I will lose 9 pounds.
I will eat healthy.
I will exercise more.
I will master the 1985 arcade game Paperboy, while riding a virtual bicycle.
I will save money.
I will make new friends.
I will take up a new hobby
I will lose 900 pounds.
I will get to bed earlier at night, and masturbate earlier in the morning.
I will read more true crime fiction
I will learn a new skill.
I will feast on the hearts of my enemies and remember to take the recycling out every Tuesday.
This time, I will successfully recite the incantations from the Necronomicon and summon Cthulhu to pave the way for the return of the Old Ones to harvest humanity, because the Old Ones really love a good skin suit. And they have a good dental plan!
I will stop dealing Dick Clark’s blood on the black market.
I will hone my tracking skills with the goal of entrapping and dispatching the next yacht full of hapless ne’re-do-wells, who veer to close to my secret human hunting island, in record time.
I will get a new job.
I will choose a successor to lead my post-World War II alternate history of a totalitarian Lichtenstein that rules the world.
I will stick to that Gelato and vaginal transudate diet for the entire year.
I will stop spending so much money on my armadillo foot fetish.
I will adopt an army of puppies and train them to hunt in Pokemon Go
Throughout the house, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse, except I had begun to construct elaborate traps, like the ones that the Cajuns had built in my favorite movie, starring Keith Carradine and Powers Booth, about a National Reserve unit training in the Bayou.
I loved that movie so much that I watched it every day. Even at work, I would sneak a peak on my phone for a few minutes. Soldiers slogging through the swamp, haunted by the drone of cicadas. The slaughter of the pig at the Cajun feast. I would ease out of bed in the middle of the night and watch the movie in all its giant flat screen glory, glowing effervescently like the fog hanging over the dense Bayou.
One day, my son stepped into one of the traps. It was a fair representation of the one that killed Pvt Cribbs, portrayed by TK Carter. I had welded giant spikes to a bed frame, so that it looked like some sort of medieval torture device. It sprung out of a trap door that I had built and slammed into him. His body just hung on the spikes, just like that Pvt Cribbs, gagging on his own blood.
My son looked at me as best as he could with wide, gradually dying eyes that rolled in my general direction but couldn't quite get a fix on me. His mouth hung open; blood bubbled out and over his chin.
It was tearing me up to see him like that, and know that I had caused this horrible event. I swore to myself that I would not watch that movie again and took a step toward him, to offer comfort in his final moments.
But out of the corner of my eye on our wall mounted TV. I could see my favorite scene, the one where the Cajuns blast the crap out of this fat guy--I don't even know how he was in the National Guard in that kind of shape.
When the scene was over and I returned my attention to my son, he was dead. His glassy eyes pointed to the ceiling. I noticed that some of the plaster was peeling.
Needless to say this strained the relationship with the rest of my family. It had ramifications in the bedroom with my spouse, who withheld sex from me and threatened to leave me, so I had to chain her to the fireplace.
And my daughter could not be coaxed out of the main HVAC duct where she had begun to hide. I tried blasting her out with dynamite, but she just scurried deeper into the maze of vents. One of the blasts occurred a bit too close to the fireplace, which made me a single man.
My daughter is still scurrying around in those ducts, but I expect I’ll find her, eventually.
Clearly his decision-making left a lot to be desired. First off, he was wandering through a maze. Never a good start. The Minotaur. The Shining. Nothing good ever happened in mazes.
Yet, here he was wandering through one right now, guided by a strange old man he’d met at a pub. Why would anyone follow a complete stranger into a maze in a foreign land? Especially a guy that limped with a little crooked wooden can and wore in eye patch and went on and on about ancient rites and rituals and something about the old ones.
Apparently, it was the sort of thing he would does, because here he was, drifting towards his ultimate demise and wondering how he ended up there. And now, of course, the wolves howling. And the mist. And the full moon. None of this suggested that things were going to turn out well.
So it did not surprise him at all when they had reached the center of the maze, and the old man had transformed into a werewolf or a tentacled Cthulhu or whatever. It didn’t really matter what it was. Suffice to say that he’d once again found himself leaving a pub or bar or roadside moonshine stand and ending up in an unhappy situation. One that he’d reflect on later and feel a deep-seeded feeling of existential dissatisfaction.
