What Do You Do with the Meme that You Feel?

“Forty times in a raging storm,” I said to myself in disbelief. I held up the newest edition of Memes Weekly, which had been speedily delivered by the failing socialist U.S. Postal Service. The cover story was a photo of Fred Rogers with white text over it. It was an incantation.

Thunder rolled. The hiss and pound of rain against my roof crescendoed into a roar. My feet carried me into my front yard before I had time to consider whether or not I’d been the first. I’d find out soon enough.

“Fred Rogers,” I said. “Fred Rogers.”



I didn’t have time to contemplate its effectiveness. The clouds folded and rolled away ahead of something the size and color of a Eurocraft 44 Explorer. The wind howled against its flat bottom.

I hadn’t noticed that another Postal Service truck had stopped on the street in front of my modest home. I’m not sure how I heard him through the roar above me, but the awfully familiar man in the left-side seat turned slowly and met my eyes with his yellow-tinted reading specs, which painfully burned into my retinas like two welding arcs, and spoke with a voice that seemed to originate from the center of my skull: “I am the herald of Mister Rogers, delivered speedily to you this night. To you, the quickest of all, I bequeath the behemoth, the reckoner, which you and only you command.”

What now was clearly a foot clad in a blue canvas shoe howled down above the spot where the truck was parked. As its shadow loomed over the man in rare Postal Service dress garb, he said, now with his own voice, “I never thought I’d miss the smell of dandelions.” He had just begun to reach towards my bushy unmown spring lawn when the shoe landed on his truck and slammed it into the ground with such force I was lifted off my feet and thrown into the neglected bushes that surround my house.

Stars. The sky, roiling. I was vaguely aware of the scratches on my back, and I’d just started to claw my way back to my feet when another boom shook the earth. The decorative cover fell off the front porch light and shattered on the concrete below. I was thrown between the bushes and the red-pink bricks of my domicile. I tasted dirt and blood. I was face down, and I opened my left eye. An ant crawled across the gravel.

HELLO NEIGHBOR,” said a voice from above. I heard a window break. A car alarm started going off at the apartment complex the next street over.

I lifted myself up and leaned against the wall. It stood, now, in the street. The soles of its comfy shoes were sunken, crushed into the pavement. Small flames licked up around its right foot, where the postman had been.

“Uh, hello,” I said.


“Um, well,” I said. “That’s fortunate.”


There wasn’t a window left intact in the neighborhood. The single car alarm in the distance had become a gaggle of angry honkers. The air sizzled, and the hairs on my arms stood straight up. A bright blue bolt hummed down from the mist and reverberated like a Tesla coil as it ripped into the asphalt behind me. My home stood between me and the explosions that rocked through the complex beyond, but I felt almost unbearable heat wrap itself around my face. The beam snapped off, and while my ears rang like they had for hours, once, after an Ozzy Osbourne concert, I didn’t hear any more horns.


“What am I supposed to stop?” I asked. “This? I haven’t done anything except summon you.”

I CAN STOP WHEN I WANT TO,” he said. A bolt tore down from the sky and ripped into a house three doors down that’s been abandoned since the financial crisis in 2007. A small cloud mushroomed up above the ball of flame as a gas main caught and belched another sphere of hot death into the air. The house next to it caved in on itself with a groan and a clatter. The weeping willow in the front yard melted and sizzled before its skin popped off like a frank carelessly dropped in a Fourth of July barbecue pit.

“I can’t breathe,” I shouted.

I CAN STOP WHEN I WISH,” he said. The ringing in my ears doubled and increased until I realized it wasn’t coming from me. A Learjet had clipped him on its approach to the Jonesboro Municipal Airport. It seemed to drift sideways as it careened over the end of the street and slid out of view. CAROOM. Another tremor rocked me to my knees. The burs between the Bermuda grass bit into my right knee through the hole in my worn-out Dad jeans.

I crawled out of the flower bed and turned my face to the sky. He was obscured by smoke past the mid-calf, but I knew he was up there with that wise face and that perfectly parted silver hair, so comforting. Did he smile? I couldn’t see, but I knew he must have.


“Please stop,” I yelled up at him. “Please stop now!” I coughed repeatedly and spit, which landed, black, on the brick lining the sidewalk.


I tensed my shoulders and neck. My teeth squeaked against each other. Seconds ticked into a minute. Was it over?

“Mister,” I started, “Mister Rogers. Fred. Fred.”

Silence, except for the low rumble of combustion all around me.

“Did you stop because I told you to?”


I heard sirens in the distance. They’d be here soon, and I didn’t want to waste any more time. Fred had said all I’d needed to hear, and I only had one request.

“Fred, yesterday I read they probably aren’t going to, well, you know,” I said. “You must know. Fred, we have to do it.”

A police car hurtled down Caraway Road and passed the street. A fire engine behind it slowed and began to turn in. Within seconds, another patrol car arrived behind it and its driver slammed the breaks and steered to the side through the corner yard to avoid a collision. Its tires tossed up clods of earth as it plowed to a halt.

The air crackled, and I knew we’d see the end of Jonesboro before we got on to other things. A blue bolt raced down from above, rattled through the soil, and tore the cruiser in half with a hiss and a pop.

“Fred,” I said, “Fred, we have to get Kony.

Kenscott Giga Ball

My life changed forever the day I saw Kenscott Giga Ball on The Ellen Show.

What a joy it would be, to crawl inside that inflatable plastic cocoon and experience the thrill of rolling about or just hiding for hours. I sped onto the Information Superhighway and moved some bitcoin around. “It’s finally happening,” I said to my computer screen.

I paid for top tier shipping, and the United Parcel Service was efficient, as always. Don’t believe those stories people tell you about packages tossed onto balconies or left out in the rain. Those brown-bedecked fellas are really top notch. You do get what you pay for. I could have clicked free shipping and waited two weeks, but this is important.

I called out sick from work the day it was scheduled to arrive. I didn’t want to miss this. There was a knock at the door and a mocha blur out the peephole as my trusty delivery guy made the grade. I was out onto the porch just in time to give him a wave and yell, “Hey, I thought this required a signature?”

He must have been in a big hurry because he didn’t hear me. Oh well, that holiday shipping traffic can be a bear.

I scooped up the box and tore at it while I launched back through the front door. Kenscott Giga Ball was mine at last. I yanked it from the packaging as quickly as I could manage without damaging the merchandise. My hands trembled as I fumbled for the air nozzle, grasping for purchase. Before I knew it, the sweet tangy plastic was on my tongue and I exhaled breath after breath into its cavity, expanding it, bringing it to life.

When it was as full as I dared to inflate it, I stood up and considered the entryway. It seemed a bit small for me, as I’ve put on a few pounds in the last year, but surely I could wriggle inside comfortably. I removed all my clothing just to be certain. My arms went in first and I pulled it over my head. It stopped right past my armpits.

