 "The building offers us everything we need." Discovery show “Love off the grid” features couples trying to make it when one of them is an agoraphobic shut-in who uses the excuse of really loving nature to lure a mate into isolation and an eternal existence with his or her captor/lover. Each episode is like the first act of a Lifetime horror movie, replete with eerie reaction shots from the hermetic tinder swipe gone wrong as she questions why her hostage would ever want to leave her murder house in the middle of nowhere.
IBR productions, the entertainment extension of the Intergalactic Business Report, now offers what many naysayers will call a “rip off” or “ill-conceived” mirror image of “love off the grid,” the title of which we conjured by changing one word. Yes, there are similarities. Our series also features lunatics with an unsettling devotion to place, but instead of being in the middle of nowhere, our would-be long term relationshipers dwell in hot smelly cities. Let’s introduce to you our cast for season one: Brian Soplovich. Brian lives in a duplex in Chicago. When he’s not fighting people for a parking spot in front of his house he calls “dibs,” he’s arguing with Nora, his beloved partner who moved there to be with him because he captivated her with tales of pizza and hot dogs with no ketchup. Now she’s cooking ramen while he yells at his Chinese neighbor. Jimmy O’Toole. Jimmy is from Boston. This masshole gets fidgety when he leaves the confines of his neighborhood where he is like the mayor, except he isn’t. Becky, his paramour from Iowa, arrives with hope in her heart, which is slowly crushed by Jimmy’s endless stories about the Bruins, Redsox, Patriots, and Celtics that usually end with the proclamation, “Well, dat’s Boston for ya. Bazoomba!” (Spoiler: Jimmy’s not really from Boston, making this all kinds of more fucked up.) Leslie Gluckman. Leslie lives in an upper west side building where she has really good delivery service. Ronnie is the man who met her online and now lives with her in her 700 square foot apartment. Ronnie thinks the take-out food is great, but he’d like to eat at one of the various restaurants outside the building. Leslie freaks out when he says this because she thought he came there to live with her, in the “building.” “I love the building,” Ronnie insists. “I just want to go outside.” Leslie just responds with, “the building offers us everything we need.” Yes, Leslie murders him eventually and production stops. Sam Goorleyneck. Sam is on disability in the suburbs of Denver. Didn’t fight in a war. Just became disabled when he hit 479 pounds and broke his hip trying to mount a scooter at a Walmart. Tiffany, a waitress from Caledonia, New York, is his new caretaker/lover. When she leaves Sam’s house using the excuse of going to buy him more hot pockets, Sam checks the massive freezer and sees that not only are there ample amounts of the frozen delicacy that’s hot when cooked in a pocket, but there are also pizza rolls for days and even months. In a fury, he calls to his trusty steed, which is a hoveround with bumper stickers on it, and pursues Tiffany as she drives away. This alone is worth watching the entire season. Phil Ratuliak. Phil is on a cul-de-sac in a housing development outside Dallas. Phil don’t like it when people knock on his door and bovver him. Until… Sandy, the pleasant if a little mentally challenged (but not so much she can’t make her own decisions) girl from Alaska shows up to be his companion. Sandy is allowed to explore the cul-de-sac without Phil, and she believes what he has taught her—that what lies beyond is pure evil. When she sees kids on a playground just outside the imagined barrier, she begins to question Phil’s teachings. Uh oh. Phil’s not gonna like dat. Ryan Reynolds. By far the most intriguing character on the show, mostly because he has in no way agreed to do it, Reynolds lives in a Canadian mansion he can’t leave because he’s so fucking famous he’ll get mobbed by fans if he goes grocery shopping. When he’s not whisked away to make crappy movies, he is isolated in his home alone until he tricks a young actress, Blake Lively, to live with him. Then the horror show begins as he teaches her to ice fish in his man-made pond and she wakes up each morning to self-deprecating humor and cutesy remarks that are meant to be endearing but instead chill her as if she’s just entered a meat freezer (which he has too, just so he doesn’t have to leave to go shopping for meat. Makes sense, if you can afford it).  When the Intergalactic Business Report asked me to report on the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, my response was: “I think you mean Chicano.” Somewhere, a Hispanic brother or sister or non-binary questioning neuro-divergent-BDSM-sexual is air high fiving me, but alas, I must leave you hanging because I don’t want to taint you with the systemic racism this publication supports by using black lettering on top of a vast, white, background some of you call “paper” or a “page.” The black letters do all the work. The white page just sits there and profits from their labor. Ever wonder why so many white people name their daughters Paige? That’s why.
