Recently, the North Korean government warned young people about the dangers of using slang and incorporating fashion from South Korea and Western pop culture. Violators could face up to fifteen years in a prison camp, which, we’re just guessing, would completely suck.
One problem with the new North Korean policy is that it is almost impossible to list all the possible offenses that could be made, since pop culture has an almost endless stream of sayings, idioms, and fashion choices.
In an effort to assist North Koreans who may accidentally utter something treacherous, the Intergalactic Business Report lists six key phrases and choices they may want to definitively avoid. We share them below:
1. Refrain from saying “Kim Jong-Un sucks balls.”
2. Don’t wear American flag cowboy hats.
3. Never say, “Kim Jong-Un low key sucks balls.”
4. Similarly, don’t say, “No cap. Kim Jong-Un sucks balls.”
5. Avoid wearing tee shirts that say, “America: number one. North Korea: Sucks balls.”
6. Don’t say, “That tee shirt about Kim Jong-Un sucking balls is straight fire.”
The Intergalactic Business Report’s own dating and relationship expert, Tessa Miggs, tells our readers her test for determining if you’ve met the one you should spend the rest of your life with. See her column below:
When the Intergalactic Business Report asked me to write for them about dating, I told them right away that if I did, it would not be a tired old advice column with a bunch of clichés and useless information about where to go on a first date or how long to wait before calling or texting after a night of sex. I wanted to give real advice that people in the dating world could use every day—stuff I wish I’d known when I first started my dating journey.
A lot of people ask how I became a “dating expert.” They wonder how a twenty-eight year old woman who’s never been married or been in a relationship longer than a month could possibly offer any insights into what it takes to find a mate.
They also ask why experts like me are always so shallow and empty. Why do I, for instance, spend my time going out on dates, critiquing the men I meet, and then write about what they did wrong without ever mentioning how totally fucked up I am as a person?
One friend of mine even said, “I’d take relationship advice from an old lady who’s been married for 50 years, but not you. You have serious intimacy issues, and you look for married guys who look like your dad.”
To these comments and questions, I always say, “Relax. I never said I had all the answers. All I can promise you is that I can help you find lasting love with the perfect partner.”
My record is pretty clear. Last year, I introduced thirty people to their future spouses. Whether they choose to stay together is out of my control. Many of them had language barriers and different ideas about what it means to be in a relationship, such as, “Why is this fat dude from Russia yelling at me during this speed dating thing that Tessa Miggs forced me to go to in her tiny apartment?” And “Where is everyone else?” And, of course, “Where is Tessa? Where the fuck did she go? Why did she leave me here?”
But I could talk about speed dating and matchmaking all day. Let me get on to the point of this column, which is how to know someone is “the One.” I dig deep into my expertise for this subject because, although I’ve never found “the One,” I have definitely dismissed a lot of men for not being, “the One.” Here’s how it goes.
After dating him for three months (if you’re me, three days is fine too), take a long, hard look at him and ask yourself how you’d feel looking at him as you walk down the aisle to get married.
Do you say:
1. “This guy is too good for me. I can’t believe he’s marrying me. What does he see in me?”
2. “I think we have a strong friendship and can make this work, even though I don’t feel the spark of romance is quite there yet.”
3. “This guy looks almost exactly like my dad and I think he can take care of me and finally give me proof that I’m wanted.”
4. “I feel equal to this person and I am totally and fully in love. We complete each other.”
If you think number three then get married. This guy is “the One.” For sure. The mistake most people make is thinking that “compatibility” is the same as being “compatible” with someone and that “being in love” means that you have feelings that make you feel as though you would do anything for that person. You aren’t someone’s slave. That’s weird.
On the other hand, think about your dad for a second. You’d do anything for him and family comes first. Sounds a little counter intuitive maybe but you know you love your dad, right? Even if he wasn’t always there for you and seemed super into your best friend’s mom who he married and moved to Texas with.
Anyway, the point is that you need to look within. Not at superficial looks or feelings that lead you astray. That’s what I tell my clients when they ask, “Why did you leave me alone with that Russian dude? He was like seventy years old and super angry.”
All I can answer with is this wisdom: When you’re seventy, will you be super angry too? Or will you be finally ready for love?
Only you can answer that question.
Tessa Miggs is the relationship and dating expert for the Intergalactic Business Report. She can be reached at email@example.com
At the Intergalactic Business Report, we often* receive reports from our readers** about their encounters with celebrities. These stories can range from the mundane (Cindy Crawford took a selfie with me) to the outrageous (Ryan Reynolds asked to use my bathroom to take a dump). We decided to go with just the outrageous and printed them below.
“I was waiting tables at a Bennigan’s in Chicago when in walks Ryan Reynolds and his entourage. Some guy who I guess is his bodyguard tells my manager that everyone has to leave and pretty soon it’s just Ryan Reynolds, all alone, in a Bennigan’s in Chicago at 3:45 on a Wednesday afternoon. When I go to serve him I have to wear a blindfold and he tells me to go find something called a ‘Tim Horton’s’ and bring him back a maple dip donut and that if I bring him a maple donut from somewhere else he’ll know. I go all over the city looking for a Tim Horton’s and my manager calls and says that Ryan has left because it was taking too long. He did leave me a tip though. Unfortunately, it was 35 cents in Canadian money.”