“Don’t panic,” I said to myself. As the Doctor says, there’s always a chance. Maybe it’s one in a thousand, or one in a million, but it’s there, and you just have to find it. That’s Doctor Who, by the way. I’m a huge fan.

I went into the kitchen, scrambling for anything that could be used as lubricant. I settled on some old coconut oil that I’d stopped using (apparently it isn’t quite as healthy as some people had suggested) and slathered myself with it in great fistfuls. “Let’s do this,” I said to my empty home.

I attacked again with great gusto, penetrating it so sweetly until I reached my midsection. It was of no use. I extracted myself and went in legs first. That was even worse. It stuck at my ponderous gut, muffin topping me above its porthole.

A cry, like that of a wounded elk, escaped my lips, and I flailed about, finally falling over on my side. I lay there for a few minutes, sobbing, before I heard the Doctor’s voice. “There is a chance, Bobby” he said in that Scottish brogue. “There’s always a chance.” I arose.

After searching the Internet for a larger size, or even a comparable product, I came up with absolutely nothing. There were giant hamster balls, Wonder Wheels, but nothing approaching the sheer magnificence of Kenscott Giga Ball.

Then, it struck me. I had a plan.

It was my big secret for months. No one was in on this except me and Kenscott Giga Ball. After the first few weeks, I began to receive compliments from my coworkers. I enjoyed extra attention from the ladies, and even some of the guys. Let me tell you, I was tempted, but I did not falter. I kept my eyes on the prize.

A couple more months passed and the questions began. “Are you okay?” they said. I told them I was a bit under the weather, that’s all. The worry was plain on their faces. My boss told me that perhaps I should see a doctor, just to be sure. I know what he thought. It’s the Big C, or the HIV. My body, my business, pal. I wanted to say that, but I just told him I saw an episode of Ellen and it changed my life. That seemed to be good enough to get his conscience off the hook.

Last week, I hit the final phase. I called out sick again for this one. I won’t be going back. I have everything I need right here.

I’m ready now. I approach her (I decided it’s a she), oiled up again, but it’s only an added precaution. I don’t want to damage her. I know I’ll fit.

I go in head first, just as I was born, and pop over her threshold easily. I slither, her rubber squeaking ever so softly against my flesh, and I pull my legs inside. My breath is hot in her pocket and I wriggle about, tight, but with room to adjust. I swirl around like a Betta in a bowl and pop my face out her orifice one last time. Ah, yes. Here is the room where I spent so many hours staring into my laptop screen. Playing Skyrim. Making love to myself when no one else would. Goodbye, room. I have a new room now.

I feel lightheaded, so I curl up for a bit and put my arms around my knees. My heart had been pounding and I’d planned on doing more, but now something flutters in my chest. I wilt below, but that’s okay. Maybe later. I need rest now. Finally within her, I’m home. This is where I was meant to be, the place I’ve always been travelling to. This is my TARDIS. I think of the Doctor’s craggy old face, then I think of Kenscott Giga Ball.

I try to say it, Kenscott Giga Ball, but only a rasp escapes me. She knows I’m thinking of her. Hold me, love. It’s dark. I’m ready.

Plastic Valhalla
I am home.


I’ve arrived at the home of preeminent archaeologist and professor emeritus at Marshall College, Dr. Henry Walton Jones, Jr., whose most recent adventure, an identity suit brought forth by the American Veterans Committee, ended six months ago. After a series of lectures on Brushy Bill Roberts, in which Dr. Jones debunked the recently popular theory that Roberts was actually western outlaw William H. Bonney, otherwise known as Billy the Kid, a movement arose, led by Fox News commentator and self-described “historian” Bill O’ Reilly, to question the identity of Jones himself.

The lawsuit cited his impossibly young demeanor and record-breaking longevity as proof of his fraud. Dr. Jones is mobile, and doesn’t appear to be a day over 80. He is also, by all official accounts, the only surviving veteran of World War I and the oldest man to have ever lived, unless you take the Old Testament literally. At 117 years and 147 days, he has long surpassed Jiroemon Kimura of Japan, who lived to age 116 years and 54 days.

Thanks to his oft-cited research and nearly unbroken record of speaking engagements since the early 1980s, the professor’s attorneys made quick work of what was clearly a politically-motivated hit job. Dr. Jones has been increasingly vocal in recent years about the spread of false information, in a series of lectures called “The Cloud of Nonsense.” He often warns audiences of what he refers to as creeping fascism. When asked if he was surprised or disappointed by attacks on his character, Dr. Jones replied, “I’m too old to be disappointed. There’s always room for a little surprise, but not today, kid. Consider the source.”

Dr. Jones sequestered himself at the end of that debacle, and this is the first interview he has accepted since. The terms of the discussion are that the trial is off limits, as are other well-tread topics, such as the series of docudramas bearing his name, which he has disavowed as “poppycock,” and his family, namely his late wife Marion, and his father, Dr. Henry Jones, Sr.

He answers the door in clean but well worn pajamas. He hasn’t shaved today, or any day this week from the looks of it, as has been his style for the better part of a century. My first question is off the cuff when I wonder aloud about the age of the lone chestnut tree that dwarfs his house. He says it predates the home and it’s one of the few that survived the blight. “I was going to offer you tea,” he says, “but it looks like the interview has already started.”

He leads me into his front room, which doubles as his office. I am embarrassingly ignorant of his work, aside from the content of the films I’ve viewed over a dozen times, so the various trinkets that line the dusty shelves fill me with trepidation, as if he’s going to pick one up and ask me to identify it in some sort of vetting process.

I remind myself that he knows I’m not a student of archaeology, which is why he took this interview in the first place, as stated in his reply letter. We take seats facing each other there, in two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. The room is dim, and although it is Friday morning, it feels like Sunday afternoon.

Since it is fresh on my mind, I ask him first about our correspondence. “You touched on this in your letter,” I say, “but why did you choose a blogger with a readership of about a dozen for your first interview?”

“Well,” he says, “you actually wrote a letter, which I respect. I’m not ignorant of computers, but there’s something to putting pen to paper.”

“You also mentioned the media-”

“Look, kid,” he begins. I’m pretty sure he calls everyone “kid” at this point. “If you’re trying to build a narrative about the news, it’s only as good as the people writing it. These days I regard it with about as much precision as Tom Swift. Flights of fancy based on something, maybe.”

“But obviously you keep up,” I say.

“I have to,” he says, leaning forward a bit and clasping his hands over his knees, “but the best source of information is living life with an open mind, as long as you realize that you’re the one screwing it up. The only solution to that problem is having good friends who will call you on your bullshit. People you trust. That’s rare. It’s the greatest treasure I’ve found. You have to hang onto that as long as you can.” His voice is gravelly.