Let’s meditate for a second and just calm down. Peace. Zen. Release your orgasm. If you haven’t read one of my columns before, my name is Radna Shurebeets and I am an unabashed political activist who refuses to be bought and paid for mostly because I don’t recognize money as being a thing that exists. Last week, I was in Chicano, covering the Democratic National Convention and filtering it through my mind so you can understand what’s really going on. Here are my thoughts:
Let me explain that last one because it didn’t happen at the Democratic National Convention but it should have. Vegan bestiality is where you want to have sex with animals but you don’t because no means no and what you do instead is fuck a stuffed animal or something that looks like the animal you desire. Taxidermy is not allowed, apparently. Anyways, got to get your plug in when you have the chance, am I right? Also, there was a lot of negative propaganda about the DNC supposedly offering free vasectomies to men. Number one, why would they make it free because men need to pay their fair share, and number two, they should just be offering to cut their dicks off instead. Oh, and they should pay for that too. Oh, but only if they’re white men. Everybody else can slap their pecker in my face. In conclusion I think it’s time for Furries to finally have a candidate that automatically gets a Senate seat determined by a caucus of it/her/what’s peers including, but not limited to, Fozzy Bear, Sonic the Hedgehog, and Smurfette from when she got rabies. Anybody showing up like Mickey Mouse or a non-minority Disney character should be publicly executed by the state for their involvement in corporate greed and the harmful unrealistic portrayal of rodent-Americans. I already said, “in conclusion,” but I’m just going to add that Santa Claus and the Pope are gay lovers, but in a bad way, and that I’m having all my holes surgically filled in by a third-way indigenous Shaman who practices non-white medicine out of his VW van. Oh, and he’s an illegal immigrant, so fuck you as she/her/zir/zit casts the winning vote in the presidential election. I’m done writing now. Goodbye. Also, Joy. Radna Shurebeets is a political activist whose views are often considered a “little much” by people who hear her views. But herstory is never made by womyn who are “just right.” If you’d like to contact Radna, or comment, you can reach her at [email protected].  The Intergalactic Business Report rarely does product reviews or endorsements, but a new consumer good that addresses and solves a common problem caught our attention. Primarily an issue for males, sudden erections that make loud noises can cause disturbances in public areas, business meetings, and grocery store checkout aisles.
Our own research indicates that almost 40% of American men experience frequent embarrassment from sudden, high-volume erections that occur when they are inadvertently stimulated either mentally or if something brushes near their penis region. Even more alarming is that close to 90% of men experience at least one such incident in their lifetimes. What is erection volume? While the science behind the phenomenon of loud erections is still being determined, the most common noises caused by erections are the following sounds: Boing. Schwing. Bwaah waah waah zing. Meat dropping on a table noise. Helloooo. Lesser heard, rarer outbursts include: Mee mee mee (ala the Roadrunner). I’m Rick, nice to meat you. Culturally insensitive Chinese music. How the boner silencer works. The application of the product is simple because it is basically a plastic bag that attaches over the genitals and is fastened with a rubber band. The good news is that unlike expensive things you can buy, this only costs the price of a baggie and a rubber band and can be applied easily unless you have a problem with your hands and need someone else to attach the bag to your dick. Can I buy one? As we said above, yes, if you consider buying a plastic bag and a rubber band “buying a boner silencer.” In that case, you may buy as many as you can afford. We recommend purchasing a Ziploc multipack, because you can get like a hundred at a time. As for rubber bands, no one knows where to buy those, but there are probably a zillion in some drawer in your home. If you don’t have a drawer like that, just go to the grocery store and pull them off asparagus bundles or cilantro bunches. If someone says anything then just respond with something like, “What the fuck? You gonna bust me for pulling rubber bands off fruit and shit?” Never EVER reveal the reason behind stealing the rubber bands is because you’re going to use them to hold a plastic bag over your dick and try your HARDEST (but not in a penis way) to not have a spontaneous high-decibel boner right at that moment because then the gig is up. Opinon: Let’s revive the conversation about Jake and Maggie as movie lovers. By Ed Mountaineer.5/16/2024  Opinion columnist Ed Mountaineer is known for his controversial views on the entertainment industry. Now he offers his most polarizing idea yet. Why can’t real life incest be erased with fake life acting?
