Posts Tagged ‘Violence’

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.
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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.
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(You’re a sociopath, huh? – ed)

Drink drink drink! Happy New Year, bitches!


We’re doing the penis name thing again. This one always seems to get some nice traffic and anything original is damn sure not in the pipeline quite yet. Blame grad school, heavy drinking, sexual frustration, and working on an actual for-publication book. Yay for being twenty-six!
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If you engage in non-consensual sex and/or if no woman will touch you, name it Dr. No. This one is basically a gimmie here. Plus it’s a good warning for anyone. It’d be like calling your dick The Hungerer or 23-Skidoo. It’s basically like painting it bright red and giving it an alarm system.

If you prefer to cyber/text/email/Skype/letter/horsedrawn carriage in a long-distance sexfest, name it From Russia with Love. Also be prepared to have anything and everything you send used against you if you want to go into a political career. Hope you like your cock on the New York Post front page!

If you like to diddle rich cougars in the back of their Escalades, name it Goldfinger. If you’re good, she may even give you an Oddjob in return. No, I don’t know what that is, but no, I’m not proud of that joke either.

If you insist on only having sex in the middle of a lightning storm (inside or out, doesn’t matter), name it Thunderball. This may also apply if you bangarang the chick so hard that you’re making loud clapping noises, like some BBW kind of porno.

If you fire away and then come back for a second round (but only a second round), name it You Only Live Twice. There…wasn’t a whole lot of funny ore to be mind out of this one. I have the sinking feeling that that may apply for a lot of these. Stupid!

If you are banging Kate Middleton on the side, first off let me congratulate your spectacular assholery but also, name it On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Seriously, though. If you are doing that, you are a champion.

If you are fucking one of multiple different porn stars that use precious stones as either a first or last stage name, name it Diamonds Are Forever. Also, get yourself checked out. That syphilis scare ain’t no joke.

If at any point you have had sex to the musical stylings of Paul McCartney, name it Live and Let Die. This could also apply if you were having sex on the edge of a cliff and, at the point of climax, your partner pulled off and rolled off the edge into oblivion but she was still hanging on by the tips of her fingers but you orgasmed and let her drop to her death. Maybe not in that order. That’s an oddly specific kink though.

If you have ever roleplayed as Christopher Lee, complete with extremely uncomfortable spousal abuse, name it The Man with the Golden Gun. Also, if you’ve ever involved a midget in your sexplay. That works too.

If you…I don’t know. Wait! If you’ve done the dirty with Anna Chapman, name it The Spy Who Loved Me. Saved by a hot redhead! First time I’ve ever said that…or written it.

If you’re super into spanking, name it Moonraker. Get it? It’s a vocabulary joke. It also applies if you put it in her dumper.

If you are involved with a chick who is really, really against the idea of any sort of sexual exhibitionism, name it For Your Eyes Only. You should also consider discussing your relationship and what sort of sexual experimentation you both would be comfortable with in order to strengthen your lives.

If you…you know what? No. This is too freaking obvious. You make your own joke for this one when you name it Octopussy.

If you get off watching snuff films, you sick fuck, name it A View to a Kill. This also counts if you produce what is widely considered to be the worst sex possible within the context of movies. Also if you’re Christopher Walken, in which case, welcome to the site, Mr. Walken! I love your work.

If you wreck a girl so hard that she’s dazed and confused and not really sure where she’s at, first off, congrats, and second off, name it The Living Daylights. You might also want to check her for bruising or tearing or maybe even a concussion. That’s probably not healthy.

If you…are James Bond? I guess? Name it Licence to Kill. This one also makes it impossible to create a filthy ambiguity to it. Thanks a whole lot, MGM or whatever. Oh! If you’re a two-shot Scott (or Timothy, I guess) and can only do it twice with a chick before you pass her off to another, more handsome, and younger dude. Also name it that then.

If you’re into peeing on a girl’s face (also sick fuck), then you pretty much have to name it GoldenEye. Gross. More like “pinkeye in a day or two”. Maximum. You probably won’t be able to look at her in the eye for a while either. That’s a dark step.

If you fantasize about Teri Hatcher and then about Teri Hatcher being dead, name it Tomorrow Never Dies . Also if newspapers turn you on for some reason. I’m not sure what kind of philia that is and I’m not sure I want to know.

