BLOGOSPHERE—Lacking the joie de vivre to take up meaningful hobbies like sewing and spelunking, a woman visited her husband’s blog ten years after its inception. “I had no idea that Ronald has been writing about me,” Sheryl Sans-Blurb, 47, said after reading an article entitled “Wife Makes Historic First Visit to Husband’s Ten-Year-Old Blog”. “Otherwise, I would have visited his blog a long time ago.”
“I’ve been writing about you for quite some time already,” replied Ronald Dump. “You’re always drinking milk and watching TV beside me while I type about you on my 17-inch laptop.”
Notwithstanding Sans-Blurb’s unforgivable negligence, blogging experts remarked that the visit is a rare event that will go down in blogging history. “It’s almost like some law of nature,” said one WordPress reader. “Spouses seem to be as averse to visiting each other’s blogs as they are to discussing the intellectually stimulating intricacies of tax law. They never do it.”
Unbeknownst to Dump, Sans-Blurb noted that she will never again visit his blog. She opts instead to continue to do whatever she’s been doing for the past ten years of her life, because it is just that much more interesting.
BLOGOSPHERE—Saying that he will kill himself if he doesn’t get more than two ‘likes’, blogger Ronald Dump, 32, went on a massive liking spree in a last-ditch effort to achieve fame and fortune, subsequently developing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.
“I spent more time ‘liking’ everyone’s blog than I did watching porn. That is unprecedented,” declared an inattentive Dump, who continued to ‘like’ everyone’s post while he talked to reporters. “I will do this until I get more likes. If I don’t, I will kill myself.”
Dump rudely avoided eye contact throughout the interview as he winced in pain clicking ‘like’ buttons. To ease the pain, he periodically sipped on a tumbler of single malt whisky with the help of his other hand. “This is also unprecedented,” he mumbled with a cigarette in his mouth. “I usually use my other hand for recreational purposes while the first hand clicks on pornography. But I’ve discovered that that’s a real waste of time, and blogging is more important.”
The single malt, in tandem with a Tupperware full of Xanax, also serves as a means to take his own life should he not become an internet celebrity. Additionally, Dump has set a large revolver in his desk drawer and lots of ammo in case his firearm jams. “I swear to God I will blow my brains out,” he said. “Fucking ‘like’ me already. I ‘liked’ you. What the fuck else do you want?”
Unfortunately, Dump has had no ‘likes’ since he ‘liked’ everyone’s blog. He is nowhere to be found and has not answered our phone calls since Monday. While he may simply be suffering from writer’s block, the assumption is that he has killed himself.
Dump’s last words were, “I would rather kill myself than ‘like’ myself.”
HOLLYWOOD—Saying that he doesn’t care what other people say about him, a gay man bravely donned a quintessentially heterosexual black blazer and button-down shirt Friday morning.
“I am wearing a heterosexual suit and serving straight up daddy realness,” declared LeBar. “I don’t care what society says about me. I have panache, energy, nerve, individualism, and suaveness.”
Georges LeBar, 57, spoke at length about mankind’s heterophobic herstory. “Straight men have been nice to us, and we totally fucked it up. For hundreds, if not thousands, of years, we’ve burned and kicked and lynched and drowned and mutilated them before throwing them to the lions and torturing them with pickup trucks and banishing them from society and raping everyone and their mothers. The modern man is different. We have compassion for our straight brothers, and we’ll take a leaf from John Stuart Mill’s book.”
LeBar added that gays should stop calling straights “breeders” and “maggots” because such derogatory terms are “fucking stupid.”
He declared, almost condescendingly, “Being a man is almost an act of treason in a gay-dominated society. But to all my straight buddies hiding in their man caves, it’s okay. Just come out. We’re all friends.”
Bangkok—After selling green curry and driving a tuk tuk for fifteen years, Thai local Terdsak Pichaironnarongsongkram professed his admiration for tourist Katie Swanson’s authentically Thai elephant pants.
“It really breaks up the monotony to see a reasonably attractive Caucasian woman for the first time in ten years, wearing elephant pants, and politely greeting me with a ‘sawadika’ before boarding my tuk tuk with a backpack and selfie stick,” said Pichaironnarongsongkra. “I have never seen anything quite like it before.”
Locals reported that Swanson eschewed McDonald’s, opting instead for an authentic, non-spicy Pad Thai, coconut milk, and banana pancakes. “I decided to take the road not taken,” said Swanson. “People go to see this and that temple and do American things like taking a taxi. So, I said, ‘I’m gonna be different’. So, I got myself a pair of elephant pants from this sidewalk vendor and bought an authentic handmade statue of Buddha, which is a very exotic god that I adore because it, like, helps me with my aura, and, you know, with my yoga and Sanskrit and mandala or whatever.”
“It’s beautiful to see a foreigner who is so in love with our culture,” said Pichaironnarongsongkra. “I mean, even I don’t wear those authentically Thai elephant pants, and I’m Thai. But she’s just so much more Thai than me.”
Last month, a retired philosophy professor asked for a refund because the sex android he bought from us did not “moan and argue like Leibniz.” Yes. There’s a burgeoning market for that kind of thing.
The technicians understood Leibniz’s mathematics, but had difficulty with his philosophy. So, I had to explain to them the fundamentals of windowless monads, preformation, and medieval conceptions of causation. “We shall proverbially touch each other’s’ monads by means of ideal influence,” Silicone Leibniz was subsequently programmed to utter. Then, he would moan, upon penetration: “Oh, Newton, this is the best of all possible worlds!” The reprogrammed Leibniz passed the professor’s Turing Test, so, by law, we were no longer obligated to give him a refund.