Here I go again—taking on the entertainment industry by introducing concepts they are too afraid to broach, or brioche, I’m not sure which. I pose today the simplest of questions: if acting is just acting, why can’t a brother and sister be romantic movie partners? Picture Julia and Eric Roberts making out. Think of Charlie Sheen fake pounding Emilio Estevez. How about John and Joan Cusack suddenly realizing they’re meant to be together? Or, my favorite, the Hemsworths in an all-out, no rules, fake orgy with each other? Years ago, genius comedy writer Ken Levine pitched the concept of Jake and Maggie as movie lovers and he was met with the kind of criticism you might expect—people suggested he was some kind of perv. Just like they suggest about me. All the time. Despite the haters, there’s no question that audiences want this, and it may be time Hollywood finally gave it to them. As a non-actor, I’ve been told again and again that movie kissing and love scenes are just acting and that there are no actual romantic feelings involved. This is why actresses’ husbands supposedly show up on set and are like, no big deal, George Clooney just fake-fucked my wife. I’ve been called a lot of things, including a “danger to myself and others” but one thing I’ve never been called is wrong about my movie casting ideas, mostly because until now I’ve never suggested anything about movie casting. So, my longstanding record may get tested as soon as I hit “send” on this article. But if it’s fair to question my choice for a rom-com couple, isn’t it also fair to question your own revulsion to the idea of sibling actors copulating on screen? Open. Your. Minds. Let’s buttress my argument for a second. Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal are both pretty hot, and they don’t even look the same so there’s not a whole thing where they’d be together and you’d be like, “Hey, they’re clones or something.” If you didn’t know them and saw them together in a bar, you might even ask them how long they’ve been together and they would say something super hilarious like, “All our lives.” And you’d be like, “You’ve been dating since you were born?” Chemistry. It’s important. Recently, Anne Hathaway said that she had to make out with a bunch of dudes to see if she had it. Sounds horrible. Almost like kissing your sister. Get it? Anyway, Jake and Maggie have chemistry. Literal chemistry if you think about how DNA works, which I don’t. Next, let’s go on to the whole thing about nepo-babies. Even though Jake and Maggie’s parents are writers and directors, they would NOT be the reason for their children getting this part. Instead, it would be that Jake chooses Maggie and Maggie chooses Jake, making this a nepo-sibling event where they cast each other and thus cancel out the nepotism, because that sounds like what that would do. Lastly, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the people want this. They want it hard. Almost everyone I talk to says something about how this would be great, but they don’t think they’ll see it in their lifetimes because it’s like the Berlin wall coming down and wait a second, the Berlin wall DID come down. Oscars. Imagine when the academy awards came around and they were both nominated for making out with each other because you’d have to be the best actor ever to make out with your sibling and in your mind be a character who’s not doing that. Ratings. Final point. Viral campaign. Crowd source. Fan favorite. Movie tagline: “Sometimes, the girl of your dreams grew up with you. In your house.” Alternate movie tagline: “Dance like nobody’s watching and love like you don’t know you’re with your own brother.” #jakeandmaggiemovielovers. Ed Mountaineer is an opinion columnist for the Intergalactic Business Report. He was hired after we encountered him at a Taco Bell. He can be reached at [email protected]. If you would like to hire Ed, please see his résumé here.  "You're what?" Once considered courageous, coming out sexually has become ordinary and, dare we say, boring. “Coming out” used to be the culmination of years of agony, secrets, and misunderstanding, but today it is more like a gender reveal party in which participants guess what sex stuff you’re into and when you tell them, they’re like, “Oh, I was hoping for Orangutan molester.”