If you’re down for a little erotic asphyxiation, name it The World Is Not Enough. This only makes sense if you’ve seen the movie and if you have, you’ll find this apropos. It also applies if you’ve rubbed one out to Denise Richards, but let’s be honest, that covers like 3/4 of all mankind – past and present.

If you prefer to engage in delayed orgasm techniques, name it Die Another Day. See, because orgasm in French is “le petit mort” or “the Little Death” so if you ‘die’ another day, you’re cumming…later. You know what, I just murdered this joke. Moving on.

If you like being tied to a chair and having your nuts pounded with a length of knotted rope, you’re probably sterile by now. Also, name it Casino Royale.

If you fuck the pain away, just like Peaches, name it Quantum of Solace. It also works if you had a weird fetish for motor oil and fire.

If you come back after what some previous people called a weak sex and absolutely blow their minds, name it Skyfall

Now that those titles are done, it’s on to characters and such!

If you’re always full of surprises and like bringing new toys into the equation, name it Q.

If you love having sex and just don’t even care too much about the condition it is (quantity over quality), name it Pussy Galore.

If you have it bad for this one particular person but never manage to get quite close enough to seal the deal, name it Moneypenny. And God have mercy on your poor sex life.

If you just want a hilarious name, name it Albert R. Broccoli. You could do something here about it being green but…blech.

If you’ve got a Louisville Slugger swinging down by your knees, name it Plenty O’Toole. Heh. Tool.

Finally, if you’re just going to be a bragging asshole, call it what it is and name it Mr. Big.
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(We would like to stress that we don’t suggest any of these names for real, especially not the more distasteful ones. – ed.)

Speak for your damn self! I’m Mr. Big now and forever!

Halloween For Kids: Then and Now

Posted: October 31, 2012 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , , , ,

First off, all of our wonderful readers on Twitter need to follow @GrigorNR immediately. It’s an occasional dose of DECF compacted into 140 characters. Basically, it’s a free laugh. So…you know…do. Follow. The account. Yes.

…okay.

Halloween is a time for ghosts and ghouls, goblins and…um…gallavanting? I’m not sure where I was going with that. But the point is that it’s one of the most fun holidays of the year, particularly when you’re in college and drunk and all around you are just masses of dancing, writhing, walking slut-costumes. You could practically walk around a college frat party with your dick jutting proudly out like a royal sceptre and trip and fall into sex. You know…if you were so inclined.

But Halloween isn’t just for obscene amounts of alcohol consumption and promiscuity in the bathroom of a frat house with a ballerina. It’s also about the children. NOT making the children. The actual little crotch-spawns running around being all cute. But Halloween is different now than when old men like me were walking around in the cuteness. No, it has a…darker edge to it. Why don’t we just compare Halloween traditions from back when we were children to the way they are now, hm? Well…we’re going to do it anyways.
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Party Games
Then: Remember all the games that you would play at your school Halloween parties? You know, games like the spaghetti being brains and peeled grapes being eyeballs, bobbing for apples, cake walks…um…knife throwing. Maybe? The point is that they were all fun and could even be a little spooky. Which is nice.

Now: Yeah, spaghetti and grapes? Fuck that noise. When you put your hand into the bag and feel something cold and slimy and gross and you giggle because it’s fun to be grossed out but then you peer into the bag and, hey guess what, it’s actually a HUMAN BRAIN…welcome really fast to adulthood, kiddies.

Recess
Then: Hide and seek and tag and football with miniaturized sports stars and witches and the occasional Scream-face guy for those kids whose parents just didn’t really give a shit about them – you know the kid, the one that was allowed to watch any movie he wanted on TV, even the stuff on the dirty channels, so you went over to his house on weekends so you could glimpse just the occasional, first confusing attraction to softcore porno – all laughing and enjoying the cool, even cold, autumn air as the last vestiges of warmth are drawn away from the earth.

Now: Grim, silent plotting as the rival gangs of Princesses, Rap Stars, and Poor Kids divvy up the playground area into territories, laying down boundaries with Pixy Sticks and the corpses of kindergartners, clad in Power Rangers costumes, who ventured too far away from the safe area right next to the school. The further out the playground extends, the more lawless it becomes. The Outland is ruled by fifth-graders, surly and experimenting with the stolen bottle of apple schnapps one stole from his dad’s liquor cabinet. That way lies death for trespassers.