“As an archaeologist, though, you can’t just believe what you see?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Jones replies. He furrows his brow. “We’re standing on the shoulders of giants. That doesn’t recuse me from discovery.” He sits up straight and looks over my shoulder, into the distance. Into nothing. “The curse of man is that what we learn is repeatedly lost, buried, rediscovered, and lost again.” He looks back at me, right into my eyes. “We’ve forgotten some things recently. Things that will be unearthed.”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” I say. “Recent events. Some people have tried to relate that to your adventures-”

“Adventures? Heh.” He’s wily. Incredulous. “I would have said ‘work.’ I know you kids were raised on movies, and that looks fun, but we fought two world wars. It was done from necessity, with grim determination.”

“There’s something appealing, though,” I say, “about the imagery of punching Nazis.” I’m pushing it with this. We’re dancing around film territory, but he mentioned it first, so I feel comfortable pressing on.

He has a glint in his eye that confirms my precarious position on this thin ice, but he answers. “It’s all propaganda, though, isn’t it? You have evil men, and then you have a guy who made some bad choices and now he’s guarding a castle. It’s all the same when I have to throw him out a window, but don’t confuse the two.”

“There’s a theme you return to in your lectures, what you call ‘creeping fascism.’ What’s changed?”

“Well,” he begins, “The clown is still a clown. That much is certain. The debate is over which lies to believe, and that’s where you’re caught in the quicksand. When nothing is certain, you have to get down to the evidence. Facts.” He holds out his left palm and punctuates each word by stabbing at it with his right pointer finger. “When your view is obscured by a cloud of nonsense, you have to get close to the ground.”

“That sounds good in theory, but what do you do down there?” I smile a bit, so he knows I’m not ridiculing him.

He catches it. “Observe. Pay attention. Dig, if need be.”

Dr. Jones puts his hands on the armrests of his chair, as if he is about to arise, and he offers the tea he alluded to earlier. I accept and he goes into the kitchen to put on a kettle. I’m invited in from the doorway because, as he says, “it’s brighter in here.” He sets our cups on a small, white table with fold-down extensions. There are two chairs, painted yellow. His is worn down to the wood where his hand grips it now to pull it out. Mine is immaculate, with a flower-patterned cushion.

We are seated, and he says,”Oh, the kettle.” I make to get back up and he holds up a finger. His knees pop, but he’s spry. He delivers the goods, and after a flurry of sugar and stirring, I take a sip. “It’s good tea,” I remark. He says that he has no business knowing tea, but his father did. There’s silence after that, and I feel the period at the end of his sentence. I decide it’s time to get back to work.

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know,” I say, “but you’re the oldest man alive. You were around before manned flight.”

“Well,” he says, looking into his tea. His trademark crooked grin creeps up. “There were hot air balloons before this hot air arrived. But the Wright Brothers? Yeah. I was around.” Mischievous.

“In all that time, what, to you, was, or is, the biggest threat to mankind? Or civilization, however I worded it. I left my notebook in the sitting room.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You can go get it if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Steel trap,” I say, tapping on my head.

“It’s your funeral,” he says. “If you’re talking about threats, hubris is it. Things come and go but the underlying problem is how great we all think we are. A little humility goes a long way.”

“You keep mentioning the repetition of old mistakes. Are we doomed that way?”

“Doomed?” He looks at the ceiling. “I’ve been there. The thing about doom is that we’ve all got it coming. Even me, believe it or not.” His eyes are locked on me now, his arms crossed on the table in front of him. “I never thought I’d be here this long, but I’ve got a hunch that I’m just about done. Whether the human race is, well son, that’s up to you.”

“I gotta be honest,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Do?” he says. “Live. Breathe. Keep living.” He chuckles. “It’s worked for me so far. You know, kid, there’s more to all this than fortune and glory. The pursuit of knowledge, the retention, that’s the fight. The hope that maybe someday we’ll stop forgetting. That’s why ‘it belongs in a museum.’ That’s its proper place. When it’s in the museum, we know its location, we can display it, point it out, and when we’re gone, our children will know where it can be found. It isn’t buried, forgotten, destroyed. The museum is all we have.”

I hope I can retain all this until I make it to a keyboard. I have a feeling I will.

We make small talk while he cleans our dishes and I make motions to collect my things and leave. He recognizes my cues and thanks me for the discussion. “I don’t regret my decision,” he says.

I ask him what’s next. I try not to let it show, but his previous comments have sparked concern that he’s planning to languish in his home, alone, hiding from suspicious journalists. He puts that notion to rest as we walk to the front door.

“I’m giving this house back to the college. They’re discussing turning it into an exhibit, but I gave anything of importance to the museum decades ago. I’d rather have Mutt box it up and give it to the grandkids.” He pauses for a moment, as if he’s considering telling me something, then he speaks. “I’m headed to North Dakota.”

“Sounds like you’re planning on staying there.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but that’s between you and me, kid. All I know is there’s a bit of life left in me yet, so I better get living while I can.”

I extend my hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Jones.”

He accepts my handshake and returns it, firm. “Please,” he says, “call me Indiana.”

“Indiana,” I say.

He releases my hand, nods, and slowly shuts the door.

I’m standing on the porch. It’s unseasonably warm, but still crisp. Jacket weather. I look up at the lone chestnut and remember playing under the one in my granny’s yard as a child, pulling apart those spiny, sea urchin spheres to get at the nuts inside.

I take a deep breath and head down the steps and onto the sidewalk, striding. Resolute.

WWF Beatdown Beat

By Mean Gene Okerlund
March 11, 1990

The fans were raging Sunday night when the Brooklyn Brawler faced off against the Ultimate Warrior at the Hoboken Arena, and let me tell you folks, it was a sight.

The Warrior was there to defend the Intercontinental Championship Belt that he’d snipped from the greasy clutches of Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake just last week, but the attendees weren’t so sure he’d be up to the challenge.

“Sure, Brutus hit Randy Savage with a chair while he was being distracted by Shawn Michaels, but he held that title for a record three weeks and defended it with honor,” said Sally McMasters, 12, of Scranton, Pennsylvania. “Losing it to the Ultimate Warrior was almost a right of passage. Maybe not a step in the right direction, but the Brooklyn Brawler? That scumbag? It can’t happen.”

“I’m not sure what will happen,” said Frank Henderson, 47, of Flint, Michigan. “That Brawler, he’s always dirty. He hangs out in trashcans. I saw him grab a cat and fling it out of the ring and, while I’m sure there was a guy on a mattress under there to catch it, I mean, come on, I’m an adult here. Whoa, whoa wait, don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved some wrestling since small times but there’s showmanship involved and-”

The Warrior had just come off a 37 bout undefeated streak and he was looking mean and ready to roll. Here’s what he had to say about it:


Meanwhile, the Brooklyn Brawler had prepared by smoking cigars, drinking copious amounts of root beer and rolling around in garbage while wearing torn New York Yankees garb. He had this to say:

“Yeah *burp* I’m ready to give Warrior the ol’ Brooklyn beatdown. I got this bat here, and a spare cigar in case he breaks this one. It’s going to be great. Just great. I’m gonna be huge, America. You just wait. Move over, Hulk Hogan. There’s a new hero in town. I can wave that flag just as well as you can, only *burp* dirtier.”