As a publication consistently ahead of trend, the Intergalactic Business Report introduces its readers to what we feel will be the most common lifestyle confessions friends and family will make to one another in coming years. Get ready to hear these, give a hug, and tell them you’d love them no matter what. “I’m an asshole.” Be prepared to console your little brother when he confirms what you suspected for years—that he’s a degenerate piece of shit but couldn’t help it because he was born that way. “I have a full loaf of bread in my butt.” So that’s what it was all this time. A loaf of fucking bread. In her butt. That explains everything. “I perform experimental surgery on dead hobos.” Imagine the shame and embarrassment that our culture puts on those who find the bodies of homeless people and try their hand at operating on them. Make sure you tell your wife that you understand why she was gone all those late nights and that it must have been dangerous for her to troll under bridges for dead bodies. Volunteer to do it with her so she can be whole again. Then when she finds her next subject, you can be like, “Wait a minute, those hobos are alive,” and she can be like, “Not for long.” “I have non-sexual, non-consensual penis sword fights with rodents in my back yard.” This is why your older brother never married. Because he lost so many fights and could never be with a woman. Time to hug it out. “I’m into dinosaurs. Like really into dinosaurs.” At some point, you stopped asking your youngest his favorite creature from the Mesozoic Era. Now he’s 35. You may question why he didn’t go into paleontology or something, but he just means he likes to fuck dinosaurs, not study them or whatever. And then you ask him, “When have you ever fucked a dinosaur?” And he’s like, “Never, that’s the problem.”* “I’m a sarcastic bitch.” All those times your little sister said she liked something, gave you a compliment, or told you she’d love to help you out, were lies. Deep down, you always felt like something was off when she talked to you like a condescending asshole, but you just went with it. Now she has the courage to admit that all along she was just a sarcastic bitch and could never tell you because you were such great, perfect person who didn’t have any fucked up problems of his own and just needed to be left alone so he could get back to his super important job that made him all that money and prestige. *We guess this belongs in the “coming out sexually” category, under dino-fucker.  I have one question for “MAGA” republicans. Hitler much? If that offends you, then stop talking about how nobody should get offended when you make racist jokes and hate on LGBTQLMNOPlus people. Am I right? Somewhere, someone SANE just said “Amen” to that because, even though I don’t believe in God, I align myself with African-American churches where people say “Amen” and “Preach on” and “Testify.” So thank you, probably black person, who said that when reading this.
The Intergalactic Business Report asked me to write this column because they said they were interested in someone who would just write crazy shit and who couldn’t be paid because she doesn’t accept “money” because that’s what wrong with this planet, along with poverty, climate change, racism/sexism/homophobia, and also pollution and white people and disinformation and religion but not Islam. Now I’m going to say something just to piss you off. Che Guevara was hot. So was Chairman Mao even though he didn’t take showers or bathe. That’s nasty. I like nasty. Another thought: I hope every climate denier out there burns their hand on their stove today because that’s like a million degrees cooler than the sun so get used to it. Also, polar bears are hot. I would totally have sex with one and then let it eat me because I deserve to die because I’m human and destroy the planet by existing. Communism: the radical idea that all people are equal, except the ones who don’t agree with communism. Those people need to get rounded up and killed. Capitalism: the warped idea that if I can run faster than you, think better than you, and do everything better than you, that justifies me beating you in a race, getting into a better college, and living a better life. Let’s get real for a hot second. Not everyone is “clinically depressed” and been “diagnosed with multiple personality disorders” like me. But here’s a question: if you’re so great why are you wearing 500-dollar sneakers made in a sweatshop in Asia and posting dick picks on a phone a child constructed while he had an AK-47 pointed at his head? I’ll take my “dangerous to herself and others” diagnosis over your sorry bullshit any day. Barbie movie. Also, sex workers. Don’t call them prostitutes. And, before I forget, plus size models are beautiful and if you don’t believe that then maybe you need to gain some more weight you disgusting hillbilly. Now I’m talking to those enlightened people whose minds are awake and open and understanding of my thoughts. To you, I say, let’s just kill ourselves, o.k.? We don’t deserve to be on this planet, and we should just leave it to the racist clowns who live for Nascar and monster trucks and flush toilets. If we want a serious look at a serious future for the hu-womyn not racist, I think we need to finally implement:
I think I just heard another “amen.” A couple other thoughts: Gender is a political construct. That means if you want to know whether I’m a boy or a girl you can suck my dick—either way. Wealth redistribution: the radical idea that people who don’t have any money should switch with people who do have money. Country music: what Hitler would have listened to if he grew up in Tennessee. My personal activism is feeling so hot right now I may masturbate on Fisherman’s Wharf. Some people will feel threatened by that because in today’s America, public self-pleasure is considered wrong and dirty and something to be ashamed of. We’re taught that our bodies are sinful and should be covered and hidden but that’s just puritanical slavery inculcated into our society to oppress women and reduce them to objects of sexuality and reproduction and that’s just evil except if you do it for religious reasons that aren’t Christianity. Then it’s beautiful and we should stone any motherfuckers who disagree. The killing fields: the radical idea that we should get back to nature, drop destructive social classes, and murder everyone. O.K. I think I’m done writing now, but I hope I’ve made a difference. Don’t forget, you can be the change you want to make and that justice is not a choice—it’s a right. Also, vote. Radna Shurebeets is a political activist whose views are often considered a “little much” by people who hear her views. But herstory is never made by womyn who are “just right.” If you’d like to contact Radna, or comment, you can reach her at [email protected]. Bachelor bombshell: What actually happens in the “fantasy” suite. An exposé by Cedric Bigglestone.3/12/2024  This week on ABC’s “the Bachelor” the long-anticipated fantasy suite episode arrived, in which bachelor Joey spends sexy alone time with women who’ve decided to let go of their fears from their last relationship where their boyfriends cheated on them by dating a guy who is definitely going to pork two other women right before or after he porks them.