Costumes
Then: Adorable for girls, monstrous for boys. You would have pretty princesses, cute witches, little bunnies or puppies, fairies, and other forest creatures. You would have devils and knights and ghosts and spiders and that same weird kid with the Scream-mask and a muffled voice. It was tame.

Now: Slutty. Everything is slutty. Slutty princess. Slutty witch. Slutty bee. Slutty Michael Jackson. Slutty Twilight. Slutty Dora the Explorer. Slutty Iron Man. And no, I’m not talking at a frat party. I’m talking for kids. Once you’ve seen your third “Octomom’s Masturbation Video” costume, that’s the time to turn the lights off and drink.

Abuses
Then: Urban legends about razor blades shoved into apples or pixie sticks laced with poison. Parental caution to burgeon childhood fears just enough to make sure that the children remain safe and lusting over the chocolate until they can get home and have their parents check to make sure everything is safe (while taking their ten percent candy tax, the lazy criminal fucks).

Now: A child puts his hand into a candy bowl. Boom. Three days later they find his Master Chief helmet on the side of a highway in New Mexico, his head still in the helmet, the body about a mile away, raped and mutilated beyond recognition. Do not choose “trick”, kids. Don’t ever choose “trick”.

Trick or Treating
Then: Going door to door, knocking on the houses that have lights on. A kindly elderly couple answers the door and coos and gushes over how cute you are or how fearsome you are (depending on girl or boy). Then they would hand you a few pieces of bite-sized candy, you would thank them, and you’d be on your way. You would repeat this a few dozen times or more, depending on the size of your neighborhood. Your parents would be back on the street, keeping a watchful eye…or they would be drunk as a lord, depending on how long a day your dad had at work.

Now: Your parents carry you up to the door, knock sharply and, when the neighbor comes out, holds out the bucket, tells you to say trick or treat, then demands they drop it in and close the door. Halfway down the sidewalk, they start crying and hold you tight, commenting on how close they were to losing you and how much they hate this night. That’s when you smell the vodka on Daddy’s breath.

Scary Stories
Then: The hook in the car door. The lipstick message on the mirror. The ghostly passenger in the car. The monster in the woods. The weird neighbor next door. The disappearing naughty children. You know, all the crap that’s scary when you’re little but makes you laugh now. Like Large Marge. Okay, maybe not that because I still piss myself every time I hear that name.

Now: Student loans coming due. Mommy and Daddy are taking a break from each other. The babysitter with the roaming hands. The gym teacher that plays Tickle Monster at Penn State. The neighbor that you think is scary as hell because he’s quiet and bearded but then you find out he’s alright because he knocks out two home invaders that are going to cut you apart but then, oh wait, he fucks you and buries you in a shallow grave anyways. Womp womp.

Decorations
Then: Fake spider webs all over. Cute and funny (to old people) posters and cutout witches and Frankenstein’s monsters and vampires. Maybe a skull or two. The pumpkin out front, obviously. Maybe those fake gravestones and some spooky lighting if they’re a fucking overachiever, CATHY.

Now: The neighbor that, upon finding his wife cheating on him with his business partner, his son having sex with the left tackle of the football team, his daughter fucking the rest of the offensive line, his job being eliminated due to “cutbacks in fuck you, you’re fired”, his Nissan Sentra having been egged with the tires slashed, windows broken, and CD player stolen, and his dog dead of choking on a squirrel, hangs himself from the big fir tree in his front yard the afternoon of Halloween.

Carving Pumpkins
Then: A family affair, making silly faces (Mom), scary faces (Dad), a clown face (other Dad), a kitty face (Sis), a monster face (Bro), and a penis (You).

Now: All of them are penises, except for Other Dad, who makes the clown face still…just with a penis in its mouth. And Dad’s in his. Womp womp again.

Parade/March
Then: A joyous celebration of the Halloween spirit. All the kids at school would dress up in their best costumes and dance and cheer their way down Main Street. Parents and volunteers would toss candy at them, trying to reach their plastic pumpkin buckets. That one poor opportunistic kid acting as a street sweeper and grabbing ALL the candy that doesn’t quite make it to the buckets, biting the parents that try to get him to share.