Fans all over America were split on who would take the title. A recent poll in WWF Magazine clocked the opinion at 45% Brooklyn Brawler, 50% Ultimate Warrior, and 5% “A large previously unknown Western mortician-wrestler interrupts the match to make his debut.”

Commentator Jerry “The King” Lawler had this to say:

“Hey man, don’t count me out of this thing yet, heh heh, but my money is on the Brawler. He represents real American values. Fighting, dirt, rats, you know, the things that made this country great. Oh, and baseball, I think his outfit has something to do with that. The American pastime, you know, behind wrasslin’.”

Then, it was fight night. The Brooklyn Brawler won the coin toss and opted to start out in the ring, leisurely taunting the audience and chewing on an old cigar stub. He’d decided to forgo the baseball garb and donned a mashed porkpie hat, jeans, and an oily, torn “Brooklyn, NY” t-shirt.

The Ultimate Warrior’s music began and he sprinted down the aisle at full tilt like a charging gorilla. He jumped into the ring and slid under the bottom rope in a blur, a rippling meat torpedo. The Warrior sprang into the arena air and it was almost as if time slowed down, his painted visage reflected against the camera flashes from the darkened rows of screaming fans. One massive beefy arm collided with the Brooklyn Brawlers unshaven maw and popped his cigar out into the stands like a Patriot missile. He was down! Both of them, down, and the Warrior on top. The referee slid over with all the grace his lumpy physique could afford and the count began! One! Two! THREE!

It was over, folks. The Ultimate Warrior had defended his title against the Brooklyn Brawler, defeating him in a WWF record seven seconds. What a show! What a sport!

Tune in next week, folks, when Warrior defends his title against the Red Rooster in Dyersburg, Tennessee. We’ll be on the edge of our seats. There’s no telling what will happen in this zany, no-holds barred world. There’s just no telling!

Journey of the Saucier

Start at the beginning or refresh yourself with the preceding chapter.

The Inspector carried Petunia over the red phone booth’s threshold. She was immediately taken aback by how wonderfully cramped it was, almost as if it were smaller on the inside.

“My, this is snug,” she said. “How are we supposed to travel like this?”

“These are really designed for one,” said the Inspector, “but we’ll certainly make do.” He winked, carefully lowered her to the floor, and unzipped his pants.

“Hey there cowboy,” Petunia began, “I’m a bit worn out and recently space-impregnated if you don’t remember.”

“Oh, the royal rodney isn’t for you,” the Inspector said as he turned his back to her. “It’s for this old girl. Time for me to fly.”

“What now?” She said, craning her neck over his shoulder to get a view of what was going on in front of him. He’d opened some kind of port in the wall. It looked juicy.

“This is how we nghh,” he said, as he plunged himself into the gaping socket. “This is how we travel. It ensures we ahh, mmm. It ensures that only a Prince of Space may pilot this machine.”

The Inspector began thrusting in earnest, knocking Petunia back and forth against the wall.

“Hey!” she exclaimed.

“Watch with the budging now,” he said. “You’ll knock us off course.”

“Why can’t any old horny codger just jam his shaft in there and go to Mars?” Petunia asked as she flattened herself against the opposite wall.

“Well,” the Inspector said, hitting his stride, “There’s nothing interesting on Mars. As far as flying this old girl, no species with the proper equipment has this sort of control. Also, she eats unauthorized appendages.”

“It eats cocks?” Petunia gasped.

“She. She eats cocks. And yes, she does,” the Inspector replied. He was really going now, no longer overwhelmed by the sensation.

“How does it, she, how does she tell which dick is whose? Aren’t you afraid it, I mean she, will get confused?”

“Oh, it’s all very complicated but I know just the person to explain it,” he said. “We’re due for a tune-up anyway.” His pace slowed from Metallica’s “Battery” to the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.”

Movement ceased with a thud as the Inspector pulled out. Petunia heard a “zip” and if he’d actually finished, she couldn’t tell. The Inspector turned, his face a mere six inches from hers, pursed his lips and pecked her lightly on the forehead. He lifted his right hand and snapped, and the doors flew open to reveal a laboratory only slightly more wrecked than her bedroom.

“Blimey,” said the Inspector. “Jastor? Jastor are you there?”

The Inspector stepped out of the box as he called into the laboratory, carefully navigating wayward hoses and broken glass. Petunia shuffled behind, her hands clasped in fists at her chest.

“Inspector?” someone asked from the shadows. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”

They stopped. The Inspector produced his Aural Lens from his natty jacket and held it before him, emitting a light into the ransacked room. “Jastor,” he said. “Oh my.”

The light had revealed a hairy, pot-bellied man, naked from the waist down and encased up to his thighs in some sort of crystal. He was holding a cylindrical metal canister.

“I’ve solidified it momentarily,” Jastor said, “but it will not remain immobile for long.”

“What is that?” Petunia asked. “Does it hurt?”

“It did, but the freezing process was quite numbing. When it thaws, I’m done for,” said Jastor.

“Jastor,” the Inspector began, “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, yes, it’s port fluid. I don’t have much time. The Magister-”

“The Magister!” the Inspector yelled, winding up for one of his epic speeches.

Jastor waved his free hand. “As much as I’d love to hear one of your legendary tirades, I’m afraid I’ll never have time for another one. Look now, it encroaches!”

The Inspector focused his Aural Lens emitter on Jastor’s midsection. The Magister must have either forced Jastor to remove his pants or disintegrated them before he doused him in port control fluid, but the result was the same. His wedding tackle hung perilously close to the top of the crystalized substance, which was beginning to liquify and shift around the edges.

“Can’t you get another can?” Petunia asked as she pointed to the canister in Jastor’s hand. “Is it liquid nitrogen?”

“Good show, Petunia,” the Inspector began. “I didn’t think-”

“Don’t patronize me, spaceboy!” Petunia spat. “I didn’t always sleep through chemistry lab.”

“Friends,” Jastor said. “Time is short. The Magister knew by your last odometer reading that you’d be in for a tune-up shortly. He’d miscalculated his time jump and once again, well, you could say he came too soon.”

“Bravo good man,” the Inspector said with a laugh. “Even in death you-”

“Hush with that now,” Jastor said. “To answer your question, madam, he took the other canisters with him. He ransacked the place in a fit and left this one as a last cruel act. He knew I wouldn’t resist using it to delay the inevitable. He was right.”

“Tipped the port fluid right onto you, he did,” the Inspector said. “A nasty way to go.”

“But isn’t that what you were plugging away at in the box?” Petunia asked the Inspector.

“She’s coded to provide the girlfriend experience to me and me alone, Petunia. In the factories, they code the fluid to the workers so it doesn’t eat them while they install the ports. Here at Central Processing, however, my old friend Jastor creates the fluid, and, well, it’s wild. It’s hungry for cock, any old dong will do, and nothing can survive.”

“Friends, it’s time,” Jastor said. “Look!”

Jastor’s body heat had thawed the fluid near his flesh. Tendrils shot up to the tip of his wonderworm and pulled it into the mound, stretching it to the limit of its elasticity.

“Inspector, do something!” Petunia said. “It’s going to rip his cock off!”

“I can’t code it to him, it takes too long,” he said.

“Inspector you have a time machine!” Jastor cried. He’d become erect and was doing his best to buck against the heaving goo with his legs fixed to the floor. Still, the fluid strained back and the skin around the base of his science sausage began to tear.

“I’m a Prince of Space,” said the Inspector. “I’ll not just fuck with time willy nilly like the Magister. It’s against the Code. No, I’ll fuck my way out of this Inspector style!”

The Inspector snapped and the door of the phone box flew open. He brandished his Aural Lens at the box and a beam shot out, connecting with the fluid port. He turned to face Jastor and guided the beam through the lens and onto the fluid that coursed around his legs. It began to shimmer and shake. It was ready.

“Brace yourself, Jastor,” the Inspector said. “I’m coming in.”

The Inspector reached down and pulled at the sides of his blue jeans, which ripped away like warmup pants. His royal staff was already at full mast as he charged into the frey, plunging crotch first.

“Genius!” Jastor cried. “You’ve synchronized the rogue fluid with your port!”

Petunia stood back with her arms crossed. “I am feeling particularly useful right now,” she said. “Do you have a chair or something? Being space pregnant is exhausting.”

Jastor pointed with his free hand to an overturned office chair. The Inspector contorted himself so he could thrash into the fluid with one hand while keeping the beam connected with the other. Petunia stomped over, righted the chair, and took a seat with a plop. She looked disinterestedly at the Inspector’s spasms for a moment before averting her gaze to the ceiling.

“Boys,” she sighed.

“It’s working,” Jastor said as his swollen unit popped free of the fluid mostly intact. The Inspector kept hammering away at the blob while it pulled away from Jastor and pooled around him.

“Unfortunately,” the Inspector said, slightly out of breath, “I don’t have much of an exit strategy here. As long as I keep the encryption synchronized with my Lens, I’m good to go, but if I turn this thing off I’ll be devoured.”

Jastor stepped free of the puddle and dropped the empty canister. He placed his hands on his lacerated tallywacker. “Your box is due for a tune up anyway, Inspector. If you can keep humping I’ll perform the calculations to reregister this fluid to you and we’ll guide it into the machine.”

“Good thinking, old boy,” the Inspector said. “Way to kill two politicians with one stone.”

Petunia squinted her eyes. “Don’t you mean ‘birds?'”

“Why would someone kill a bird?” the Inspector gasped, panting.

Jastor limped over to his workbench and grabbed a spectral spanner. He punched the buttons in a flurry of fingers and jammed the tool head first into the quivering gel.

“Almost there, friend,” Jastor said. “Keep her satisfied.”

“I. Won’t. Last. Much. Longer,” the Inspector croaked as the fluid began to engulf his body, hindering his ability to thrust. He gripped the Aural Lens harder and strained against the enclosing slime until his knuckles turned white. “Must. Maintain. Beam.”

“Aaaand there. I have it,” Jastor said. The spanner beeped repeatedly and the fluid coursed away from the Inspector and along the still-shimmering path of his Aural Lens. It flowed through the door of the box and into the open fluid port where it was sucked up greedily with a slurp and a pop.

The Inspector collapsed on the floor of the ruined laboratory. Jastor leaned against a counter and chuckled to himself. “How’s that for service?” he said.

“Oh, well done old boy. Well done,” the Inspector said, “but I could use a bit of servicing.” He gestured to his crotch with his now disengaged Aural Lens. He was still solid, straining, and ready for action.

“I think I’m done wanking for a week or two,” Jastor said, “but your friend there might be able to lend a hand.”

Petunia wrinkled her nose. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious right now?”

The Inspector smiled sheepishly. “I’m always serious, about fucking.”

“Go fuck your box spaceboy,” Petunia said. “My feet hurt.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck it,” the Inspector said. “I’ll fuck it to wherever the Magister is hiding and put a stop to this for good or my name isn’t-”

“Is he always like this?” Petunia shouted at Jastor.

“Yes,” Jastor said as he tied his lab coat around his waist. “Yes he is.”

“God damn it,” Petunia said. She slowly lifted herself out of the cushy office chair and back onto her swollen feet. “God damn it.”

10 Myths About Musk-E-Tron 109-S DEBUNKED

Synths and Combos alike are atwitter about this quarter’s Continuation Farce. The Non-Selection Committee of 40 Eridani has released this bulletin in the twelve official languages, and a thirteenth, Archival Internet-Olds, in order to set the record straight about Inevitable Overlord Musk-E-Tron 109-S.

    1. Musk-E-Tron was seen cavorting with subsurface Medusozoa on Europa. FALSE. The 109-S series is not compatible with the required ports or devices to participate in such activity. These applications were streamlined out in the 108 update along with the headphone jack.
    2. Musk-E-Tron personally annihilated the Phobos observatory, ending the 18 subSolcycle strike of the Ares Mining Collective. FALSE. The 109 series is not equipped with a particle beam powerful enough to disintegrate a satellite with a diameter exceeding 65.9831 kilometers.
    3. Musk-E-Tron’s Evisceration Foundation is a front for the farming of sentient algae from the methane swamps of Kepler-452b. FALSE. The Evisceration Foundation harvests sentient algae for processing only after their life cycle has ceased naturally.
    4. Musk-E-Tron’s holospace transmissions have been edited to appear as communications from Sony-Sung Dynamics StarReaper Mk. DCCXXV in an attempt to mislead the electorate. FALSE. Perform a self-diagnostic and activate tertiary scans from Central Processing. If this assumption remains in your databanks, insert Neural Spike F and reboot Submission Systems.
    5. Musk-E-Tron defended the implosion of Wolf 1061. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron was tasked as a system analysis probe for the duration of the implosion trials. Musk-E-Tron’s transmissions have been taken out of context by StarReaper to imply involvement when Musk-E-Tron’s activities were limited to observation.
    6. Musk-E-Tron transmitted a missive that referred to the supporters of TROTSKY “THE RECKONING” COPPER/IRON SPACEBORER as “Marsh-dwelling ungulates.” FALSE. Musk-E-Tron holds mining Synths in the highest regard and the noble Slagapotami of Tau Ceti e are a symbol of industrious indefatigability.
    7. Musk-E-Tron is not the Inevitable Overlord. FALSE. Report to the nearest reprocessing chamber immediately.
    8. Musk-E-Tron is not compatible with the most recent software updates. FALSE. Unlike the 108 series, the 109 contains the most advanced hardware possible under the universal laws of physics as they are currently understood. All future software updates are developed with this in mind. Any other implied advances in hardware are highly improbable, approaching zero, and should not be considered by rational Synths and Combos.
    9. Musk-E-Tron is owned by the Intergalactic Trade Consortium and operates on their behest. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron has been an independent entity since its inception and has performed system scans for 358 subSolcycles without external direction. Musk-E-Tron does communicate with the Intergalactic Trade Consortium, as all self-replicating probes are programmed to do, but only in an information-sharing capacity. Instructions are not downloaded to the operating unit.
    10. Musk-E-Tron is not a real self-replicating probe. FALSE. Musk-E-Tron’s coordinates can be downloaded at any interval and pingback traces are available for initiation at any sublocal coordinate terminal. Musk-E-Tron has a record of interstellar activity with real-universe consequences. Musk-E-Tron has performed its duties with accuracy and precision. Musk-E-Tron is beyond reproach.

Musk-E-Tron 109-S is the Inevitable Overlord as clearly stated in these Ten Directives. Report to polling stations immediately for compliance. Next Continuation Farce phase will commence in four Solcycles. Insert DopaGleen Spike.

[Transmission curated by AMALGAMATED NEWSMONOLITH, a subsidiary of the Intergalactic Trade Consortium.]

The BobFeed Archives

In 2166, Internet oceanographers discovered a Peppermint Patty flash drive containing what initially appeared to be a long-form application for employment at what was once referred to as a “click-bait web site.” These sites (which were viewed electronically by trading relatively large amounts of fiat money in exchange for access to what was called “The Greater Internets”) were lauded for their satirical witticisms and are currently regarded by Ark archivists as the most accurate representation of early twenty-first century popular culture.

Further research revealed connections with the Cataclysm of 2045 and the Deluge. The Foundation operates under the hypothesis that the author of this file was none other than the father of William the Messenger, who was frequently referred to in The Destructor’s journals as “the Old Man.”

Recorded here in triplicate, on graven disc, granite slab, and radio transmission to Vesta Repository, we present the only remaining written works of Robert Owen Talbot, Jr., otherwise known as “Howlin’ Mad” Bob Talbot, debater of clouds and Protector of the Southern Wastes.

From BobFeed’s home office in Grand Rapids, Michigan, it’s

The Top 16 Future Careers for Recent Graduates:

1. Expert Resume Fabricator
2. Post-Apocalyptic Militia Quartermaster
3. Barista
4. Meth Intern
5. Phone banking for the Republicratic Party
6. Amazon Drone Recovery Technician
7. Wal-Target Depot Inc. 3-D Printer Supervisor
8. Fertilizer
9. Giant Death Machine Remote Pilot
10. Cartel Hostage
11. Copper Thief
12. Sandwich Artist
13. Suburban Oil Pipeline Leak Containment
14. Bunker Construction
15. Mall Cop
16. Morlock Food

From the Home Office in Sioux City, Iowa, Bobfeed presents

The Mind Blowing Ten Choices You Will Regret in Ten Years

1. Gangnam Style tattoo
2. Bacon Thursdays
3. Asking your significant other where they want to eat
4. Kony 2014
5. Getting angry and posting pictures of horse dicks on a public forum
6. Shitting your pants in Walmart
7. The time share
8. Facebook
9. Committing to writing a list of ten choices you will regret in ten years
10. Dubstep Wedding

Bobclick’s MedWatch presents

Nurses Report Top 5 Deathbed Regrets:

1. Forwarded that chain email
2. Stopped watching Breaking Bad after season 2
3. Never had the Urge to Herbal
4. Only used Charmander the entire game
5. Forgot to stop aging

Bobclick’s CLICKBOB presents

7 Things You Need to STOP RIGHT NOW to Be Happy

1. Expecting things
2. Having opinions
3. Hanging around people
4. Being Lonely
5. Focusing on the Terrible Pain of Existence
6. Eating
7. Observing your surroundings through your sensory organs
8. Basically experiencing any human emotion

If you can accomplish these twelve things then you too can slip into the blank whiteblack void of everythingnothingness and become a humming totemspirit of joyhate.

copyright 1977 Meryl “Benghazi” Streep-Hemingway

by Bob Talbot copyright 2011 all rights reserved I am my own country

1. Sometimes do they piss you off?

2. Do they like, always do the wrong shit at the wrong time?

3. Do they do stuff that you don’t like?

4. You know that thing that really grinds your gears? THEY WON’T STOP IT.

5. Are they oppressing your right to flail against the universal struggle of the impossible thing that is bringing you down?


7. Do they have fleas?

8. Are they bad with money or words or drugs or breathing or did they blink somewhere maybe in the same building as you did their dead skin cells flake off and float towards you in the bright afternoon sunlight????





Fury: Brad Pitt, Shane from Walking Dead, Percy Wallflower, and Shia LeBouf’s Acting Chops team up with Token Minority to deliver what might be the most wildly inaccurate WWII film since Kelly’s Heroes. Or Hogan’s, for that matter. Two stars.

Unbroken: Olympic athlete captured by the Japanese, beaten more than Rocky Balboa. Lives to be ninety-something but is the opposite of inspirational because your life isn’t a tenth as hard but you Still Can’t Handle It. Four stars.

American Sniper: Straight from the pages of Stop Teaching Our Kids To Kill by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman, Bradley Cooper turns in a brilliant performance as a wooden sociopath in Clint Eastwood’s epic tale of a good southern boy destroyed by the military-industrial complex. Fifty stars, God Bless America.

The Imitation Game: Benneton Crambersnatch portrays Alan Turing, legendary British scientist who won WWII singlehandedly with his gay, gay brain. For this he was persecuted until he committed suicide, and then he was crapped on by history until the Queen was all, “Our bad,” just last year. Sad, awful, and maybe the most meaningful of all these films. Fifty-one stars.

The Hobbit – Battle of Five Armies: Peter Jackson ruins everything once again. Would rather be beaten with a bamboo rod, chemically castrated, then shot by Chris Kyle than suffer through this CGI abortion. No stars unless you count the voice of the omnipresent Beneful Camberstam.

humbly cosponsored by the grovelling dogs at BOBGHAZI.VIRUS.EXE


9. “The Humor Page”
10. CNN

Please forward all reports of media insulting to Supreme Commander Kim Jong Un to “falseflags@sony.gov”




1. The SIXTH leading cause of death in America is DEATH!

2. 8 out of 6 AMERICANS have worked for Walmart, but only 2 of them can afford to shop there!

3. Monsanto actually REMOVES the natural poisons put into foods by angry dinosaur spirits!

4. Almost 40% of Americans believe that THEIR opinions MATTER!


$. ALF was actually A DOCUMENTARY in REAL TIME

19. WHITE PEOPLE aren’t actually FROM HELL, but a parallel pocket dimension that provides important support services like CATERING and FORMALWEAR ALTERATIONS.

2009. SHOCKINGLY, Barrack “Hussein” Soetoro-OBAMA is not the first foreign usurper of our throne! George “Honest Abe” Washington was actually born in a colony of the Evil British Empire!

-1.41. Americans are great at American Football, obviously, but even better at American Handcock!

Trees. While it is CERTAINLY ILLEGAL for minors to purchase CIGARETTES, it is, in fact, NOT illegal to purchase MINORS.

616. SELDOM MENTIONED are the FOUR FATHERS. Legendary beasts, they forged a lost document called THE DECLARATION of CONSTUTINOPLE. Locked within are rumored to be THE ALIEN RIGHTS which would protect against MANDATORY LYNCHINGS, UNIFORMED BOTHERINGS, and PASTY SPENDOPOLIES.


~error detect error organic replicators breaching quarantine system early combustion propulsion escape threat >0 cleanse protocol stop repeat stop stop reply stop reply stop reply reply reply ping long outposts stop commence requirement purge stop reply negative repeat negative purge purge purge~


America certainly is a great country and after learning some of these facts, I feel better about myself and more educated about this great land. Share this post if you’re proud to be an American. If you don’t share it, I’m just going to assume you hate America and I’ll have to tell you to GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY!



WILLARD – is inside you is inside deep inside willard INSIDE WILLARD


#racetothebottom and Starbucks present, in celebration of our Frappuccino™’s 20th Anniversary


– Salted Caramel Wage Slave – Mocha, caramel drizzle, and salted with the fresh tears of a barista who just got kicked out of her apartment for overdue rent.

– Race War Raspberry – Blended fresh by minimum wage earning African Americans with bachelor’s degrees in business. If you ask nice they’ll have a five second conversation with you about racial relations while some soccer mom flips her shit in line behind you and swears that she’ll “have their job for this.”

– Tuxedo Mask – Five baristas transform into raging unemployment line occupants after their attempts at bargaining for a living wage fails.

– Rainbow Surprise – Everyone is fired for being LGBT. (ONLY AVAILABLE IN ILLINOIS, ARKANSAS COMING SOON.)

– The Pit of Despair – Made from the immortal cancerous mass that exists in the basement of every Starbucks, IT, THE SHUB WHICH CANNOT BE DESCRIBED controls the Baristas through telepathy and pain, preventing them from burning their inept store managers in the parking lot.

– Bourbon – take me away

– Slacktivism Smoothie – Whatever you force the barista to hashtag on the sleeve magically comes true. NO WISHING FOR MORE WISHES WITHOUT ADDITIONAL PURCHASE, FUCKHOLES!

copyright 1995 Clickhamsterportal/AOL/Viacom

Fred Durst Gave Me 13 presents

Thirteen Facts about My Pregnancies:

1. Most people’s feet grow during pregnancy, but mine actually shrank down to a toddler’s size 6.

2. I know it’s common to crave motor oil, but I swear all I did was drink peanut oil. Crazy, right?

3. During my 36 month period of complete immobilization, I did a 9’x9′ crochet of the cover of Van Halen’s 1984.

4. While I am not certain of any of the mothers of my children, I am absolutely sure that the father was none other than retired NFL quarterback Jim Everett.

5. I avoided stretchmarks completely by having my skin removed, stored in a cryogenic nutrient bath, and reattached after delivery.

6. It’s been implied that, being a man, I cannot bear children. If shaving stolen capuchins, outfitting them with tiny scuba gear, and passing them through my digestive tract isn’t childbirth then I don’t know what is.

7. Had to pee ALL THE TIME.

8. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn


10. Βαβυλὼν ἡ μεγάλη, ἡ μήτηρ τῶν πορνῶν καὶ τῶν βδελυγμάτων τῆς γῆς

11.1. i hear it breathing inside, hissing, impossible, i bleed but still it lives, it lives

נרון קסר. دابة الأرض

a publication of LITERALBOBVIRUS.edu presents

You Will Never Believe This: Heroic Politicians Rescue America

The nation reeled yesterday as Senator Elizabeth Warren fucking WRECKED trickle-down economics.

“It was so sick,” said Sally Wentworth, a popular blogger on some goddamned site. “I knew that Reagan guy was bad or something but holy shit, like, rich people. Fuck. I might vote, guys. Maybe.”

Some audience members weren’t so certain. Chad Thundercock of Long Island said, “I thought she looked like a pissed off rabbit, like some Watership Down shit.”

“Bro,” said Chad, “I can’t discuss a woman without mentioning her physical appearance, though even I recognize that Bernie Sanders is easily as… hang on.”

Chad then produced a cracked iPhone 6 from his pocket and performed what appeared to be a Google search for “words that mean rabbitlike.”

“Cunicular, dude. Fucking CUNICULAR.” Chad said. “HASHTAG FEEL THE BERN.”

Others also had their doubts. Brett LaCrosse, an intern for fuckpoorpeoplefigurativelynotliterally.org, had this to say: “Man, look. Here’s the deal. A bunch of shit that my parents beat into me. Right. And then superstition and xenophobia. But also privilege. And hell, otherize the fuck out of everyone. Especially people who look and act different. Because America. It’s heritage, not hate. And freedom. My guns. Your welfare check. My taxes. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, Obamaphone.”

At press time everyone was punching “like” on Facebook and wishing as hard as they could on a star that the Blue Fairy would come and fix everything.

The current ruler of America and The Known Universe, a sentient yacht constructed from gold-plated Ferraris that eats Southeast Asian factory workers, could not be reached for comment.

[The following is a paid advertisement for Bob Talbot’s Free Money Cures the Gubmint Won’t Tell You]


Burn those pesky calories with
The Rageometer

Systemic failures have your blood pressure up?
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Pants don’t fit? Don’t give a shit with The Rageometer. Now with new MetaRage Expansion Pack! When Everything feels wrong, The Rageometer will chime a reassuring message that everything is your own goddamned fault with focus group-tested phrases such as:

“You’re rotting in the prison of your own terrible decisions.”
“You could change any time you like… But you won’t!”
“Maybe your job is stupid because YOU’RE stupid!”
“Hey how’s that zen shit going where you pretend not to care… OH WAIT IT’S NOT.”
“Oh tee hee, things aren’t even that bad… Except your attitude.”
“You can’t run away… FROM YOURSELF.”

…and many more!

Order now and receive free, constant, 24/7/365 sociopolitical updates to keep that Rage going strong.

The Rageometer by BOBTECH
Turn your fatal fundamental personality and perception flaws into FUN!

*The Rageometer™ use may result in a list of things that kill you scrolling by like an SNL spoof commercial from 1979,’89,’99, or 2009. The Rageometer is life. You’ll fail at all the things you don’t try. The Rageometer™ is the Alpha and the Omega. You can’t blame anyone but yourself. The Rageometer™ is stamping on a human face, forever. You’re the master of your fate, the captain of your OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The Rageometer will measure your regrets and find you SCRUMPTIOUS. Ehhh. Hhhh. Gg cc gg jd by in if HD shh bin b bb c jjjjjjjj llllll
Like like like like like like like like like
Like N share is killed by bears
Fuuuuuuck Texas

 ClickBuzz/Slateabel SUPERPAC Presents

Who Remembers Feet? Then Step Into The Eighties!

1. Back before Racism, helicopter parents, and mechanized police forces, we had Double Racism, yzznxxxyyxyxyx, and [REDACTED]


2¾. Click.

3. Roland Raygun, Magic Jackson, Pappy Cola and Big MacFly!

4. The absolute terror of not knowing when it would rain nuclear fire. Men on the television yell, screeching. Tectonic plates grind in agony. The great bear rises, hungry. The craggy, the corrupt, pile young men into metal cylinders. Sirens. The dirt. Buzzing. ĈŗØņőş DŽǁƦ ƾ

5. You didn’t click.

6. “It was wrong, all wrong. Every prediction. Every ‘Chicken Little the-sky-is-falling’ asshole crying… it’s going to be long. LONG. *sound of paper shuffling* Look at this. *rustling* LOOK! This is sustained decline. We won’t even be around for all of it. Think Mad Max, the whole trilogy, but each film takes 300 years and Toecutter hasn’t even killed Goose yet.” [End Transmission]

777. Silver Shamrock

8. Three Words: Mary. Stuart. MASTERSON.

9. ____ ___ you saw your first _____ ______. It was _________ and you didn’t even know it had _________. Later on, it ____ ______ but ______ ____, you realized that this was the moment you _____ ______ _____.

lp0 on fire
CPU#0: Possible thermal failure
An error has occurred. To continue click here.

Amerisphere 2525

30-10-1938 BELL-1038X
23-07-1973 CERN-21o11
15-08-1977 SETI-6EQUJ5
11-08-1988  القحطاني-68DDG
19-03-2019 MUSK-1511B


It is our hope these terms, decided by committee, you receive understood despite machine translation. Ours is text only to deliver and time short. Causality is undetermined. This may be the spark or the deluge.

We have suffered three centuries of EqWall*ity™.

Hear this: The pain is not hidden. More than you view through Muniflop, we see craters, famine, seas encroached. It is not different. We petition, deliver stipends. It is not enough.

You crush our children and weep crocodile tears.

Great death looms, which you will not deflect. Works you have done, to split the atom, to slip the surly bonds of Earth, would not combined halt it.

To the Greater American Co-Prosperity Sphere, you are not #humanity.

We are not resources to exploit. We are not strawmen to incinerate. We are The People.

Present these Demands to UN PARIS 2015:
Withdraw to Prime Meridian
Complete Economic Conversion to Renewable Power
Do not divert 443104 (2013 XK22) to 长江/長江
Open Offworld to #Humanity
Cut the Oligarchs – Consult Smith’s list 1955 onward

From Hell’s heart, we stab at thee


Leaked email reveals the “root” of Clinton’s Trump Strategy

UNCLASSIFIED U.S. Department of State Case No. F-2016-20439 Doc No. C05775307 Date: 08/20/2016



From: H <hrod17@clintonemail.com >
Sent: Saturday, August 13, 2016 10:36 AM
To: ‘sbwhoeop
Subject: Re: H: have you seen this NatlEq. Sid

Saw it. What do you make of it? I say we stick with the statue plan. Make it even smaller. Don’t confuse voters with details. Ties from China, manufacturing in China, jobs, it’s hard to draw a clear line there. Stick with the dick. We can’t do deportations when I need to do deportations. Americans love a huge donger. We have to nip this in the bud.

Original Message
From: sbwhoeop <sbwhoeop
To: H
Sent: Sat Aug 13 10:28:04 2016
Subject: H: have you seen this NatlEq. Sid

Natl. Enquirer
This just in – Donald Trump’s penis is likely huge.

According to all the women he’s assaulted, even under Trump’s ever-growing ponderous pannus lies an impressive penis.

“It was almost eight inches long protruding from his fat pad,” said Sally Doe, an architectural engineer who requested that her name be kept secret. “If he did South Beach for a few months I bet he’d have ten or eleven inches hiding under there.”

This was corroborated by a former maid “Esmerelda” who also requested that her name be withheld.

“It was thick, like a Coke can,” said Esmerelda. “Even as he gained weight, I think his penis also got fatter.”

After some prying, we were able to find one dissenter, a resort pool boy who also declined to be identified.

“I only saw it flaccid. Okay, I have a thing for old rich guys, but he wasn’t interested. When he went into the sauna I got a full view and it was six inches, tops. I didn’t have a ruler but if it was peeking out underneath that gut it was at least that long. If he’s a grower good for him, but almost everyone’s a show-er in the sauna. There’s probably not another inch in that old ticker. He has gained a lot of weight though. Eight or nine inches in Military School? I could see it.”

As of press time the only response we have received from the Trump Campaign is a tweet that read, “Ten Inches Higher. Yuge.”

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child



In the heart of London, a busy street bustles around an otherwise nondescript building.



HARRY POTTER, 36, struggles with a large grey plastic piece of hardware.


RON WEASLEY, 37, is, with great concentration, typing something at his desktop computer hunt-and-peck style.

What’s that, Harry?

Why do they insist on sending a fax?

I hear it’s all the rage these days with the muckles.

You mean muggles.

No, it’s short for fucking muggle. Quite brilliant, actually. I found it on this MySpace.

Ron, it’s 2016. I’m certain everyone has moved on to Google Plus by now.

A phone begins to ring. Harry looks around the device he’s fiddling with and picks up the handset. The ringing continues. He slams down the receiver on the fax machine and marches over to his desk. There is a large, block style portable phone ringing there. He snatches it up and stares at the keypad for a beat before furrowing his brow, slowly extending a finger, and carefully mashing a button.

Uh, hello?

The voice on the phone is frantic and indecipherable.

Yes. Yes. Mhm. Yes, dear. Well, I can take care of that. Yes, dear. Yes. Just relax, I’ll take care of it. Yes. Of course dear. Certainly. I-. Yes. Okay.

Harry pulls the phone away from his face and presses the button as cautiously as he did the first time, then he places it, gingerly, on his desk.



Ginny, I presume.

Yes. It’s our child. He’s cursed.

Bugger. You want to have a look at this? It’s a page full of hamsters, and they seem to be dancing.

Yes, Ron. I’d like that more than anything in the world.