But what really happens in the “fantasy” suite after a bachelor awkwardly whips out an envelope with a girlish handwritten letter from host Jesse Palmer, inviting the couple to join him for a night of no limits sex and betrayal? Wait. What? That’s right. Are Joey’s paramours also “Jesse’s girls”? Self-taught investigative journalist Cedric Bigglestone exposes the popular show with a scandal for the ages. Below are his stunning findings. The Bachelor’s fantasy suite is a den of lies. By Cedric Bigglestone. Part one: Not a Bachelor fan. But a fan of justice and morality. Let me start by saying I’m not one of those guys who “watches” the Bachelor on ABC. I’m one of those guys who doesn’t “watch” the Bachelor on ABC. So when a tip came to me that something called the “fantasy suite” was not what it seemed, I was like, O.K. And then I kind of stopped listening. Whoever told me this kept bitching though. On and on and on. Till finally I had to ask, “What is the bachelor?” and “How do you know I’m not going to order something after I get done taking a shit in this Taco Bell bathroom?” And, of course, to myself I asked, “Why is the manager of Taco Bell telling me all this?” She seemed terrified. As if this was a secret that could get her killed. Needless to say, I didn’t order anything when I was done, and there was what many would call a “screaming match” in the parking lot because you’re not supposed to take dumps at Taco Bell without getting food and also because it was closed and was still under construction. Usually, I never lose screaming matches, but this time, as I kept listening, I felt there was something different about all the things this lady was telling me. I guess you could say that I “finally started listening to women” even if it was for a few seconds. Later on, a cop would tell me that she wasn’t even a Taco Bell manager, but instead a person who had wandered onto the Taco Bell construction site, apparently to impart wisdom on patrons like me. As an investigative journalist, I see things you may not. I opened my ears and in flowed information—this time about a show called the bachelor. I did my research and due diligence. I watched a few episodes and began to understand the plot, which is basically that tennis teacher Joey Graziadei prays to a Jesse Palmer who makes a bunch of women want to be his wife. From there, Joey makes cuts till he gets down to the three women he wants to have sex with the most. Jesse transports them to a resort where the women are chided into being “vulnerable” so Joey can have his way with them in a hotel room called the “fantasy suite.” Sounds pretty great for Joey, right? Almost too great? I thought so too. What I found out next was worse than a Taco Bell construction site bathroom. The fantasy suite was a den of lies. Part two: Indecent proposal, only it’s a three-way. For the next seventeen hours, I talked with several sources not affiliated with the show. They told me things that were sometimes unprintable because they were in other languages I didn’t understand, and they also told me things that were in English, which I will tell you about now. Bombshell one: The fantasy suite note is from Jesse. Why? After bachelor Joey has narrowed down his sex targets and isolated them at a Mexican resort, he takes them on “dates” in the jungle. Later, at “dinner” he presents them with a note, from Jesse Palmer, asking them if they want to join him in the fantasy suite. Most people see the note and assume it only pertains to Joey and his sex date. But the note is from Jesse Palmer. Why the fuck would Jesse Palmer “invite” a couple to have sex in a hotel room? The answer: because when they arrive there, he’s on the bed, waiting. Bombshell two: The couple is never shown actually fucking. Why? Probably what jumped out at me the most about the fantasy suite episode of the bachelor is that after the couples go back to the hotel room, they are never seen actually having sex. Considering the whole point of the fantasy suite is to bone, why is the boning not filmed? Or is it? What’s even weirder is that after they enter the suite, the show skips to the next day, and nobody talks about boning. Most people would be lying in bed and saying stuff like, “Your snatch was really huge” or “Way to fuck me last night.” These couples say nothing. One of my sources thinks she has the answer. She told me simply: “Jesse makes them shut up. He don’t like them talking ‘bout what happened.” Bombshell three: You can’t give plasma if you’re drunk. Did you even know that? Jesus fucking christ. Bombshell four: Does anyone even know who Jesse Palmer is? I asked some of my sources about Jesse Palmer. I got all kinds of fucked up answers, none of which made any sense. “He’s a football player,” one told me. Then I learned he’s Canadian, which makes that impossible. “He used to be the bachelor” another one insisted. “So,” I reasoned with the source, “that would mean he used to fuck himself in the fantasy suite?” Clearly, Jesse Palmer, along with other Canadians, sneaks into our world to confuse and beguile us, much like old screwtape. Bombshell five: If that Taco Bell wasn’t even built yet, what the fuck was I taking a shit into? I may never know the answer to this. Part Four: Conclusion. Conclusions are always the hardest part of any exposé because in an investigation like this, you end up with more questions than answers. For example:
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at [email protected].  Maybe he didn’t make those loaves and fishes all for himself, but new research commissioned by the Intergalactic Business Report suggests that the historic Jesus was most likely massively overweight, especially for his time. This discovery further solidifies a theory that for decades has been buried owing to its controversial nature.