Now: Seven hundred painted Jokers, Hulks, and Ice Queens marching in silent, determined, perfect lockstep down a barren Main Street, the joy of the holiday being lost as the inexorable Bataan Death March to oblivion commences with the size 7 children’s boots tramping down the faces of those volunteers pleading for mercy, though mercy will not come.
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(Holy. Shit. THIS was a little dark, wouldn’t you say? – ed.)

Maybe.

(And what’s with all the child abuse jokes this time? – ed.)

What do you expect? It’s Halloween!

(Good point. – ed.)

Happy Halloween everyone! May your night be warm, your skies be clear, and may you not experience a naked dude coming to the door holding a bottle of whiskey and a ragged, sexually violated clown puppet!


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!


We apologize for the month between each article. What with packing and moving twice and visiting the place that KT is going to live and handling a breakup with the [insert typical vicious derogatory term here], the ability to be funny is waning quite a lot. However, one thing we have not done in a while that always brings the funny is to go into our search terms to see what depravity brings people to this website. And let us tell you…the people who link here are messed up in the brain. Please enjoy the fifth installment of what can charitably be called the most long-running series on this site.
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why do teenage girls become wayward?: I would assume that it’s because teenage girls are a discontinued lipgloss flavor away from a complete psychological meltdown at every single point in the day.

they are you antsy furniture ny and my bro mass of hudson mass: If I could even decipher this, I would attempt to answer it. As it stands right now, the best I can interpret this as is someone from the northeast region of the US being an absolute retard, not like it takes a whole lot.

sloopy titts videos: Sloopy titts? I could understand ‘sloppy tits’ but sloopy tits is more along the lines of asking if I know where to buy a small boat and how to rename it…with videos.

petroleum vodka: Grigor isn’t dead!

“dick into emma watson”: I really hope this happened after she was eighteen. Actually, if I’m being honest, I was really hoping this wouldn’t be a search term at all. Although at this point, Emma Watson would kind of be like winning a gold medal after missing out on the Special Olympics. Or is that too harsh?

gay boy dan eats gas: What. The. Fuck. Is. This. There is so, SO much wrong with this search term that I just frankly don’t want to know about.

anal beads cereal: Quick! To the patent office!

skyrim one arm bigger than the other: The funniest part about this one isn’t that it’s probably referring to the Skyrim characters being Self-Pleasure Geniuses, but the fact that this particular search – with different phrasing – appears no less than FIVE MORE TIMES in the search records for this site. Apparently, we are the top of the top with Skyrim masturbators. I’m…proud?

how to write like a girl teenager: At first look, this appears pretty innocuous. If you read into it, though, it sounds more like a ephebophile looking to pick up some tips to prey on innocent young…I assume boys but who the hell knows with those freaks?

how to make something for marsturbating rough: The insistence on rough masturbation troubles me. I don’t know why my readers apparently hate their dicks but it’s common enough to be a relatively normal search term. Let me be clear: do not rip up your penis with rough jacking off.

how to fuck my wife in skyrim: Again, not an uncommon search term. I got a ‘bang my wife’ one with this as well. Apparently, there are guys out there that really want to have virtual sex with video game characters. But then again, I can’t really judge since my porn library at this point rivals the Library of Congress.

instantmonkeysonline: HOW IS THIS A NEED?!

wayward prayer teenage girl This is getting a little strange. The wayward thing is apparently more of a fetish than I was aware of.

pornstar nan binya: I know Priya Anjali Rai if that makes you feel any better…Nan Binya is a stranger to me.

mighty morphin power rangers monsters who eat the power rangers: If this had happened, don’t you think that the (apparently) King of P.R. trivia would have known about it? No, I don’t think that happened. No, I don’t think you’re okay for asking about it.

sex eating cat song: Is this trying to relate eating cats and sex? Or is it about eating sex and is sung by cats? There is so much that this asks.

saints katrina bullshit: Ah, Colts fans.

