Project Overview: Untitled Document is a serial comedy novel dealing with the sort of topics that we so frequently make fun of here at Something Awful.
This Chapter: In this exciting chapter find out the dark secret behind the video tape porn fiend Crutch Limply bought from the mysterious Ukrainian. Will it shock? Maybe. Will it amaze? I guess. Will it take you on a roller coaster ride of excitement? Well, to be honest, probably not, but I'm not going to rule it out! Also, find out how the mind of an Imperatrixian really works. All in this week's issue of Men's Fitness. I mean Untitled Document.
To those who live in New Jersey it probably came as no surprise that their state was home to the first and third largest repositories of pornography in the world. The third largest warehouse of porn was located in Sussex County in a tiny borough named Branchville. Outside of the cluster of adorably quaint houses and corny rural business there was a fenced facility owned by porn mogul Larry Flint. Visible from an unlined state-route the two enormous single floor concrete buildings resembled military bunkers or a missile silo complex. Inside was what Mr. Flint called his "pornucopia". There were ten copies of every piece of prurient filth ever produced by the crippled wiseacre, as well as - so he claimed - "at least one copy of everything else". In truth his vast library of pornography was missing some 9,236 videos, 4,822, 452 photographs (digital and analog), and almost a billion pieces of written or illustrated erotica.
Flint rarely admitted to the existence of his Branchville porn bunker and went to great lengths to keep knowledge of it out of the media. He considered it as something akin to a fallout shelter, stocked with VHS cassettes of cum shots and glossy Japanese magazines of women eating each other's excrement instead of baked beans and canned fruit. When civilization ends or religion overthrows democracy, Flint intended to retreat to the bunker and wait out the cataclysm with a few close friends. When the dust settled his plan was to emerge and create a society based on free love and translucent dildos that let you see a woman's cervix while she is masturbating.
Interestingly, Flint's bunker was located less than two miles from an equally secretive repository containing over 50,000 cubic meters of the United States' atomic effluent. That created the improbable but fascinating possibility that an apocalyptic war might break open the concrete casements surrounding the atomic sludge and flood Flint's porn compound. Whether this radiation contamination would simply kill Larry Flint and his harem or transform them into gigantic and super-strong freaks straight from the crude illustrations of an Amazonian crushing porn site is a question that will likely never be answered.
The second largest collection of pornography in the world was located in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia and belonged, amusingly enough, to the family of notorious terrorist Osama Bin Laden. Many Western terror analysts incorrectly believed that Osama was considered the black sheep of the Bin Laden construction empire. Most of his family had continued on either in the construction business or other suitably entrepreneurial endeavors. Osama had instead declared war on his home country and spent much of his vast family fortune on funding international terrorism. To the top brass at the Pentagon, the CIA, and the NSA it was hard to imagine a child more at odds with his family than Osama.
Of course, these intelligence agencies were unaware of the story of Keith Bin Laden. Keith Bin Laden would be most easily described as equal parts Magnum-era Tom Selleck, early 1980s Italian street pimp, and North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il. He didn't so much ooze bad style as he squirted it out of his pores and into the eyes of anyone that crossed his path. He idolized Fonzie from "Happy Days" and no matter what the temperature was in Riyadh he could be seen wearing a worn leather jacket with thick curtains of unusually oily sweat sweeping across his face and exposed chest hair. Keith was the sort of guy who would actually prompt women to dramatically throw their drinks in his face. That is to say they would if he wasn't a multi-millionaire with a cadre of gorilla-like bodyguards willing to snap necks on a whim.
Keith's behavior was not what earned him the enmity of the Bin Laden family. What Papa Bin Laden hated was the fact that Keith had squandered most of his fortune on weird sex parties and the world's second largest collection of pornography. At least Osama was proactive with his fortune. Blowing up embassies and masterminding terror attacks wasn't topping the usual Bin Laden family to-do list, but at least Osama was getting out and making his own way in the world. Meeting new people; experiencing new things. Keith, on the other hand, was content to sit in one of his sprawling palaces and get fellated by a transsexual dwarf he bought from a one-armed Thai man while he watched custom made porn featuring most of the cast of TV's "Blossom". The patriarchal Bin Laden did not consider Keith's expenditure of 50,000 dollars for a Joey Lawrence pop shot to be money well spent.
Despite all of the fabulous wealth and sleazy Saudi Arabian underworld connections Keith's immense archives of pornography were still not the most extensive on earth. That dubious honor belonged to a simple and not particularly well-off Perl programmer named Crutch Limply. Working out of his one bedroom apartment in Newark, Limply had tenaciously amassed the most staggeringly comprehensive collection of the world's pornography. His apartment wasn't obviously inundated with porn, even though it was quite small.
Entering through the heavy pea-green security door a visitor - had their ever actually been one - would have noticed dozens of flattened shipping boxes and entire trash bags full of packing materials in the living room. Crumpled shipping inserts and receipts littered the floor alongside wadded up Kleenexes, wrappers from various snack foods, and empty bottles of Mountain Dew. A fictitious visitor could have picked their way carefully through the debris following the glow and strange hum to the large bedroom. Inside this room was an enameled metal folding chair with an uncovered smoke-yellowed pillow on the seat. Nearly every other square inch of the room was given over to electronic equipment.
Crutch's collection of pornography was meticulously scanned and cataloged into his elaborate system of recursive hard drive arrays. Each video and movie was stored and referenced in interlocking databases that ran from a three-server system that pulled data off of a cluster of PCs that consisted of little more than hard drives. Limply had sunk hundreds of hours into developing some of the most ingenious Perl scripts ever devised just to provide him with instant access to his immense digital warehouse of pornography. Keyboard macros would open any of the categorized archives and a quick keyword search at the command line would shiver through the database and bring back a plaintext list of everything he could possibly want.
What allowed Crutch to out-do every other collector of pornography in the world was his sheer tenacity. He devoted every free moment that was not spent maintaining his system or cataloging new arrivals to finding new pornography. His unending quest had no purpose, it had no finite goal or even a lucid reason for continuing, but Crutch persevered maniacally. He felt constantly on the verge of some great breakthrough, as if the name of God would manifest itself in the quivering labia of a cream pie close-up. He hunched vulture-like before the bank of flickering monitors. His hands working unwatched on the scanner, tearing open shipping boxes and slitting open shrink wrap with his long and jagged fingernails. He slid out cover inserts and carefully arranged them without even glancing down between his legs at the 900 dollar scanner, his other hand working the dirt-streaked mouse.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
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