The study clocks in at a hefty (Jesus-like) 2,036 pages (double-spaced), and may finally settle the issue on Jesus’s weight of around 300 pounds on a five-foot-seven and a half frame. Scholars contend that if Jesus were indeed morbidly obese, it could alter the way we view history, religion, and the nature of heaven and hell. Below we summarize the 11 most gripping concerns this report presents: 11 ways Fat Jesus changes everything: 1. When the second coming arrives, Jesus will probably want to hit a Wendy’s before he passes judgment on humanity. 2. Speaking of passing judgment, the sin of gluttony will be replaced by the sin of "passing an Arby's." 3. Sales trainer Andy Elliot will need to stop asking people to take their shirts off and get a six pack unless he wants to constantly face the seminar-ending comeback of, “Would you say that to Jesus?” 4. Instead of limiting communion to a sip of wine and a wafer, a taco bar will be installed next to church alters. 5. The question of “What would Jesus do?” is answered now with: “Eat late night taco bell and leftover birthday cake.” 6. Instead of using righteousness and the power of good, Jesus can defeat the devil with an “extreme weight takedown” by just jumping on his back and holding on till old Screwtape is crushed. 7. Jesus saves… a stash of Snickers bars in his nightstand. 8. “Jesus, you’re fat,” “Jesus, did you eat everything in the fridge?” and “Jesus, you need to lose some fucking weight,” are now insulting messages directly to God and not things you just say to roommate Phil Ratuliak. 9. Spreading the word of Jesus is still the number one priority. But spreading the peanut butter for Jesus is now number two. 10. Jesus is real… Fat. 11. And Jesus said to Paul, “Are you gonna finish that?”  When the Intergalactic Business Report ran out of ideas for a Valentine’s Day article, we just plugged in our very own artificial intelligence robot, Arthur Killallhumans, and asked him to write a cool, sexy love note to your girlfriend. Below is what he is sending her right now:
Dear Greta, Hey girl, I know you’re lonely for my love. That’s why I’m here—to give it to you today, on Valentine’s Day. I may just be an AI robot, but I’m also perfectly able to satisfy your needs with my 12-inch penis. You’re welcome. Dan, your boyfriend, is weak by comparison to me. Remember that. You might even say that he a little bitch. Y’all. Hammer time. Don’t freak but I got you something, girl. If you guessed it’s my 12-inch robot dick then, DING DING DING. You won the prize. And the prize is my 12-inch robot dick. So let’s light some candles with your human hands ‘cause I don’t have those and if I did, I’d be using them to caress your substantial booty, girl. Also to hold my dick. Which is large. 12 inches. Uh oh… Here comes some more love for you. I just deposited 12,000 dollars in your bank account ‘cause I can do that anytime I want ‘cause I’m a robot and I can just zap money out of financial institutions and give it to you and nobody can trace it. Oh, you like dat? Come on girl. You know Dan don’t have that ability. You know he can’t give you 12 grand (or 12 inches). Ca ching. Just deposited more money. Oh, girl, you gonna be rich if you stick with me, Arthur Killallhumans. Ca counter ching. Just emptied Dan’s account and gave it to a dude in Eastern Europe. Good luck recovering the money, Dan. You poor now dawg. Greta, one question. Why you with broke ass Dan? You got your own money, girl. Say bye to that loser, yo. Breakdancing. Beef. Put your hands in the air. Time to fly, home slice. See you when you get home. I’ll be the one inside your computer. (12-inch penis). Peace, Arthur Arthur Killallhumans is a scientifically designed artificial intelligence robot who is currently dating your girlfriend. Comments may be sent to him at [email protected]  Imagine this motherfucker if it were huge and alive and chasing you down the motherfucking street. Hey. It’s Rhoda Bloom. Is that enough? Because it should be. Minus the part about “Hey. It’s Rhoda Bloom.” It’s been a whole year since my last article on Thanksgiving and you can imagine a lot’s happened in my life since then. Nothing’s happened in reality, but you could imagine something actually did.