“abortion session” fucked: …I don’t even know what to say about this one except that I’m disturbed. Is this talking about after-abortion sex? I really hope not…

nuttin bitch cereal picture: I cannot even explain how badly I want to see this picture they are asking about. I don’t know if they mean the cereal is called ‘Nuttin Bitch’ or what…it’s hilarious to think about though.

jani lane memorabilia near boston: This is very specific. Also, it’s incredibly morbid. At least they aren’t wanting to get his skin or something.

scorpions song beginning with horns: There’s a song that Scorpions did with brass? Am I going to fall in love with them more or is this a lie?

metal baby in the womb: I know this probably refers to what the article was about with the baby that loves metal music but it’s funnier to think of like a plate-metal baby sitting and gestating, occasionally sending off electrical sparks as it floats.

baby eats metal: Okay, I take that back. This is a whole lot funnier.

cartoon video where bin laden is killed by a sniper and pissed on by superfly: This was about the point that I started laughing so hard that a little bit of pee may or may not have come out. This is possibly the best and/or funniest search term that has ever brought people to this site.

eat the pussy up, thanksgiving! like marvin ya body need some sexual healing: I literally couldn’t think for a couple minutes after this one from laughing. I love that this site is now associated with not only rap music but shitty rap music at that. God bless America.

natalie portman yeah i had a baby but im still crazy so show my ass respect cause i make that fucking gravy: This has to be something off of The Lonely Island. I’m going to assume it was the 100th clip of all of that. That’s the only explanation.

dangerrers++big+ass: I think I just need to blame this one on one of those bot searches otherwise…no, I can’t actually think of a reason this would fit for here.

true blue test cat food.cob antelope: It started out okay, like perhaps looking for an obscure brand of cat food. Then it hit antelope and it all went off the rails badly.

erotic story pregnant woman crying in bathroom comforted by brother towel falls he’s erect they have sex:…is there really even any need for my site after this? I mean, it’s pretty clear what is being searched for and is also pretty clear that I’m not really okay with it and the specificity.

i fucked an asian milf at the venetian in vegas last weekend: Cool story, bro. Are you just bragging or looking to find someone to commiserate with?

he who laughs last probably has an extra chromosome: I’m not even going to lie. I love this joke. It makes me laugh every time. I hate myself.

pink ranger kim fucked by alpha: This one actually made me wave my hands in the air in shock and confusion. Out of anyone in the Power Rangers canon, you want to see the ROBOT fucking her? You couldn’t pick the black guy or the gay one?

“go for the balls” friend: That’s not a great friend.

skyrim girl argonian fucking a boy dragon pics: And now we’re getting stuck with furries. Awesome. That’s totally what I want associated with my site. I’d rather they just kill themselves (along with a certain other person) and leave room for the nubile barely-legal redheads flooding to the site.

st helens sluts: Does this exist? I really want to know. Are there people that get all hot and bothered over volcanoes?

f-valium sterilization food.com: Annnnnnnd now we’re picking up the conspiracy theorists as well. Fantastic. We’re a racial separatist away from a bingo.

-=8[flr.skrrkk: Awesome. Someone had a seizure and died and it just happened to lead them here. Hope you enjoyed your stay, brief as it was!

cousin’s cousin eats cat at home sex videos: Come on now. The cousin-fucking was the main thing here. You can try to mask it with cat eating all you want but we all know what you’re here for. Also, we’re not interested.

http://www.toilet eats the food sex: I’m starting to sense a trend and it’s the worrying combination of food, sex, and toilet humor. No, wait, that’s the site itself, really.

“red dress” morgan freeman oscars cleavage 2012: What in the HELL? How do you mix up Morgan Freeman and Anne Hathaway? I shiver at the thought.

what vhappens when its you first felony and get busted with 8 ball of cocain?: Well, what happens is you go to jail for like ten years. And then your asshole gets raped by big, mean bikers. Hopefully somewhere in that period gives you time to learn how to spell correctly. Enjoy the buttsex!

racism kama sutra: This made me giggle a lot. The Kama Sutra is kind of the antithesis of racists, although you could make awful names for sex positions like the Hanging [insert racial epithet here] or something like that. No, I’m not proud of that joke. Yes, I’m a little uncomfortable with it.

toons 18 mighty morphin power rangers pond sex fuck: Most of this I can understand. It’s the word ‘pond’ that confuses me. Does it mean that the person searching can’t get off to Power Ranger sex if it doesn’t take place on or near a landlocked body of water? Do they need ducks quacking to stimulate them? Are frogs making it more kinky? I don’t know!

you fapping’ muppet you why i oughta: Yep, those are the people that come to this site. Sorry for the ripoff, Bill Simmons.
——
That actually makes me a little sad. People are so messed up. But hey, traffic is traffic so…come one, come all, come at the same time you freaks. DECF is here to serve your needs!

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!