The old man completed his transformation into some sort of horrific creature that should have stuck fear into his heart. But really, this sort of thing happened all the time.
So here was the part, where he would flee. He started to run, but his heart really wasn’t into it. He’d likely need a lot of coffee and ibuprofen tomorrow.
It was supposed to be a casual, NSA thing, when Madison met the fire alarm system that had trouble in telco line 1.
Still a fondness, an infatuation quickly grew between them. In some ways they couldn't be more different. One a living, breathing human being. The other an alarm system for the fire suppression system. Still, they had common interests. Like fire safety. The alarm system wanted everyone to know when the fire suppression system was faulty. And Madison wanted to be warned before being burned alive in a fire.
Madison admired the supple curves of the alarm system's switches and circuits. Its hot and sexy fire-engine-red shell that had all the bevels and perpendicularity in the right places. The adorable wailing it made when it blared Not Sure, Not Sure, like the sound of a truck backing up. Its bright LED display that indicated there was trouble in system telco line 1.
Even when it was clear that the alarm system’s annunciator was not securely attached to the wall and that it had a few loose wires, Madison was smitten and embraced the emotional risk.
When the couple approached the three month mark, the alarm system began beeping No More, No More. What else could Madison have expected? It had been clear from the beginning that there was trouble in system telco line 1. It only took a single call to Housing Code Enforcement before an inspector was sent to the building, where both Madison and the alarm system resided, and cited the building's owner for a coding violation regarding a nonfunctional fire notification system.
Still, even though it was really over, for Madison the relationship was ash that still held some heat and laying awake some nights with a home spun cocktail in hand and teared-up eyes, imagined the sound of the alarm singing Still Here, Still Here.
Recently, I have had to admit that I am powerless over my own poor judgement and decision-making. My life has become unmanageable, but I have come to believe that a power greater than my self can restore me to sanity. I have, therefore made the decision to turn my life and will over to a God of my own understanding. In my best judgement, that God should be the charismatic and narcissistic leader of a cult.
But it has to be the right cult. What I'm looking for:
I love playing games and seek out drama. I need a cult characterized by discord that encourages conflict among members. A cult based on the concept of radical honesty, where I can just tell it like it is, would probably be a good match. Zen cults where everybody just chills need not apply.
I'm equally comfortable wearing togas, potato sacks, hippy garb, or nothing at all. I pretty much look great in whatever I wear, so I can adhere to any cult dress code. Except I will not wear dress pants.
I don’t care for the suicide pact variety of cults, and I'm not chopping any wood.
I like to travel, so a cult that is constantly on the move to avoid the authorities would be a good match.
I play hard, but I don't like to work too hard. I'd like a cult that doesn't demand too much from me in exchange for all that it provides. While I'm happy to enjoy all the benefit the cult has to offer, I'd prefer that I not have to work too hard for those benefits. Don't expect me to support recruiting activities that would require walking door-to-door, canvasing airports, or otherwise require too much effort.
I'm quite sensitive to the cold so extra points for cults located in remote areas of tropical forests. Exclusive resorts would be even better. I really enjoy fresh pineapple and coconut. And monkeys are funny.
The first things people notice about me are my eyes, then my smile, then my kleptomania. Over time, as we grow together, the cult can expect that its communal property will become my personal property.
I love beef, so a cult that also raises cattle would be ideal. Typically, I eat three pounds of beef a day.
I am an Eris-loving Discordian. I believe that scissors are the ultimate consciousness, and all living beings reach this state of consciousness through a series of reincarnations from meat to vegetable to mineral to scissors. I am meat, but hope soon to be with my brother, James, who is a cauliflower that I nurture under my pillow.
I know most cults demand unquestioning allegiance, obedience, and conformity, but if you can't respect my religious beliefs, we might not be a match.
Finally, good dental and health plans are must-haves for my new cult.
I only respond to the name Jo Sorebella Herbal Relaxer Calhoun Kikogawa Urithrawiel of Dralinna. So there's that.
Serious inquiries only.