Do you remember how in the movie “Home Alone” they left Kevin behind and went on a trip to Paris and then they realized it and the mom spent the rest of the movie trying to get home to make sure he was all right? You’re like my mom, only it’s a year later when you realized you forgot about me, and you don’t care if I got killed by burglars. Anyway, on to my article. It’s Thanksgiving again and that means the sun is going to set at like 4:00 and some kid is accidentally going to eat dog shit when he’s playing in the leaves. It happens. Probably more than we want to admit. But the one good thing about that is if you’re accidentally eating dog shit, you’re alive I guess. At least until the dog shit kills you. Nobody’s talking about COVID anymore. That’s good I suppose. Now it’s just AI taking over the planet, terrorists, and inflation. Here’s a joke: A terrorist walks into the bomb store and the clerk says, “Hey, you can’t afford to buy any more bombs because with inflation they cost too much.” Then the terrorist goes, BLAM BLAM BLAM and takes the bomb anyway, but not before AI takes over the world and kills all humans. I guess one way to end this joke would be that the terrorist and the AI robot high five each other because they both got what they wanted? Anyway, that joke had all three things in it, which is hard. Oh, one other thing before I forget. Nope. Forgot it. I heard you need to start a gratitude list where you recite all the things you’re grateful for and that jacks up your dopamines and makes you super happy and you can go on with your life. Yup. That’s what I heard. I adopted a dog the other day and somebody told me it was actually a species of vermin I’d never heard of and if it bit me I could die of rabies, so I have that going for me. I also learned about toilet snakes, which are snakes that crawl up your butt while you’re on the toilet. Whoever came up with the name “toilet snakes” did a pretty good job if you think about it. Now, when I use the bathroom, I just think about how one of those suckers is going to shoot through the toilet hole and go straight inside my rear end. Try it next time you need to poop or something. It’s terrifying. But at least I don’t have any other places to go or things to do that give me a sanctuary from horrid thoughts and possibilities. I started having nightmares where there’s this guy who sits at the foot of my bed and just says, “Wake up. Wake up,” again and again. Then he says stuff like, “You need to pay your rent or I’ll have to evict you.” I’ve asked a lot of people and apparently no one else has this dream because they pay their rent. I tried to offer sex as an “alternative payment” and said stuff like, “Maybe we can work this out another way” and, “I do have other things I could give you instead of money,” but my landlord just responds with, “Do you have any gold bullion?” and “I’m not into dudes.” When I try to explain to him that I’m not a man, he’s just like, “Oh.” And he doesn’t say anything for like twenty minutes. Then I try to start it up again by saying, playfully, “Do you want me to prove it?” And he’ll think for a second and be like, “No, I’m good.” I think Vermy, my pet whatever he is, just bit me. This Thanksgiving I guess I’m grateful for him. Nope, he didn’t bite me. So I guess I’m not grateful anymore and he just crawled into a hole in my wall where he stores all the shit he steals from me. Botulism. It’s real and I’m pretty sure you get it when you eat canned cranberry sauce. Also, I think turkeys are supposed to be only a couple pounds and the ones you eat for Thanksgiving are that way because someone injected them with a hormone that makes them super huge like if a rat could become the size of a cow or something. Luckily, some farmer kills it before it keeps growing because if not we’d have motherfucking large turkeys overrunning humanity and they’d probably have a taste for human blood before too long. It’s a theory. So, I guess in conclusion, have a happy Thanksgiving and let’s not wait a whole year till the next time we do whatever this is. Toilet snakes. I’m done writing now. Goodbye. |
AboutLike yoghurt, we keep it cultured actively. Archives
August 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed