Posts Tagged ‘Pissy’

Adult Solutions to Board Games

Posted: December 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Advice
Tags: , , , , ,

First off, Merry Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Eid/non-denominational holiday/atheistic irritation day to all our readers. We appreciate your support, especially in light of our not writing for shit this year. Hopefully next year will be more funny and less, you know, angsty/drinky/depression and anxiety…y. Anyways, since 2012 is almost over, for good or for ill, we figured we’d give you one last hurrah before the new year dawns in the middle of the night. Now, parties are always fun, but you may get stuck playing board games. That’s okay, though. We’re going to offer you some adult alternatives to classic board games so that you can spice up the mood of the room. As always, all of these games can be improved by drinking but that just goes without saying.
Monopoly: Collaborate in secret with the other players to perform a daring heist of the bank. At a given time, jump the banker and tie him or her up with rope and duct tape. Clean out the vault and spend an agonizingly long time deciding whether or not to kill the banker since they have seen your faces. Be serious and talk to the point where they don’t think that you are joking anymore. End up in a Mexican standoff and then say “fuck it” and go grab a couple Coronas. Start a new game.

Clue: Treat the game like an actual murder has taken place. Dust for prints, seal off the area, interview witnesses. Have one player come in as CSI to search for DNA evidence and have another player act as CIA and take over jurisdiction, angering all the other blue-collar players who want this case to make their careers. Go behind the CIAs back to find a critical piece of evidence (e.g. the candlestick) still dripping with the victim’s blood. Turn on each other as you realize that the killer is one of you. Trust is broken forever.

Risk: Build alliances covertly with every player and then implement nuclear warfare through Kamchatka. Nuke the fuck out of Africa and go middle fingers all over. Strategy be damned. Turn the world into a parking lot. Glass the fuckers. Risk always ends in fistfights anyways. Why not make them deserved?

Candy Land: Rename the various characters into wars. Queen Frostine is Grenada – quick and easy to get out of. King Kandy is WW2 – if you reach that point, you’re one of the baddest people in the game. Gramma Nutt is Iraq – it’ll take a while to get out but you can make progress towards it. And that motherfucker Plumpy is Vietnam – easy to get caught up in, impossible to get out of, and when it happens, it just ends up with Jane Fonda pissing on your face. Wait, I’m not sure I did that last one right.

LIFE: It’s a deadly serious game. The inevitable slog towards the grave lined with the stones of mounting debt, alcoholism, adultery, children, divorce, dating, depression, and suicide. The game of Life indeed. Nobody makes it out alive. If you really want to go dark, go with Russian Roulette as the spinner. Drive your fancy car to work, players. Your wife is now a lesbian.

Connect 4: You make four yellow or red coin-things in a row. You can’t adult it up. Oh! Okay. You put your penis through the hole and await the falling of the pain rings.

Operation: Create a fun little ambiance to it. Dim the lights, put on the sound of loud beeping. Monitor the patient’s condition. Have alarms going off and nurses/other players screaming. You’re not performing a real operation just trying to pull out some stupid plastic bone or whatever. You’re performing a real operation when touching the sides gets you sprayed in the face with pig’s blood. Don’t ask me where you can find pig’s blood. That’s your job.

Sorry: Real men don’t apologize. You knock someone back a few spaces, you give them the finger and tell them to suck a cock, asshole. Play to win. Ain’t nobody wanting you to be British or Canadian polite, move them back, and buy them a drink. What are you, some kind of blustery axe wound? Motherfuckers go down. Throw their piece at the wall. You are King Dick. Act like it.

Chutes and Ladders: I…don’t know how to make this one adult. Something about the ladder and chutes being sex? Shut up. I’m drunk.

Yahtzee: Treat it like a real game. Place bets. Get into fights. If you roll two ones, curse the skies about getting snake eyes. Go way over the top with competitiveness. Break a bottle and use it to menace a five-year old. You don’t care. You’re playing Yahtzee. All bets are off.

Battleship: Shots on shots on shots. Military strategy. Mourning those brave seamen (*snrk*) that gave their lives. 21-gun salutes. Frightened neighbors. Arrests. Trials. Tears. PTSD.

Mousetrap: Use actual mice. Just capture some and paint them primary colors. That can’t possibly traumatize little children. And hey, even if it does, you can chalk it up to a learning experience. Win win!

Twister: If you haven’t already tried to use this while drunk for some cheap sex, you are a fucking failure.

Perfection You’re an Asian child and you’re in high school. Instead of putting pieces into holes in rapid succession, you are fighting tooth and nail with other teens for valedictorian. You succeed but get to college and suck off the entire Phi Beta Chi fraternity while on a copious amount of cocaine. Perfection.

Don’t Wake Daddy: Have sex while playing. That adds an extra element of danger to the whole thing and the anticipation factor will keep you going to the point where when Daddy wakes up…well, you know. I’m talking about orgasm. For both of you, ideally. Don’t be selfish.

Trouble: Shoot a cop before playing this. That will add a darker tone to this as well as an added edge of danger. Plus you’re “GET TIN’ INTO TROUBLE!”, you dicks.

Hungry Hungry Hippos: Taunt those who lose for being anorexic. Tease them into tearful acceptance of any kind of offering of sex. No better way to enter the new year than to be inside a girl with low self-esteem! Da DA da da da DA.

Guess Who: Turn off all the lights and get naked. Instead of picking which one has a beard or which one has glasses, go by who you can feel. Does this person have pierced nipples? Does this person have a rigid cock? Does this person have scars all over their sexy torso? Guess with yo’ mouth!

Crossfire: I won’t offer a suggestion here because it’ll sound more racist than it should. Uh oh, Spaghetti-Os.
(You’re a sociopath, huh? – ed)

Drink drink drink! Happy New Year, bitches!

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.)

One note on this half of Sunday before I begin. I’m going to do my best to piece this together but these notes are drunken and horribly scribbled. The fact that they actually EXIST is a testament to my dedication to the idea of recapping my experiences. I’ll do my best to get these down as best I can, but there’s only so much I can do with garbage. Also, one further note: Sunday nights in Vegas for whatever reason tend to FUCK me. It did last year. It did this year. I’m sure it will next time I show up there – either for a bachelor party or just Spring Break again. Sunday nights make Monday mornings horrible. But more on that next entry. For now? The second and insane half of Sunday night.
After fucking around with gambling for a little while, we went back up to the room to change. My choice of clothes for the night was a nice black suit that fit me a little better than the gray one and my blue/purple iridescent shirt, which I still believe is totally badass and not gay at all. Fortunately, our reservation was at Prime Steakhouse, just next door at The Bellagio, so we were able to just trot over there around 7:30. I gotta say…not the best experience. I mean, the food is fantastic – we both got steaks (Superfly got peppercorn and I got a bone-in ribeye) – but it…it’s not a place I would recommend. To start with, as soon as we got there, we saw that there were tables open near the windows so we could have a great view of the fountains but when my brother asked if we could have one of them, the maitre’d responded, and I quote, “I’m sorry, but those tables are reserved for our priority customers”. Priority customers. Translation? “I’m sorry, but you clearly aren’t important enough to warrant prime seating”. Superfly and I were so insulted that he nearly made us walk out right there, but we managed to calm down and get seated at a not-bad table instead. Of course, our waiter, an older man, also clearly didn’t consider us important enough. We saw him about three or four times all meal. He did not, shall we say, get a good tip. This is the thing that chaps my ass is this: how did those men that we were NOT going to drop a couple thousand on a huge meal and wine? We could have been heirs to a fortune and could have loaded up the bill. Instead, because we were young, we got less than optimal treatment. Poor show. We’re not going to go back again.

The next stop, though, was by far and away the best of the trip. Why, you ask? Simple. Titties. We went to X-Burlesque at The Flamingo. It was the greatest public experience of my life. Notice I prefaced it with public, since I have had a few private moments that have been much more awesome, but those are neither here nor there. Anyways, we stood in line about a half hour behind these two couples, one of which was very nice and the other which was obnoxious. Surprisingly, the older couple was the obnoxious one. He was clearly a grizzled Vegas vet and she was his “trophy” floozie (although trophy is generous – call her more the ‘participation’ ribbon). Amusingly, the two of them didn’t have VIP passes like they thought they did so we were able to go in ahead of them and take our table. The tables are small and really packed in but they’re very close to the stage which is the important thing. And boy, is it.

It was incredible. Gorgeous girls without tops on is a very underrated subset of American society. Criminally underused. I can’t even go into detail about what I saw. A stunning blonde doing “When You’ve Got It, Flaunt It” from The Producers (basically now the default setting for my Happy Place). “Hey, Big Spender”. Multiple rap songs. This way hot “Innocence” thing. A legs thing that got most guys sweating, if they weren’t already. This one girl that looked like Danica McKellar doing a song that was basically just “Um, I noticed you, I found you very attractive, will you go to bed with me?” (more or less). And of course, the requisite hot-as-hellfire Asian to go along with almost dead-ringers for Zooey Deschanel and Julia Allison. They even had a comedian for “half-time”, James Bean, that was maybe the funniest guy I’ve ever seen. Walking out, nearly every guy that was there had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, myself included. Incredible.

After we left The Flamingo, we began the process of sending the night spiraling. The tipping point? Stopping at an on-Strip liquor store for 16 oz. Dos Equis cans. From there, things just got…weird. As we walked, we were suddenly accosted by a very animated lady ushering over to a “movie booth” with a motorcycle and a green screen. Apparently, we needed to make our own shitty-quality movie for free (with the implication that we’d pay money for a copy of the shitty-quality movie). We shrugged, said ‘what the hell’ and went and did it. It was bizarre but I at least got to chug my beer and flip off a crowd of people gathering to watch which was okay. And no, we didn’t buy the damn thing. It was horrendous, worse than I was thinking. About two hundred yards from there, this guy dressed in a nice suit came up to us and asked if we wanted to go to a strip club. We almost took him up on it but rationalized that we didn’t have any ones and probably shouldn’t be deviating from our route anyway, so we declined.