Kik Name: josorebellaherbalrelaxercalhounkikogawaurithrawielofdralinna29
Name of Accused: Braddock, Benjamin
Accused loitered on Elaine Robinson’s college campus, where he was not a student, and repeatedly made unwanted advances to Elaine Robinson in the school library, in her own classroom, and other places that invaded Elaine Robinson's private space. The Accused persisted in these behaviors, despite the fact that Ms Robinson established clear boundaries by stating that the accused should “clear off”
Accused accosted Elaine Robinson and her fiancé, Carl Smith, at the San Francisco zoo, and made bizarre observations about the monkeys at the zoo.
Through subterfuge and misrepresentation, the Accused secured the location of the wedding of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith with the purpose of disrupting the ceremonies and causing a "real scene".
Charge: Impersonated Clergy
According to the Santa Barbara gas station attendant, the Accused claimed to be clergy officiating the wedding of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith in order to use a phone to determine the location of the wedding.
Charge: Disorderly Conduct
At the wedding of Elain Robinson and Carl Smith, the Accused pounds on glass from a balcony overseeing the wedding ceremony. Multiple witnesses report the accused shouting "Elaine"
The Accused allegedly assaulted Mr. Robinson on two occasions. First, in the accused's apartment after an argument had ensued when Mr. Robinson attempted to protect his daughter from the accused's unwanted advances.
The second assault occurred in front of multiple witnesses at the wedding ceremony of Elaine Robinson and Carl Smith. The accused beat Mr. Robinson with a large cross.
Charge: Abduction and Kidnapping
Having worn Elaine Robinson down psychologically and broken her, the Accused abducted her and escaped in the back of a Santa Barbara city bus.
Consider a fine organism like me, the tapeworm—less complex over time, asexual reproduction, streamlined for survival:
Tremble before me monkeys! (Or apes if your going to be that way.) I'm the 9th deadliest organism on the planet!
More complexity does not necessarily breed a better beast. Indeed, I am the apex of evolution and life in the universe. (Don't even talk to me about the Tardigrade. I don't want to hear it. Glorified bugs is all they are.)
I’m sorry that you left the meat for the cook-out unattended in the kitchen. It was a foregone conclusion that I would take a crap on the floor and mix my feces into the bowl of raw hamburger. What did you expect would happen? You should have been much more careful.
I’m sorry you left your wedding ring on your nightstand in plain sight. Although, you have told me many times not to go into your room, you did not lock the door, so it really was your fault that I borrowed your ring.
Yes, I did return it. When I left it on the floor for you to find, perhaps before you vacuumed it up.
I’m sorry, but you should have known what I would do with silly putty.
I'm also sorry that you left food in the pantry. Of course, I would eat it all. Yes, even drinking the can of condensed milk. But you only have yourself to blame.
I'm especially sorry that you stored all the tools in the basement where anyone could get at them. It might have been more sensible to secure them in a locked room or at least kept the most lethal ones in a padlocked tool locker. Why you did not, is certainly perplexing to me.
But since you didn't, I now have all sorts of tools at my disposal when you fled into the room with the rest of the family. I could attack the door jam with the plyers, and there were hammers and crow bars and hack saws.
I don't even understand why you had all this stuff. Most you hardly ever used.
Except the drain rooter. You used that a lot, because the upstairs sink was getting clogged up all the time. Which of course, was because you kept trying to get me to brush my teeth, and it was much easier to squirt the tube of toothpaste down the drain.
And while I'm getting all my apologies out of the way, I am sorry that you were so damn insistent that I brush my teeth. You thought I had thrown the electric toothbrush down the air conditioning vent, but actually, I buried it in the backyard.
I think that about covers it. If I missed anything, I'm sorry. But I'm a bit distracted by the current situation you put all of us in. Not only me, but the rest of the family. It's just sad. You could have been more thoughtful.
Imagine if you just had that one tool, the drain rooter, that you actually used. A drain rooter would have been no use to me at all right now, and all of this craziness could have been prevented. I'm sorry you didn't consider that.
That the mass of an object impacts the distance that an object can be moved using the powers of my mind.
I applied the powers of my mind to objects that varied in mass.
My science textbook
My pit bull
My mom’s car
After applying the powers of my mind to each of the objects, I measured the distance that my mental powers were able to move the object.
As noted in the bar graph (see below), all of the objects were moved the same distance.
