i scuttle through the dim ceramic halls of what was once cnbc. it is daylight outside but it is dark in here. that is all i know.
moments blur together. burnett's been dead for weeks. yesterday dan ratigan and i buried rick santelli, that great leader of our movement who in his last days became little more than a hairless muppet dancing wild and naked down the halls. the bicycle broke so dan is among us again. his quads are the size of turkeys and he can no longer achieve an erection. sometimes i stand behind him and masturbate into his hair just to prove my superiority. he usually cannot stand to escape because his legs get caught in the arms of the chair so he screams and thrashes like a pig with lemon juice in its eye. haha i have won again.
i have a tremendous moustache now. i do not remember how this happened.
i am one of the last humans living in the rusted husk of what was once called new york city. under obama's rule the poor ate the rich and shit us back out to starve and die alone in the dark, scrabbling fingernails against concrete like buried alive in a cement coffin screaming in the dark.
maria - my poor sweet maria - my darling beloved maria - she has vanished. she said she was going for food. said she heard demetri martin was injured in the road outside of comedy central and ripe for the taking. i watched as she approached him from a window upstairs. but as she approached him, jon stewart came hurtling down from the heavens like the world's tiniest batman. he snared her in a giant freakin net. demetri had been faking. they carried her away, laughing cruel jewish laughs - laughs i hadn't heard since bear stearns collapsed - and i screamed her name as they ducked down a manhole and she disappeared forever. and the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of my beautiful maria and me and the stars never rise but i feel the bright eyes of her forever staring at me.
soon the sun will go down. i will be cold and alone. i run my hands through my moustache. and for the first time - the last time - in my life, i pray. and i curse. damn you, obama.
as the night closes in, i hear ratigan scream. something has come for us. this is my final thought.
damn you, obama.
Interview with Infrateal:
Michael Pocelinko, 22. Twenty-two years of dumb thoughts buoyed by a filial geyser of cash. Michael Pocelinko was turning crafty now, though, riding that geyser to new heights, gazing at the arrayed countryside with greasy perspicacity.
He already had three locked vaults in his basement compound, his Ark: One for pistols, nestled in woodchip terraria, with drip-bottles filled with bullets. One for shotguns, surrounded by a moat, languorously sunning themselves on artificial rocks beneath potted acacias. One for rifles, leaned in little cubicles, wearing little ties, drinking mugs of machine oil with clever slogans, "you don't have to be semiautomatic to work here, ~but it helps~!" All of them in pairs, so that they could be fruitful and multiply. But Michael knew he had to expand.
The impenetrable future rose before Michael like a blazon of dark possibility. When the gun stores shuttered forever, when ownership was banned, when the last free men cast lead balls from Montana towers to resupply their pipe-muskets against the swarthy hordes, what next? America might fall, but surely pockets of resistance would persist, and surely the Feds would continue to seize and oppress what crude firearms remained, on and on unto infinity, until ATF cavemen had confiscated the last throwable rock on Earth's barren surface. Michael wasn't planning for the apocalypse, or the post-apocalypse. He was far beyond that.
Fueled by the inexorable power of daddy's wallet, Michael was buying every possible gun. Directed energy weapons were old hat--vault 4, superconducting barrels bubbling in liquid hydrogen with little plastic castles and flash-frozen goldfish. He had guns that shot spikes, stalagmites, icicles, popsicles, sickles, hypodermics that inflicted sickle-cell anemia. He had a gun made out of motorized dead butterflies that he bought from a crooked lepidopoterist in Sri Lanka, who claimed it would summon hurricanes to sunder the target with counterroating winds. He had a gun that shot an infinitely telescoping rod with a sensor that stopped it always a centimeter from any surface, in case the Feds moved in with commando toddlers that only needed to be frightened away. He had water guns, some with built-in heaters in case the feds attacked with golems made of tea. He had a gun that very slowly grew incompressible crystals out of its barrel, in case the Feds tried to crush him on a geologic timescale. He had a steampunk gatling gun that fired 3,000 leeches a second, and whose maker claimed it sucked blood faster than vampire John Henry. He had net guns and nettle guns and knitting needle guns. He had a howitzer that shot bazookas, which shot pistols, which shot miniature guns made of carbon nanotubes, which shot bullets so tiny they could pick the parasites off a gnat.
Michael scoured the badlands of Utah and Colorado until one day a mute paleontologist with a harelip blindfolded him and led him to a secret grotto, right below the K-T boundary. There were ruins of a prehistoric city, massive and terrible. Sitting on a workbench was a gargantuan ray-gun wrought of pure iridium. "This is a dinosaur gun. It was made by a T-Rex and so the trigger is tiny, because he has a tiny arms. But the gun is HUGE!" Michael bought it.
Day by day, the vaults of Michael's compound grew full to bursting with guns. He expanded them ever downwards, until vault 668817-AF-0Z2 penetrated the Mohorivicic discontinuity and he inadvertently acquired the Gun of the Magma Men. Michael still wasn't satiated, and scoured the ends of the earth, daddy's credit card in one hand, a handful of golden trinkets in the other. He had to have them all. Every possible gun.
On his 80th birthday, Michael wheezed at the top of the Thousand Stairs of Ngrydyl. The forgotten Plateau of Zynd stretched before him, where a lost sect of buddhists were rumored to have a mandala-making gun of great power. It captured sandgrains from the wind, stored them, colored them, and fired them with micron precision. Michael was gonna buy it.
But the exertion had been too much. The strange man with pockets of gold was treated to the finest sky-burial, and the ravens considered his fat western meat a great delicacy. Somewhere, his spirit wept. Obama had won.
REUTERS *** FINAL BULLETIN
WASHINGTON - HE OPENED HIS MOUTH AND A STREAM OF GREEN AND BLUE ERUPTED. THE SHRUBS BECAME ERECT AND MIGHTY LIKE A THOUSAND REDWOODS. FROM EVERY STREET CORNER VINES PUSH AND PROBE THROUGH THE CONCRETE, SLIDING THEIR WAY UP THE BUILDINGS. SOON THEY WILL CHOKE OUT THE SUN, BUT ALL WE CAN DO IS PLUCK THE DELICIOUS CHERRIES FROM THE VINES, CHEWING AND LICKING THEM AND SPITTING OUT THE PITS. THEIR TASTE IS LIKE REMEMBERING A WONDERFUL DREAM AN HOUR BEFORE THE ALARM REMINDS YOU OF THE SHORT NIGHT BEFORE.
MAYBE HE IS CHRIST. MAYBE HE IS ANTICHRIST.
|JOURNAL OF REDKEN THE GREAT, EXPLORER OF GALAXIES|
The hot desert wind blows around the last remnants of the statue. Once it stood in monumental bronze, shining as brightly as the sun, dazzling those who would walk near it. Now, it has been corroded, and the sand in the wind has peppered it with pock-marks. There are jagged edges where the metal cracked, still not blunted by the fury of the wind.
The words on the pedestal were once deeply engraved, but they are nearly impossible to read now. The centuries have not been kind to language. However, were it not for the swirling dust which clogs the air and makes vision impossible, and were it not for the blinding sun, which casts a sheen on every object that makes the earth and the sky and everything in-between painful to look at - were it not for these, it would just be possible to read these words:
I AM BARACK, PRESIDENT OF PRESID
The inscription ends there. The heat had killed the engravers before they had been able to finish it, and their bones had dissolved into the desert.
Nothing else remains.
This isn't about harassment. It's about ethics in cat journalism.
Can you please give Golgura a trophy? How about Tallest Monster? I speak not for Golgura now. He is stepping on us villagers out of anger. In his wisdom he has flattened my son.
The Comedy Goldmine examines the funniest and most creative threads from the Something Awful Forums. Although the Comedy Goldmine has changed authors many times over the years, its focus on the Something Awful Forums is still the same. Includes hilarious Photoshops, amusing work stories, parodies, and other types of oddball humor.