Eventually, we made it to The Palazzo and Lavo. It was…unspectacular. There aren’t even really any notes available other than a scribbled “sucked” followed by “fine, okay”. Whatever that means. Oh wait, before we hit Lavo, we were shangheid in The Palazzo by a dude with the promise of no cover into a not-very-hopping bar. I think it was called V? Something like that. It was alright. Pretty quiet. We each killed a Corona and flirted with the bartender a bit. Nothing more to that. THEN we did Lavo and all that stuff I said about it up there.

Honestly, I don’t know how we got to The Bellagio. I have in my notes that we taxied, which we may have, but I recall also walking at night through the shops at Caesar’s Palace. Maybe that was the night before? It’s all kind of a blur. I do know that we made it to Caramel (a lounge) and get two for one drinks from a bartender with unbelieveable tits. Like, they may have been the most magnificent ones I’ve seen in person and I don’t throw that moniker around lightly. Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. While I was drinking, I was hitting on the hot brunette next to me and she seemed receptive until another guy went on her other side at which point she started talking to him. Bitch. Whatever. It was on to The Bank.

The Bank has never really been a…particularly positive experience for Superfly and I. The wait, even with the VIP passes, is way too long and it was this time as well. The way they play their admission is absolutely unfair. We bought the VIP passes which means that we should go in first, right? Apparently wrong. Apparently their default is “Oh no, man. We’re at capacity. Nobody getting in right now.” even in plain view of the many people walking out the club. Although, for a hundo in the pocket, apparently they aren’t at capacity anymore. Fucking douchebags. All of us in the VIP line, including a hot Egyptian chick that I was into, were drunk and pissed off. It was not a pleasant atmosphere in that line. At least I passed the time hitting on the chick, which was fun. After a far-too-long wait, our VIP passes seemed to work and we were let in. The Bank is never “in control”. It’s always way past the line of being able to be constrained. It’s just noise and light and dancing and sweat and sex. It’s pretty cool. It’s even cooler when Superfly and I together drop a hundo on drinks and have a great spot to stand and take pictures and chat with European dudes who don’t really get the vibe of the club. Oh and apparently the Black Eyes Peas were there, although I didn’t see them. Chaos is the best word for it.

I have no idea how long we were there. All I know is that we made it back to The Cosmo, went and got tater tots at The Henry, went back to the room and crashed the fuck out. Sleep was merciful to me because let me tell you…the next morning was not.
The last two days of the trip will be up tomorrow (God willing). As if it even matters, right?

My nerves sparked as we walked through the gates leading to the Ninth Circle. Let me be frank. Terror wracked the very core of my soul. I will make no claim otherwise. To do so would be pure and total falsity. Imagine my surprise then when we entered to not find roiling horrors the likes of which no living man had ever witnessed. Imagine my surprise when we we not consumed by the very epitome of evil itself. Imagine my great surprise when I found that we were in fact standing on what appeared to be a large stone platform framed by tremendous legs. They were not only legs, however. They were merely the legs of giants, looming over us, surrounding a giant pit which I assumed to be the actual Ninth Circle. My puzzlement must have been evident for Astley laughed quietly.

“Giants, poet?”

“Yes. They keep watch over the Ninth Circle as creatures that symbolize the size and weight of the sins lurking below. Follow me. I know of one that will help us.”

Down a ways from the entrance was one of the largest of the giants. It appeared to nod at us and lifted us up gently from the platform. My grip on the giant’s ring finger would have broken bones of a normal-sized man, yet the giant – Flyseethem – did not appear to notice. Soon enough, we reached the Ninth Circle. My step off onto the surface was, shall we say, ignominious, as I promptly slipped and fell. Astley helped me to my feet – smirking the whole time – and explained to me that those here in the worst circle are frozen in ice, rather than burning in eternal fire as I was assuming. Making sure I stayed steady, he led me to the first of four concentric rings – yes, friends, more rings – in the circle. I noticed quickly the souls under the ice. They were immersed up to their heads, which wailed steadily.

“Who are the first that lie frozen here?”

“This ring, Phelpa, is quite appropriate for these souls. These are those that use their websites for the purpose of harming others. These are those not of God from the Westboro Baptist ‘Church’. They use their Internet presence to spread hate and misery across the world, both on homosexuals and atheists as well as those who truly do love and revere God. They represent nothing but damnation for themselves, not for others. Whether those they hate will be sent to actual Hell is not for us to know. What we do know is that they will languish here, cursing the life they brought on themselves. Let us continue.”

The next ring was Trojanora, not as far away as I would have expected, and was filled with those encased all the way past their mouths, ending at their noses, allowing them the priviledge of breathing. They could not speak, save muffled groans, and their pleading eyes followed us as far as we walked.

“Those who created viruses,” Astley said, not even waiting for my question, “They used the Internet – a place of knowledge and exploration – to wreak a special kind of damage on others. They used their promise as programmers not just to scare others, as did those who created the screamers, but to actively cause harm. They created programs to actually damage computers of others for no other reason than to hurt them. These souls now much live throughout eternity being unable to rationalize their behavior to anyone. Their mouths will remain frozen, locked down. And we must move on.”

