? What do you mean I’ve had enough? You’re an enough! Let’s blend some shit already!

Result #7: WELL! That’s what happens when you let a drunk guy handle appliances. Someone is going to get creamy stuff all over because he forgets to put the lid on again.

Final Attempt: Okay. That looks good. That looks like the right amounts. Can I press the button? No? Okay. You do it.

Final Result: Huh. That’s it? I guess you want me to review it? Fine. *ahem* It tastes like a stupid vanilla milkshake except for when you get a chunk of bacon. Then it tastes like a salty vanilla nightmare. Happy?
——
In conclusion, the fact that the bacon milkshake actually exists is a stain upon the good name of American production everywhere. That it is actually being sold and marketed by a company is a shameful result of not using that hot blonde woman in their ads anymore. For shame, Jack in the Box.

Wait, Double Downs still exist?

…shit, count me in then.