Being forever 21 sounds good at first, but in the grand scheme of things it's an existential nightmare.
Surveying the horrors of nuclear annihilation, I realize the hubris of my species and the grand indifference of the universe. But I have to admit, a lot of these horrors would make great band names.
Am I boring you? Does the flesh-rending, bone-splintering brutality of the Fight Palace put you to sleep? In the arena, a moment can mean the difference between life and death, but clearly a moment of your time is too much to ask.
The moment I step inside Planet Fitness, I feel completely at home. No prying eyes staring at me, judging me, like they do on the street. It's almost like that horrible, regrettable incident never happened.
I've never been one to define myself by my clothes, so an ironic "Future Children's Party Clown" t-shirt appealed to me. I might have been weird, but I knew I'd never become a children's party clown. Until I did.
In a change of format, the next season of The Simpsons will consist entirely of the cartoon family discussing the lives of their fans.
With all these great tats, it's safe to say I'm the most unique person on earth. Which sounds great, until you realize how lonely it is.
Late in the 21st century, most human recreation is performed by robots. Every night, the robots go to bars and nightclubs and transmit the experience to their human masters. At the end of the night, the robots must return to their factories to be destroyed. This is not called execution. It’s called closing time.
We’ve been called the world’s most dangerous band. That title mainly refers to the danger of being in our band, which has lost several members due to drug overdoses, time-travel mishaps or because they were eaten by our drummer, Quark. I'd fire Quark, but he's 12 feet tall and is our moral compass for all decisions that don't involve eating people.
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Recently, I won a trip to New York City to appear on "New York or Butts?", a game show where contestants must distinguish aerial photos of Manhattan from pictures of bloody, hemorrhoidal anuses. While touring the city, I discovered some great spots that all visitors to the Big Apple should add to their itinerary.
Two zombies who've just finished their shift board the train and kick me out of my seat, explaining that the backs of haunted house rides are reserved for cool people. "Have you ever touched and then ripped off and eaten a boob?" one says to me. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Winter is a cold, inhuman force, so plow drivers are trained to be cold and inhuman as well. On their first day on the job they're subjected to Chinese snowflake torture - basically the same as water torture except with snowflakes instead of water and Christmas carols playing in the background.
The walls of my dorm are covered with supermodel posters. Today I tore one down looking for an electrical outlet and saw the words "HELP ME" written repeatedly on the wall in a mix of blood and hair gel, but then the poster re-affixed itself to the wall like a rapidly healing wound.
Years of listening to my coworkers' stories about their weekends have given me the ability to see them as high-def 3D movies, more real than my own life. I walk into a coworker's campsite, her tent a skyward arrow indicating the course of her future.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
To be a designated driver I drink beer, then do coke to cancel out the beer, then Quaaludes to take the edge off the coke, then PCP to stay awake on the Quaaludes, then more beer to drown out my friends, who are yelling at me to find my clothes and get off the roof because they want to go home.
If an unattractive person somehow gets their hands on forbidden Abercrombie & Fitch merchandise, dodging the lava pits and robot mannequins that throw the ampersands from their A&F T-shirts like shurikens, they'll fall victim to the store's mirrors, which explode if they display unattractive people, shooting shards of glass into the people's faces.
One night in 1989 I showed up to my job at the McDonald’s in Times Square, New York, and the place was filled with gay ravers. They were dressed as gay versions of McDonald’s mascots, like Mac Tonight in Liberace garb and Mayor McCheese with a rainbow sash.
The touchscreen had an interface I didn't understand, and I kept hitting the wrong buttons, flooding the screen with error messages. Each one made the cashier cringe, but told me to keep going. As I fumbled through the menus trying to upgrade my meal he began breathing heavily.