Lamonaea was the third ring and those that dwelled there were on their backs in the ice, only their faces exposed to the air above. I took care to not step on any of the faces, though the sheer frequency and randomness of the placement of the faces made it impossible to avoid them all. I claim no fault in damaging any that I walked over, yet I cannot feel pity regardless.

“And these?” I asked, curious.

“Those who took creation of viruses even further than those who came before. These are the hackers, the phishers, the scammers. These are those beings who would use the Internet to not only break into computers and systems the world over, but damage and even steal vital information from others. Bank accounts. Personal emails. Even classified governmental secrets. Nothing on the Internet is truly safe from these hackers. They will remain with only their faces exposed forever, their mouths spewing gibberish, even in their panic to escape. If they can form a coherent sentence, they may be allowed to move higher up in Hell. They never shall. One more ring, friend, and then we shall meet the Lord of Darkness himself.”

The last ring was very quiet, for all those souls there were completely encased in ice, their faces contorted in horror, their hands grasping their nether regions firmly. I could feel no pity. If they were here, the last ring before the end, they had to be the worst creatures to populate the Internet and surely deserved whatever suffering they experienced. Astley assured me I was not incorrect.

“The fourth ring. Mootecca. The worst of the worst. Kaos, those who cannot move below us are from 4Chan. They are Anonymous. Here you have all of the worst parts of every previous circle combined into one evil mass. Racists. Pedophiles. Perverts. Idiots. Attention-seekers. Pornography addicts. Wrathful. Hackers. Virus-makers. Meme-creators. Mentally deficient. Morally deficient. Humanity deficient. Being submerged in ice forever is too good for what they have done. Yet they pale in comparison to what we are about to face.”

Ahead of us was a massive iron gate. Past it was the ultimate in evil on the Internet. I was afeared but a firm guiding hand from Astley led me through the gate. My breath left me as I gazed upon him. Massive. Locked in ice up to his waist. All three faces looking bored and emotionless, yet chewing thoughtfully on three creatures whom Astley identified as Fred Phelps in the left mouth, Harvey Levin in the right and Moot – the creator of that damned 4Chan – in the position least desirable, head-first in the center mouth. Behind him, his suit tails whipped up an icy wind, maintaining his imprisonment in this Hell. It was him.

Al Gore.

“Why him?” I managed to stammer out, in awe at this creature before me.

“Simple, my friend. He created the entirety of this evil. By bringing the Internet into existence, he bears the full weight of creating all this evil. All the perverts and hatemongers and idiots are his offspring. All the human exploitation and spam email and cruelty to others are his sins. He committed the ultimate sin: creation. His sin has completely and totally changed the modern world as we know it. Forever. For all the evil he has brought into the world, Internet or real life, he is condemned to be the centerpiece of Internet Hell. Yes, Kaos. Al Gore is the Internet’s Satan.”

“What do we do now?”

“We leave this place. Follow me.”

Quickly, he moved around behind the creature, bringing an annoyed howl from the three mouths and motioned me over. I hurried as fast as I could and followed his example as he jumped onto the back of the tremendous suit, sliding down the fabric. Our journey was long as we traveled further and further down the suit, the fabric never seeming to end. We even passed through the center of the world, the gravity graciously changing to accommodate us. After what seemed to be eons, we emerged from the other side of the world, climbing up onto a beautiful grassy green field, stars sparkling overhead.

We had passed through the Internet’s Hell and had survived. We were free. I was free.


Lost in contemplation over the fate of my fellow humans and friends, I did not notice that Astley had stopped short until I ran into the back of him, stumbling as I went.

“Why did you stop, poet?”

“This you must see. Look, Kaos.”

Annoyed, I followed his gaze to see what he was looking at. My jaw dropped as I stared ahead into what seemed to be nothing. A tremendous gorge ahead of us made me quickly realize that we were standing on a massive cliff that overlooked the Eighth Circle. Winds whistled around us as I snuck forward a bit to stare into the abyss. A rough hand on my shoulder pulled me back and Astley looked at me, disapproving.

“I wouldn’t. Come with me. Our transport is here.”


“Yes. You did not think that we were going to climb down ourselves, did you?”


“Good. Barkoff! We are ready to go.”

A drumming of giant wings tore through the sky as a massive creature landed on the cliff in front of us. Its face was normal, if a bit off-puttingly human but its body was covered in dried blood. The tail of the creature, on the other hand, appeared to be made of another human excretory substance that I would rather not think about. According to Astley, this was Barkoff, our method of reaching the Eighth Circle. He represented – in his words – the entirety of the circle, being made of humanity but also of violence and of excretion. Gingerly, I hopped on his back, hoping that my clothes would remain pristine. It was not to be. A long glide later, we landed at the gate of the Eighth Circle, my outfit grimy with brownish-red. Astley simply thanked our guide and led me to the entrance.

“And what now, guide?”

“We are about to enter the Eighth Circle, though it is known by another name. The Tortoanneli, or ‘twisted rings’. Those who are guilty of deliberately and knowingly frequenting unsavory websites are condemned to these rings, separated into ditches by their most prevalent site. The lack of value that these creatures placed on human lives is why they are down here so low in this kingdom. Yet our journey is aided by the presence of bridges linking the rings. All we must do is pass through them all. Let us not tarry. The bloodlust here is quite high.”

We entered the first Anello – as Astley called it – with much trepidation. There before us, misery ran not free, but in one long line. Hundreds of thousands of souls walked in a circle, with faceless, hideous creatures whipping them unceasingly. Aside from the cries of the damned, there was no sound. The creatures holding the whips said nothing, only used their weapons well.

“These souls here in the first frequented the site known as Stile Project. Dedicated to simple lack of morality, the site used human misery to drive traffic from a sick corner of the Internet to their site, providing them money and ad space and even merchandising and a forum later on. So then must their punishment be equal: they will be driven by those souls that were not given a face or a voice that they exploited. To the next ring, friend.”

The second Anello made me wince as I entered. The rank stench of human excreta was overpowering. Even Astley, shade though he was, used a handkerchief to cover his nose. To my horror, I could see what this ring entailed. Every soul there was standing, roasting in the filth, bemused looks on their faces. They could not speak, could not laugh, could not cry. They were allowed, it seemed, no facial reaction whatsoever to their plight.

“These here indulged their taste for human waste through their patronage – and forwarding – of the video known as ‘2 Girls, 1 Cup’. I am beginning to feel a tad ill, so may we continue on without examining why they steep in waste?”

“And why can they not react to what happens to them?” I asked, fearful of the answer.

“Many of them used the video to shock and horrify friends and loved ones. They are thus denied in eternity the ability to create those reactions they once lusted for. Let us continue, please.”

The bridge to the third Anello was rickity but we made it across without a problem. In this ring, all the souls were placed headfirst into what appeared to be solid stone. Yet, blood seeped from the stone and their cries of pain were unending. Upon closer examination, the bottoms of their feet were sliced to ribbons and salt was rubbed into the wounds, never melted, always grinding away.

“Rotten dot com, my friend. They froze their faces in amusement as they looked upon the death and pain and sorrow of so many other souls. They did not allow themselves to see the humanity in the bodies, simply revelling in the gore. Worse yet, the pictures on the website were taken from many private sources which gave these creatures the ability to feed off of the pain of the families, amplifying it through the knowledge that the Internet had such personal material. Thus their feet are slashed – the familial anguish in physical form – and salt rubbed into the wound – proper amplification in themselves. Let us walk, friend.”

The fourth Anello was filled with those who walked around the ring backwards, their heads violently twisted backwards, their spines unrealistically warped and bent. Even with their walking backwards, they ran into each other, refusing to acknowledge the presence of others. They simply walked in a foot or so of blood, ignoring all that occurred around them.

“Similar to those from Rotten, these who loved Ogrish suffer as well. They turned their heads away from the realism behind such videos as those released showing the murder of various Americans or foreigners on-camera by terrorists or even the death of the wicked Saddam Hussein. They turned from acknowledging the humanity of those in the videos, instead seeing such atrocities as entertainment or even water cooler talk amongst other violent friends. They will not see another human being down here, though they will run into them as they walk forever in the blood they so loved in life. Such is their fate. And may we move on?

The fifth Anello, friends, was much different. As we crossed the bridge, we were met by a troop of winged beasts, their leader sneering at us as it towered over us.

“Welcome travellers,” the monster hissed, “I am Tortocuore, the leader of the Tortomento. You are in our realm now.”

“We understand, Tortocuare. We only wish to pass through,” Astley spoke, no trace of fear in his voice.

“Ah yes. We have heard of your travels and wish not to detain you. I shall send some of my finest with you to provide you safe passage to the sixth Anello. I insist. It would be our pleasure.”

“We accept your offer. Let us continue, Kaos, lest we remain here longer than we must.”

As we walked the path, the beasts flying lazily above us, I noticed that the souls in this ring were covered with and thrashing in pools of what looked to be boiling tar. Their screams bubbled forth from the tar and made me a little queasy. I spoke as quick as I could to Astley to ignore the sounds and begged him to reveal these sins.

“These here are as bad as the others, yet they committed greater sin. You see, they were the damned that would purchase – actually purchase – the videos known as ‘Faces of Death’ and host them on websites for the world to see. They not only paid money for human suffering on video, but paid money as well to spread and disseminate such suffering around the world. For these transgressions, they boil forever in the tar, which symbolizes how their hands are sticky with human blood, having made it more prevalent across the Internet. Ah, we have arrived at…there is no bridge.”


Astley was quite correct. There was no bridge to the sixth Anello. We seemed to be trapped. A laugh erupted from the sky as Tortocuore swooped in, his teeth now bared and sharper than physically possible.

“What is the meaning of this, demon?”

“Oh, a thousand apologies, travellers. We have decided that we would in fact be more our pleasure if you would stay here, damned for all eternity, your flesh flayed from your bones daily by my poor, hungry soldiers. You would not deny them a fresh meal, would you? That would simply be selfish of you.”

“This treachery will not remain unnoted, monster.”

“But it shall, poet. But it shall. You are free to attack now, my friends.”

In what seemed to only be a mere moment, Astley shoved me as hard as he could towards the edge of this ring. I felt my body tip and begin to roll – out of control – down the hill. Yet after a few minutes, I reached flat ground once more and stood up shakily. Astley was there. He looked at me, sighed and gave a small, tired smile. For the moment, we were safe.

Flames whipped the air as Astley and I entered the portal to the Third Circle. The air around us became foul and hot, oppressive in its magnitude. Sweat beaded on my brow and began to pour in small rivulets down my back. Astley maintained his stoic expression, the only movement of his face a small twitch in the corner of his mouth. For whatever reason, this inflamed my temper, some dark, violent corner of my heart perking up and fueling my action.

“Poet, do you take pleasure in my heated agony? How dare you?”

“Welcome to the Third Circle, Kaos. Calm your anger well, hold fast to a cooler persona, or this circle shall swallow you whole, your journey remaining forever incomplete. Here, in this damned place, dwell those whose rage ignites the Internet. Those who infect message boards and various other websites with their unwarranted vitriol. Those who tread not lightly on common decency in their pursuit of attention. They want nothing but others looking at them, uncaring whether it is in a positive or negative way. They are the assholes.”

My heart sank as we began the trek up the hill in front of us. I had encountered men and women such as these on my travails before. They were miserable people, only interested in gaining the notice of others. They destroyed videos and message boards and websites in that search. They remained only concerned with what they could gain, not the feelings and desires of the rest of the Internet. “Self-centered” was too soft and weak a phrase to describe them. “Asshole” only barely covered it as well.

“How quickly may we pass through this place, Astley?” I queried. “I have been here before, on Earth, and I care not for it.”

“Soon, friend. We must first pass the Great Beast.”

“The Great Beast. You have mentioned this Beast before. What is this creature? Is it more fearful than the shades we will experience?”

“Yes. The Great Beast guards the path into the Third Circle. It has been tasked by God to separate the innocuous attention-seekers from the malicious. Its three heads bark at all those who enter, devouring those who deserve not the punishment of the lower circles. Stay fast, traveler. We have arrived.”

As I began to respond to Astley, we crested the hill and my words caught in my throat, frozen in terror by the monstrosity in front of us. Terrible and awe-inspiring, the creature stood thirty feet tall, its paws the size of Buicks with claws like broadswords, its tail a massive thrashing snake. Most horrifying of all were the three heads anchored on muscled necks, the left small, screaming and effeminate, the right pink-haired and obnoxious and the middle a shrouded black mass, the only features being flashing eyes – as if lightbubs – and a slavering, foaming mouth constantly pouring what appeared to be libel made liquid. I sunk to my knees, afeared.

“Behold. Cerebraless.”

“What manner of evil is this leviathan?”

“To the left, the head of Chris Crocker, no longer male or female, but a gibbering mess of androgyny and heterophobia. To the right, that of Perez Hilton, always judging and condemning those with a modicum of taste and civility that pass through here. And in the middle, the most terrifying of all and the most powerful, the horrifying visage of TMZ made flesh, libeling and blinding all for eternity. This creature we must pass to further our descent into Hell.”

“But how, poet? How may we defeat Cerebraless, so daunting an obstacle?”

“We must fill its mouths to prevent it devouring us. Stay here, Kaos. I shall return.

I watched Astley as he approached the creature. All of its eyes were on him. I could not hear what he said but the inflammatory nature was immediately clear as the creature bucked, reared and began to belch a thick, muddy brown substance at Astley. More quickly than I could barely recognize, he projected a shield that diverted the material back into their mouths. Cerebraless began to choke and cough and thrash about. Astley called to me, gesturing wildly to the now open path behind the monster.

“Quickly, my friend! We must depart before the creature clears its throats!”

With wild abandon, I ran, knowing my fate if I failed to reach the path in time. When all appeared clear, I stopped to breathe, bent over, my body unused to such strenuous physical labor. Before I could stand upright, Astley appeared next to me, smiling a small grin.

“What did you make happen, poet?”

“I simply ignited their rage with a certain ‘f’ word and, when they began to spew their usual fecal emissions at me, I redirected the output back into their mouths, choking them with hypocrisy. Cerebraless will survive, but it shall be cowed for a few months. More than enough time for us to leave this circle. Come. We must quickly move through this place before it is discovered what we have done.”

“What WE have done? Poet, you…”

“Yes, what we have done. Come. Just over this rise is the expanse of the Third Circle.”

I held my tongue, unwilling to let Astley provoke me. I stewed silently until we reached the top of the next hill in front of us. In front of me was a vast plain filled with anguished souls screaming in futile rage.

“Who are these that live here? You mentioned the assholes, but there are so many in so many places throughout the Internet. Surely they cannot all reside in this place. Not when there are so many others.”

“No. Three primary groups dwell in the middle of the plain, soaking in a pit of liquid fire. The rest, scattered all over, are unimportant as they sparsely populate all places. Those in the pit are concentrated. Let us see them now.”

We weaved our way through the myraid of souls fighting around us, throwing punches that did not connect with anything, yelling into the aether. The pit, as Astley has labeled it, was exactly as he has described. Fire swirled around the groups mingling far down below us, all furious, all hating.

“And these groups? Where did they reside on Earth?”

“This mass consists of three groups: those that lived on YouTube, those that lived on IMDb and those that played online video games, primarily Xbox and PC. The YouTubers are damned to becoming the focus of their hate on Earth. The racists are now black, Asian, Latino, or Caucasian, unable to condemn others for the color of their skin. The homophobes have become homosexuals, thirsting for the genitalia they so scorned on Earth. The extreme politicizers have switched parties and are made to endure slanted speech against their beliefs. The atheists are forced to listen to church services on end. And so on.”

“And yet I see two redheads that I favored on Earth – Meekakitty and Ella Morton – thrashing down there as well! They did no wrong on Earth!”

“So their fans are, so shall they be judged. Ignoring hate speech damns you as much as those that speak it.”

“And the IMDbers?”

“That depends on their outlook. Those that flooded the boards with concern over the morality of clearly violent or sexual or controversial movies are forced to watch them with children of pre-pubescent age. Those that took to boards only to destroy or trash movies now are only able to watch those very movies and feel the same anger at their perceived lack of quality. And those who so crudely threaten sexual abuse on celebrities now are given the chance but the total lack of wherewithal to follow through.”

“The gamers, then. What suffering must they go through, deserved though it is?”

“They suffer the worst fate of all. They only may play video games on servers that contain naught but bots. They cannot play against another human. They cannot talk to another human. They cannot brag to another human. They must suffer their accomplishments in utter solitude. Tears pour from their eyes at this realization.”

“I see. It is no less than they should suffer. Come, Astley. Let us continue our travel into the Fourth Circle. I am beginning to feel my heart warmed with these souls being punished and schadenfreude does not become me.”

“Wise words.”

As we left the Third Circle, I allowed myself one small smile of pleasure at the fates of those that suffered here. I could not help it. After seeing the destruction they had wrought on the Internet, it was an enjoyable moment to see them hurt. Astley shook his head sadly as he glanced and saw my smile. That, however, was not what was to later trouble me. That was to be understood the further I descended. For truth, though I could not recognize it at the time, somewhere below me – I believe – I heard a quiet laugh.

Friends, as we two – the poet and I, your faithful narrator – passed through the tunnel, we came upon a monstrous room, the height of which I could not determine. There, in the center of the room, lounging on an oversized computer chair, a massive keyboard on his lap, was a morbidly obese man, skin flecked with acne scars, his shirt tight across his breasts, fingers stained an orange hue from the snacks in the bowl that rested on his giant hip. The room, save a thin walkway leading to the man, was filled with souls clamoring to hear their fate, laptops and mice chained around their necks. His voice, curiously high and reedy, echoed off the walls as he sent the souls to their fates. Bidding the next creature draw near, he gazed through thick lenses at the trembling soul, his nostrils flared to more readily absorb and classify the smell of their sins. Within a moment, his judgement was decided. As he announced the circle to which the soul would be sent, he pressed a button on his keyboard and the unfortunate soul plummeted down to their eternal hell.

“Fourth Circle. RedTube,” he bellowed. Seventh Circle. Second Circle. Eighth Circle. Second Circle. Second Circle. Fifth Circle. Ninth Circle. As the “ninth” was called, the other souls voiced their displeasure at the doomed one, a soul so wicked it forces even the damned to weep. To be damned to the Ninth Circle is to have previously renounced any sense of good or humanity one has. A surge of fear in imagining what terrors I would face there curled a cold wind around my spine.

“Who is this creature, poet?” I asked Astley, my voice cracking as if a burgeoning pubescent.

“He is Adminos, Judge of the Netdamned. Once a powerful king of one of the most mighty message boards on the Internet, he now sits on his velvet throne, doing in Hell as he once did on Earth. With a press of that button, he bans the person to the most fitting circle, entirely dependent on their Internet sins. He is bound to this place, unable to use his own discretion or biases or personal vendetta to alter the future of others. He only is able to sense what they have earned and to send them to the proper circle. This is his punishment. Eternal power over the souls of others yet powerless to do other than press a button.”

“Can he not damn us, as we are here?”

“Our time has not yet arrived. Come. We must descend. The Second Circle awaits.”

He gestured to a jagged hole in the far wall. Moving quickly through the morass of waiting souls, we exited through the hole out onto a cliff. My legs nearly failed me as a cursed wind whipped our faces with icy lashes at great speed. A tremendous din, though not all wind, poured around us, deafening us. My eyes widened as I surveyed the sights in front of me, still vainly trying to hold my balance. A vast caldera met my gaze, spanning as far as I could see. Clouds and fire masked much but I could discern the various rings and in the very center, still far, far away from my guide and I, was a city with walls that jutted high into open air. Somehow I knew that it was not my time to know of the city.

Slowly, carefully, we descended the treacherous cliff via a small, winding path. Several times my heart grew tight in my chest as we traversed the path that seemed to disappear at points, yet soon enough we reached level ground. I bent to kiss the earth, but Astley stopped me, cautioning me against such reckless and unsanitary behavior. With a nod forward, he gestured me onwards, onwards into the Second Circle.

As I entered the circle, a large enclosed arena that appeared as if it were a terrarium at some hellish zoo, a blast of stimuli greeted me, forcing me backwards. Dings and chimes and screaming surrounded us two as reds and oranges and popup windows flashed and disappeared and flashed again, all in an instant. The influx of sensory input overwhelmed me. Staggered, I fell to one knee.

“Astley, what is this place? What have we entered?”

“This is the Second Circle, my friend. This circle and the next are of the Attention-Seeking Sins.”

“The Attention-Seeking Sins?”

“Yes. In these circles exist those who treat the Internet not as a place of learning and growth, not as a place to build relationships with like-minded individuals, not as a place to stay abreast of the current events de jour, but simply as a sounding board where they can be louder and more obnoxious than the rest. Think of these circles, if you will, as users screaming as loud as they can to be heard above the rest.”

“That presumably explains the screaming.”

“Indeed. This circle, the second of nine, is the Circle of Social. Those who reside here do not wish harm on other users. They simply demand that they be paid more attention. Three primary groups make up this circle, though they do intermingle. Near the ceiling, aching to break free of the constraints of this place, are the Twitterers. There in the middle, surrounding their false god, are the Facebookers. And there, buried deep in the myraid closets that line this circle, are the Myspacers. All damned but all in different ways.”

As I looked, I grew puzzled and desired nothing more than to learn more. I wished to understand the groups, learn why and how they were punished. With a sigh, Astley acquiesced and led me first to a platform where I was affixed with small blue wings that carried me high up into the Twitterers. All appeared morose and sullen, frustrated.

“What is their punishment, poet?”

“Those who are damned for Twitter are cursed to a life of no followers, their thoughts and jokes and musings lost into the aether. No matter how many others they follow, they will never receive a reader. Their updates only rarely go through as well, the service failing just as they attempt to post something, anything. They have been promised respite from their torment if they reach a state of being entirely caught up on all updates, yet just as they are reading the last Tweet, thousands more pour in. Finally, every hour on the hour, all the work they have done, all the posts they have managed to push through, is erased when the Fail Whale erupts from the great blue expanse of the sky, consuming all that has been said. For the Twitterers, they are relegated to a life of obscurity and wasted time as they were when they lived.”

An excited cry came from my left and I looked to see a joyful man, clad in a trucker hat, exult. Curious, I called to him.

“Man, why do you laugh? Are you not condemned?”

“Totally, dude! But check it, I just got my first follower! I’m the most followed dude on Twitter, dude! CNN can suck one! Ashton Kutcher wins!”

Just then, a monstrous white whale, a creature that Melville saw in his nightmares, tore through the sky and swallowed the man whole. On his screen, a lonely zero appeared. Concerned at this monster’s presence, I flew back down to Earth. After a brief moment to regain my land legs, I walked with Astley over to the Facebookers. In the middle of their giant circle sat a smug man, casually waving to everyone, assured of his brilliance.

“Who is this that towers over these poor souls?”

“That is Zuckerberg, creator of the god they worshipped, their Facebook.”

“He is damned, yet he does not suffer?”

“On the contrary, he suffers as his people suffer. Their punishment is twofold. For every misspelled word, for every instance of text speak, for every high school age drama laid bare for the world to see, they are burned by Grammar Nazis until their sins are corrected. Every sin they ever committed on that site is punished. Most remain eternally burned. As well, Zuckerberg is forced to change completely every day the site they hold so dear . The design of their love is malleable and serves only to anger and frustrate its users. To them, he is a power-mad dictator, unconcerned with the concerns of those who worship him.”

“Does he yet hurt from their insults?”

“Not outwardly. He is – in the vernacular of the time – a douchebag. Inside, though, he cries tears of anguished blood.”

“And the Myspacers? What becomes of them, Astley?”

“See for yourself.”

As we walked, music began to swell, louder and louder, until it became nigh on earpiercing as we approached. As I winced, I tried my best to ask of the poet what they were experiencing.

“My friend, they are trapped in their closets, unable to enter the real world. I dare not open one, but inside, they are bombarded with horrifically gaudy and flashy colors, terrible laughing and screaming icons and wave after wave of abominable independent music that sounds more akin to a human child with colic being fed feet first into a blender than any semblance of music. Worst of all, they toil in their closets, unnoticed by the world at large. There was once a time where these were kings among the Internet, but their time has passed, faded idiots in a world of idiots born anew.”

My stomach clenched, horrified at their fate. I had to leave. I could not experience this anymore.

“Take me, poet, to the Third Circle. I can no more stomach this place than I can accept Jedi as a world religion.”

“Then come, friend. We shall face the Great Beast together.”

I dared not ask what the Great Beast entailed. I would know soon enough.