The powers of my mind are infinite as my mental powers can move objects the same distance, regardless of the object’s mass.
Tell me one fact. You haven’t told me a single fact, yet. Where did you hear that, the news? Those aren’t facts. That’s hearsay.
What are you being so distant and irritated for. Just because I said that your personality was disgusting? That was like 5 minutes ago, already. Why can’t you just get over that, so we can move on with our lives and be happy. Now, give me a hug.
What’s so obnoxious about that? I just shared that I find the way you hug is condescending and insincere. That’s not obnoxious. That’s communication. Open communication is important in a relationship.
What good has politics done for anyone? One fact, please. Medicaid. What? I’ve never heard of a President Johnson. I’m going to Google it.
I took psychology before I became a teacher, so I understand people and relationships. Something that you are very confused about. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus. I’ll say it again, because I’m not sure you’re getting it. Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus.
Tell me one fact. Enough with the history. That stuff doesn’t count.
You might feel comfortable folding your arms, but it is making me so super uncomfortable. It makes me feel contradicted while I’m being furious with you. I’m going to have to ask you to stop.
You still haven’t given me a single fact. I have one. My investments are doing so much better now. What do you mean you need that tax cut. Other people? I don’t get it.
So here you are running around on a rugby pitch. No forward passes. No downs. No helmets. One of the positions is hooker. That weird throw-in shit when the big players get lifted in the air. The scrums with players jammed up against each other like ... like what? Mutant Siamese twin beetles joined at the head?
Is it OK to talk about Siamese twins? Should it be conjoined twins? You can't really say. Since you started drinking again and went on the prowl for the younger ones half your age, your moral compass doesn't know North from South. (The fact that there haven't been any younger ones probably makes you feel a little cheated. You feel you've gotten a second rate midlife crisis, don't you?)
You might have thought blood and booze would have made a string of casual encounters easy pickings, but you underestimated your psychological disorder, sexual inassertiveness syndrome, and your bad grammar, which btw is often an online dating dealbreaker. And the drama and messiness from the breakdown of your nuclear family sure don't help much.
And what seemed like a good idea when you got divorced in your forties? Playing Rugby. Why? So you could hit people without worrying about assault charges? Keep your mind off whether your emotionally challenging daughter will get pregnant?
Look, your team just won the ball from a turnover on a counter ruck. Quick, get into position near the sideline. Run, dammit.
On offense your passing is bad, and on defense you can't tackle. And you're new so you’re playing wing, running up and down the sideline and maybe getting the ball. If you do get that ball, just run and keep running.
If only you'd started playing Rugby sooner. What a player you could have been. Now, it's a race to some decent play before your body gives out. Still, your midlife crisis did yield a badass leg sleeve tattoo that anyone would have to admit looks great with the kilt you bought from the Renaissance Fair. An awesome swirl of whale and squid locked into a yin-yang embrace of tentacles and maw that are both dealing mortal blows and a gentle embrace that represent the relationship with your ex.
Unlucky, knocked up. Unlucky as a knock-on when a loose ball’s been bouncing around the pitch.
While waxing metaphorically about your maritime tattoo, there was a penalty against your team. The other side opted to kick, and the ball is now sailing way behind you to the spot where you should be now. Chase after that ball--run as fast as those old legs can take you.
You manage to scoop the ball up and turn around to see controlled chaos converging. Kick it. You need to kick it into touch without fucking it up.
Don't fuck it up.
In Interspecies Fuckland, a lot of fucking is going on. Romulans and Vulcans are intermingling to produce strange offspring with pointed ears. Klingons are violently copulating with humans, killing their mates and mounting their heads on spikes before giving birth to bumpy-headed babies doomed to a substandard living that lacks a good dental plan.
In Interspecies Fuckland, Cardassian night porters are performing sadomasochistic rituals on broken glass with the Bajorans they victimized during the occupation. The deviant behavior becomes more perverted by the fact that the Cardassian hemipenis doesn’t fit properly in any Bajoran orifices.
In Interspecies Fuckland, the Sheliak engage in contractual sexual relations that involves protracted foreplay in the form of legal maneuverings and negotiations to determine position, location, time , and amount of mucous that will be exchanged.
Inexplicably, the crossbreeding orgy of unmatched chromosomes by the different hominid species of the Alpha quadrant manage to produce reptile-ape-crustacean-squid offspring with bumpy ass-shaped heads, nineteen nostrils, fish mouths, webbed feet, hands covered with suckers, and leathery skin.
In the fucking free-for-all, the aliens of the 24th century are happy to get skull bonked by a giant hairy bug, but still get squeamish when faced with transgender Trills.
The most tolerant species in Interspecies Fuckland is the Slime Mold of Seti Prime which reproduces by consuming its mates, regardless of number and gender, and dissolving them to absorb their DNA.
Day 15 in Year 1205 of Our Lawgiver
“What’s so special about him?” I asked, when Zira first showed me this Bright Eyes, or Taylor, as he insisted on being called.
Zira, I’m afraid, was lost in his brutish, animal magnetism from the moment he scribbled a few words in the dirt. She coos over him. “Hello, Bright Eyes. How is Your Throat Today?”
Please. Give me a break.
It was bad enough I had to constantly grovel for Dr. Zaius. The “ape with the shovel” Zaius called me. No respect. Not from Dr. Zaius. Not even from that filthy man. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Zaius had more respect for Bright Eyes than me. Would Zaius ever respect me? I am but a hapless passive chimp and not a crazy gun-wielding maniac.
Day 26 in Year 1205 of Our Lawgiver
That Taylor bastard is more trouble than he is worth. Well on his way to having his balls cut off if it weren’t for me. Any gratitude? Any gee, thanks Cornelius for saving me from castration? No, instead he simply bec0mes arrogantly insufferable.
Before it was all, “Help me Zira. Help me Cornelius. I’m lost in this crazy upside-down world” Next, it’s “I’ll take that gun thank you very much, and if you don’t like it, tough shit.”
And to see his ugly, flat face pressed against her lovely snout and to kiss her was enough to make me puke. When she giggled, I really had to wonder if the world weren’t upside-down after all.
Day 27 in Year 1205 of Our Lawgiver
Yesterday, I could barely keep myself from laughing out loud and shout with glee as I watched Bright Eyes ride off along the shore with his dimwit harlot. Zaius told me what he is going to find in the Forbidden Zone. The last laugh is going to be on Bright Eyes.
Ha, ha. Who’s so great now, Taylor, you rotten little shit? Good riddance, and I hope what you find drives you mad.
Her face, bilious and choleric, she could not tell if the man looked bug eyed because she had told him the surprising news, or because he had big bug eyes. Otherwise, his face was vacant, vapid, and blank. His mouth, slack. His jaw, also slack. His nose and chin, fixed and unblinking. His whole flat demeanor made her lips petulant and her skull, sardonic.
She turned to the ape. A range of emotions flickered through its simian face: from stolid to deadpan to straight, back to deadpan, and then on to glazed and inscrutable. “I am not a monkey,” the primate solemnly intoned, and then the gibbon gave the bug eyed man and the dour woman a group hug.
He admired her proportions. She was perfectly dimensioned, measuring 2×1.3333333333333333333×2 cubits. Her face exhibited all the ideal symmetry ratios, and it scored 18 on the von Luschan chromatic scale. They commenced to mate in the tribunal of love.
Initially, they aligned themselves perpendicularly, then parallel. After 600K milliseconds and expending 4186 Joules in the parallel alignment, they adopted a rhomboid configuration that exponentially accelerated the flow of endorphins in their bloodstream.
5500 milliseconds after returning to a parallel alignment, he rotated her 180 degrees on her longitudinal axis, and they maintained a perpendicular alignment. He administered a strike upon her gluteus maximus, expending 4 joules of energy, and then engaged the intestinal avenue.
After securing her carpus with jute, he used the instrument that had been constructed by wrapping its core in filler and then covered by an initial plait and then up to three additional layers–in this case only two, the belly plait and one bolster–and the stock starked with a round piece of wood and plaited over with leather.
Having reached a point where various emissions had occurred and their muscles were overwhelmed by lactic acid, they rested for 240000 milliseconds in overlapping physical proximity. Their respiratory and circulatory systems, which had been operating at high levels of activity, slowly reverted to normative levels. She told him that her limbic system was highly attuned to him, but he had already been seized by a fit resembling narcolepsy
You are now the property of the penal administration of the Canadian Gulag, a wholly owned subsidiary of The Trump Organization, in partnership with the Greater Federated Russian Confedaration Formerly Known as the Soviet Union (the GFRCFKSU) that now controls the Great White North, as well as most of the former United States.
Your crime? Saying something mean about President Trump. I don't know what you said, eh, but I'm quite sure it was rude and discourteous, whatever it was.
Do not think about escape. It is not possible, eh. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans to the West and East. To the North, thanks to Trump's Climate Change Acceleration and Beach Front Property Consolidation Initiative, an iceless Arctic Ocean. You can try to seek refuge on the Alaskan Islands, but why would you, eh? Just a bunch of chirps over there.
Likewise to the South your chances of escape are just as dismal, you have the Russian half of America (the good Trump half) and the Chinese half (the bad no Trump half). The borders between either of these halves and Canada are protected with very high walls. Don't even try it, eh. You might make it into the Mad Max zone between the two Americas, but you better hope that you don't fall prey to Lord Humungus and end up as a hood ornament, eh.
A first attempt at escape will add two years of hard donut making to your sentence. A second attempt will mean five additional years of intensively competitive curling. A third attempt makes you mandatorily eligible for the hit new show, Ice Skating Death Games, produced and sponsored by the Trump Organization.
Make no mistake about it. Your life here will be almost quite uncomfortable. We'll give you the gears until you break under the harsh duress of mild to moderate labor. Things like dry cleaning Donald's suits and getting him a cup of coffee when he visits. Don't expect the guards to be anything but unforgivingly polite.
And so you are to live out of the rest of your intolerable days eating poutine, drinking cases of two-fours, and choking on the cleanest air on the planet. And it will be really cold, sometimes. Make the best of it, and you might just survive.
Now, don your green denim Gulag suits, eh?
As a member of the Old Ones community, one of the most important benefits you’ve earned is incomprehensible health care coverage. Cynothoglys is the health care program for members of alternate dimensions and metafictional universes and their spawn. Cynothoglys also offers health care programs for transmogrified Old Ones.
The Cynothoglys dental program (CDP) is an involuntary dental insurance program that is available to eligible Old Ones and their eligible spawn. The transmogrified and their eligible family members can enroll in the Transmogrified program (see the Transmogrified Cynothoglys Dental Damnation and Madness and the Zanthu Tablets or visit http://www.ythogtha.org/). The following is a summary of dental damnation.
The CDP provides -100 percent coverage for diagnostic, emergency, and preventive services, with the exception of mouth tentacle extensions. Mouth tentacle extensions are covered at the -80 percent level.
The CDP also covers the following services at random percentages: fang filings, titanium dentures, gaping maw plugs, gum extractions, soul of the damned injections, and orthodontics.
The benefit package includes general skin-innard inversion when provided in connection with a covered benefit. Dentists or other professional providers must be licensed and approved to provide skin-innard inversion in the astral dimension in which they practice their dark dental arts.
Maximum annual benefit coverage is 1,200 Human Skin Suits for all routine dental care.
The maximum lifetime orthodontic benefit coverage is 1,500 Human Skin Suits.
Minions of the old ones in pay grades E-1 to E-4 have reduced cost shares for certain procedures.
The Old Ones, Minions of all Old Ones, and their broods may enroll in the CDP.
Enrollment in the CDP is handled by the Older Than Old Ones Company, Inc. (OTOOCI), the contract administrator for the CDP. Enrollment/Change applications are available by contacting OTOOCI through telepathic connection. Astral enrollment is available by sacrificing Sandra Dee.
The enrollment application must be received by OTOOCI not later than the red moon of Armageddon for coverage to begin on the first day of the return of the Old Ones. If OTOOCI receives the application after the red moon, coverage may not begin until the end of time. Incorrect eligibility information will cause applications to be denied.
Once enrolled, members must stay in the CDP for at least 11 millennia (with certain exceptions, such as loss of eligibility when devoured by your spawn). After 11 millennia, enrollment continues on a millennia-to-millennia basis.
The first month’s premium is due upon enrollment. The premium amount is shown on the enrollment form.
Global economic and cultural dynamics are slowly eroding traditional values. That’s why the world is going to hell in a hand basket. That, and Millennials feel entitled to guilt free masturbation.
They were brought up in a world where they feel entitled to masturbate for no other reason than their own shameless sexual satisfaction. Where’s the guilt? Where’s the hard work required to obtain satisfactory pornographic materials?
More so than previous generations, millennials have a sexual self-assurance that is egregious and off-putting. Sex-positive societal attitudes. Online sex toy stores. Webcam feeds, sexting. Fetish sites. Nero is practically fiddling as Rome burns.
Except in this case, Rome isn’t burning, so much as thriving with a stock market breaking record after record. Also, Nero is playing with his wang, not a fiddle.
Nonetheless, the performance of this generation's boomer retirement portfolios are at risk as long as our future depends on a generation that lacks a work ethic that can only be instilled in a world of scarce pornographic resources.
In our teenage years, masturbation took a lot of work. Playboy or your imagination. That's all we had. You couldn’t even talk about it. That’s how it was meant to be. Hard work. Hard work and denial that anyone was even doing it.
When we were young, you had to earn the right to masturbate. It wasn’t something that was just given to you. Full frontal nudity wasn’t even prevalent until the 70s. And by then we were slogging through a soul sucking job and raising a soul sucking family. Does the younger generation even understand how getting married early makes masturbation super inconvenient?
No, they don’t, because they delay marriage solely for the purpose of irritating our generation and showing a complete disregard for what made this country great: a workaholic lifestyle spent vainly and futilely attempting to meet the needs of a dysfunctional family and spending large sums of money on talk therapy.
For our generation, there were few options besides tossing one off in the shower. There was no Porn Hub. Penthouse or--God Forbid--Hustler in the household? We might as well have taken a live bomb into our collective houses, just waiting for it to be tripped, blowing us all to kingdom come.
And things sure didn’t get any easier as we got older. Sure, there was VHS and Cable, but unless you lived it, you can't possibly appreciate the anxiety induced from waiting in the middle of the night until your sure your spouse was soundly asleep, so you could safely slip out of bed to catch some soft porn on Cinemax? Worrying about our spouses coming down or even-Jesus Christ to even thing about it now--one of the kids? Seeing you sitting back, naked in that lawn chair in the middle of the TV room next to a super sized box of tissues while you're jacking off?
Holy Hell. The anxiety and worry makes it impossible to appreciate that film of topless super models infiltrating the Soviet Union and bringing it to its knees by parachuting behind the Iron Curtain. You can be sure of that.
No, kids these days don't struggle with this masturbational anxiety and worry, because they’ve been spoiled by technology. Like smart phones and tablets. Wherever, whenever, able to engage with a young, nubile naked woman in a pornographic exchange based on their twisted and idiosyncratic masturbational fantasies. Have they ever tried to smuggle a TV set and cable box and cable hook-up into the bathroom for some privacy? Certainly not. Can't be done.
And they have never had to develop a plausible "I'm Working Late" excuse to tell their spouse before slinking off to a peep show, where parking is a real bitch and you have to hoof it 5 blocks through the Irish neighborhood. And then once there, having to wait for a private pleasure booth. It's hard work! There isn't a more damning exhibit of our decline into a world of easily satisfied sexual needs than pornographic webcams.
It's the End of Days and the four horsemen are upon us. Except we're not living with war, death, and so on, so much as wealth and prosperity, while Millennials are fighting those wars we figured were a good idea, but still.
It is just so sad that our future depends on a generation that has missed the character-building, coming-of-age experience of masturbation that is as frustrating and unfulfilling as possible.
I thought it would be just another ordinary day, as I ruminated about the amazingosity of our Great Leader Trump.
But boy was I wrong! It would turn out to be far from an ordinary day. When walking home from work, a strange man, all dressed in purple, rode up to me on a Honda moped and demanded that I party like it's 1999.
Wow! He's riding a Honda, and he sure is short. And then I noticed more purple men, all wearing unbuttoned blouses, exposing their chests, and sporting an effeminate moustache. One is playing the guitar, and they're all gyrating in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable.
It didn't take me long to realize that I had stumbled on a clonedroid invasion deployed by the Sino Pacific Empire to perpetrate moral decay on our simple, protelatarian way of life. These sorts of things happened all the time under the New Trump Order.
I for one had no problem when President Trump left NATO. It did result in the invasion of most of Europe. Not our business, anyway. I was OK when Trump made that agreement with Putin that led to the annexation of the United States and Canada with the Greater Federated Russian Confedaration Formerly Known as the Soviet Union (or the GFRCFKSU for short).
That's exactly why I voted for him. I knew that he would make America great again. I didn’t know it would be by making America not be America any more, but on the other hand, there is a complete no-nonsense attitude towards getting things done these days. And the new Canadian Gulag certainly took care of all the riff raff and undesirables that had been costing me my job. And when the CCCC (the Capitalist Crypto Communist Chinese, of course) invaded. That was OK. They only took over the half of the US that I didn't like anyway. The part with Hollywood.
OK, that long, deep kiss between Trump and Putin was a little weird, but I'm pretty sure it was just some Russian thing, like the French cheek kissing thing. The French, now don't get me started on them. Thank God Trump and Putin outlawed the French.
I don't know much about clonedroids or anything. Something about vacuum tubes. And something else about sending time travellers back to steal people's brains off of autopsy tables and saving them in an icebox. What do I know? I'm a salt inspector, not a robot scientist.
I do know I don't trust them. A bunch of robots, built by scientists with foreign sounding Swedish names, out to take my job, just like the Mexicans.
That's why I completely support building a wall between the GFRCFKSU half and CCCC half of the country formerly known as America. The Mad Max zone between the Rockies and the Mississipi hasn't been enough of a buffer zone.
Case in point: the lewd gang of little purple men who continued to demand that I party like it was 1999--they were quite adamant on that point--compromising my capacity as a productive citizen by infecting me with the heretic dogma of the capitalist industrial music complex.
Then all at once they said, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing"
“What thing is that?" I asked.
"Gender bending if I was your girlfriend." one of them said while strumming an electric guitar.
I was thinking, "What the hell does that mean."
"I am the sexiest vegetarian in the world, and right now, I'd love some spaghetti and orange juice."
Still not understanding.
"We are multitudes."
Not comprehending, as a flock of doves flew in the air from I don't know where.
A really sad looking purple man moaned and said "I wish Sheila E was here to party like it was 1999."
Really sad guy continued, "You know, I am well aware that I am only a facsimile of the original Prince"
Disturbingly self-aware and sad guy gave me a come hither look that violated all my values on the way people should be looking at me and started singing about oral sex. At last I think he was singing about oral sex, I was having a hard time following, but got the gist of things. I think.
My mind raced. I realized that I had a handful of malformed grains of salt that I had rejected at work and then pocketed, so that I would have food to eat that night. I threw the salt in the face of the purple oral sex guy and ran.
I made it about 10 meters, when I twisted my ankle and fell. All seemed lost when the cavalry arrived to save me at the last moment. Literally, a cavalry. Clonedroids of the 15th US president, James Buchanan, riding horse back.
A Buchanan swept me up in his strong, capable arms and kissed me on the forehead to let me know everything would be just as OK as it had ever been. Sort of a long kiss.
All sorts of lists exist that talk about the number of universal plots. One list had 36, which seemed awfully high for universal plots. Seven seems to be a popular number for universal plot lists, so I developed my own list of 7 universal plots.
- Individual Walks Dog: Individual walks his dog or someone else’s dog.
- Individual vs Carrot Top: Individual tries to do something. Carrot Top succeeds or fails in preventing Individual from doing it.
- Carrot Top vs Individual: Carrot Top tries to do something. Individual succeeds or fails in preventing Carrot Top form doing it.
- Individual versus Death: Individual is in danger. Individual dies or doesn’t die.
- Individual versus the Hive Mind Collective: Individual struggles against conformity and with a mindless zealousness to maintain his individuality at all costs, screwing everyone else in the process.
- Individual versus Myth: Individual struggles to be somebody. Man succumbs to suburban life or becomes an action hero.
- Individual versus the Unknown: Individual makes a grand discovery. Or not.