Silicone Leibniz is one of 163,000 “robostitutes” produced each day (for comparison, 164,000 cars were produced daily in 2012). Last December alone, I had to singlehandedly satisfy the literary fetishes of three eccentric patrons. The first client wanted a gynoid whose thought processes mimic those of the protagonist Offred in Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale; the second wanted his Hilary Clinton simulacrum to scat with the voice of Ella Fitzgerald, and the third wanted his Bertrand Russell android to apologize for erring in Principia Mathematica.
“Who’s to stop a grown man from climaxing to Rousseau?” said Jon Stewart Mills, founder of sex cyborg company Artifical Disseminations, Inc. “Aside from giving us freedom, the advent of the intellectual sex cyborg is also a godsend for thousands of unemployed liberal arts graduates who now work as literary consultants for dozens of companies specializing in artificial intelligence.
“Tech-savvy scientists sitting in cubicles can make machines talk like humans, but they cannot make them think like humans, who, after millions of years of evolution, are hardwired to be sexually stimulated by art, literature, and philosophy–all the wonderful things for whose appreciation computers are not and cannot be endowed with.
“We’ve toyed with this idea for decades and endured a tremendous amount of skepticism. Now, the verdict is out: erudite robostitutes are the new black.”
Calling each other “irrational” and “annoying,” potato farmer Tom Bruise and his wife Lucy quickly resolved all marital conflicts by not talking to each other. “It totally works,” said Bruise. “Ever since we resolved to shut our respective traps, I’ve been angrily washing the dishes while she texts her friends, and we get along just fine.”
The couple reported increased sleep quality since they stopped talking to each other. During bedtime, they would face opposite directions with their eyes wide open in the dark. “The empty gap between us on the mattress keeps growing, and I keep feeling that I might fall off the bed,” the husband said, elaborating on his marital life. “And the sex is awesome. I jerk off and eat Doritos all day. Awesome.”
Lucy explained to reporters, “My husband doesn’t want to talk, and that’s fine. He’s just being himself. As his wife, I support him and his being himself and everything he does. He can be his own sad little bitch self who fap fap faps away ’til the second coming.”
Tom and Lucy indicate that, since remaining silent, the resentment that has festered in their marriage for the past five years has all but dissipated. “I love her,” said Tom. “I love him,” said Lucy, rolling her eyes. “I’m so grateful we’ve decided to shut the fuck up.”
Set in the sleepy Mexican village of Salsipuedes in Baja California Norte, Coco tells the story of a young chihuahua that is abducted by a Mexican cartel. Alonzo, the canine protagonist, is shot with a tranquilizer dart at the beginning of the movie. He wakes up in a dingy and severe room hidden under a rundown bar, handcuffed to a wooden bedpost which he immediately attempts to sever with his sharp little teeth.
The chihuahua chews in vain for days, irking his captors, who tell him to cállate (shut up). “No me fucking importa,” replies the chihuahua, who remains totally fucking cholo despite his present situation. In response to Alonzo’s impudence, one of the captors, Jesús, injects a mysterious psychoactive substance into Alonzo, effectively immobilizing the dog.
When Alonzo finally comes to, he finds himself tied to a stake, bearing witness to unmitigated gang violence: a female member of the notorious El Salvadorian criminal organization MS-13 is using her sandals to beat a mariachi guitarist who sits helplessly before the callous denizens of Salsipuedes. The onlookers chant in unison, “Que muy machín, no? Ah muy machín, no? Marica nena mas bien putín, no? Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto.” (“Is that very cholo? Is that very cholo? Sissy baby, more likely a whore.”)
Utterly repelled by the untempered homophobia, Alonzo struggles to escape, viciously tearing away like a rabid dog at the ropes that bind him. Much to everyone’s surprise, the chihuahua breaks free. “I kill all you gonorrheas!” he snarls in broken English. He lunges for the face of a shocked spectator. Alonzo begins attacking everyone, chewing their startled visages off one by one. Although thirteen people survived the rampage, only one ruthless rogue remains unscathed. It is Alonzo’s villainous captor, Jesús.
After murdering so many people, Alonzo becomes too exhausted to fight and thus flees. The feared and fearless Jesús, who now has the upper hand, assembles a group of faceless bandits bent on revenge to search for the elusive chihuahua.
Felón, 62, is a retired gangbanger and former methamphetamine manufacturer from Juarez. Flaco, 73, is a rabid left-wing extremist. Dopey, 52, will kill for his next high. Chema, 69, is the grandfather of Jesús. Last but not least, there is El Paragraph, the murderous midget from Medellin. “Don’t fuck with the Paragraph,” says Jesús. “You know why day call ‘im El Paragraph? Cos he shorter than an ese, that’s why.”
After a long search fueled by cocaine, Jesús and his group of colorful individuals are about to give up when, lo and behold, they encounter Alonzo at the bar where he was first held captive. Far from helpless, this time, the dog is accompanied by loose women who are feeding him tequila and pastries. In a matter of seconds, the situation has gone from the tame and quotidian to the unfamiliar and hazardous. In other words, shit got real.
“Fuck you, putos!” declares Alonzo. In a display of pure prestidigitation, the dog yanks out an automatic rifle disguised in the form of a guitar case. He opens fire, destroying everyone and everything in his path. Thousands of rounds later, everyone in the bar is dead. I mean, fucking everyone. The gangstas, the children, the women, the bartender, the bartender’s fucking cat. Not one person is alive. Except Jesús. And Alonzo.
Alonzo walks calmly to his archenemy, Jesús, who is bleeding profusely, half-dead. “No mames,” he says, staring at Alonzo. “Es over, holmes,” Alonzo replies. Without another word, the dog chews his face off. He gets up, his tongue still hanging out and dripping with human blood, and walks off into the sunset while strumming a mariachi guitar like a truly heroic psychopath. The End.