Jeff- New York City.
“After a night out at the bars, a friend of mine and I stumbled home. We were about five blocks away when a guy comes out and takes all our money. Then he says, ‘I’m Ryan Reynolds. Fuck you.’ I couldn’t believe it. What a total asshole.”
“I was audited by the IRS and didn’t know why. As I waited in the cold reception room for my appointment, a man came out and explained that Ryan Reynolds had audited me. Confused, I asked, ‘Ryan Reynolds? The celebrity?’ He nodded and said there was nothing I could do. When I complained that this was illegal and that Reynolds was Canadian and how could he audit U.S. citizens, the man did this thing where he looked really scared and insinuated that Ryan Reynolds was watching him. Needless to say, my audit did not go well.”
Brenda-Carson City Nevada.
“One time I took my kids to Chuck-E-Cheese and Ryan fucking Reynolds walks in and has everyone removed so he can eat pizza in private and maybe play some games. On our way out I asked him if I could get a picture of him with my kids because they’re such huge fans. He said something about how if I wanted to take a picture I should have given birth to cameras instead of kids. Weird. He’s so fucking weird.”
Ed Mountaineer-a little bit of everywhere.
“I show up at Ryan Reynolds’ house with my script for a movie I wrote where he’s the star and he could win an Oscar. Some guy comes out and says this ‘this is a private residence’ and some other bullshit. The question is how big of an asshole is Ryan Reynolds?”
**This was all written by Ed Mountaineer.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org. If you would like to hire Ed, please see his résumé here.
After being isolated, quarantined, and cooped up for a year, Americans are more ready than ever to travel again. But some new restrictions may make you think twice about getting on an airplane, boat, or even booking a hotel.
As part of its commitment to travel safety and security, the Intergalactic Business Report gives you the hidden post-Corona rules the vacation industry won’t tell you. We sent our writers and editors on trips to test the new travel waters, and this is what they found.
1. Passengers on most major airlines may not “make poopies” in their pants and just sit there for the remainder of the four-hour flight while everyone bitches at you for the smell. About forty minutes into your pants-shitting, someone will start asking you dumb questions about whether you’re “all right” and “need some help,” and about twenty minutes after that everyone will figuratively shit themselves trying to get you to find a bathroom to change or whatever.
2. You can get arrested for throwing your shit-filled undies from an airplane restroom. They don’t technically arrest you on the plane, but an air marshal dude will physically subdue you while the rest of the passengers cheer as if they kicked your ass themselves.
3. If you tell the hotel clerk to “suck your dick” they won’t give you a room. Even if you slide them a twenty after you scream it.
4. Pretending you’re a hitman at a hotel lobby bar only works if you’re patient enough to get into a long, drunken conversation with someone where you finally “admit” your profession and they feel scared but also strangely drawn to the danger you’re bringing into their lives. If you don’t do all that stuff, and just start screaming that you’re going to shoot everyone, the cops come. And they shoot you.
5. Cab drivers don’t let you smoke crack in the back seat. Even Ubers. Except this one guy. But he probably wasn’t an Uber driver because he didn’t have a car and he lived under a bridge in Seattle.
6. On the West Coast of the United States, you can’t just take your dick out in a grocery store and try to slap everyone with it. Actually, you can, but people start freaking out and evading you and it makes it harder to slap them because you have to run to catch them while holding your penis and that’s hard (to run, not the penis, but that’s also hard).
7. If you’re in Florida, you can totally pour the syrup at a Denny’s down your pants. No one even says anything. Just wanted to get that in. Sunshine state. Oranges. Syrup all over your balls.
8. Albuquerque New Mexico. Some guy named Roy who stirs drinks with his penis. Five bucks for the drink. Seven bucks for the stir. That’s like three bucks more than he charged pre-Covid, so be ready for the sticker shock.
9. You’re not allowed to cutely “ride” people’s dogs anymore. The dogs bite you. The people beat your ass. All around a pretty bad experience.
10. Offering “free mustache rides” is no longer something waitresses at fine dining restaurants think is funny. Especially when you don’t even have a mustache. Post-covid, just start your order with, “I’ll try the steak tartare, please,” instead of, “There’s a free mustache ride in it for you if you sit on my face. I’ll try the steak tartare, please.”
11. Did we mention the thing about not slapping people with your penis in a supermarket? Apparently, that also goes for pet stores and banks.
12. Casinos don’t allow you to bet other gamblers’ lives as collateral, even if you’ve gotten them to agree that you own their souls because you’re the devil.
13. Cruise ships don’t allow you to play “naked statue” in other people’s cabins where you just stand there like you’re a sculpture and they’re screaming something about how did this man get in my room but you just keep standing there because you’re a naked statue someone just put in there and it’s not your fault.
14. “Big Bus” tours of cities are not secret orgy/swinger sites where old people have sex with tour guides so you shouldn’t ask the tour guides when the old people are going to start having sex and whether it’s hard for him get into it when the dicks and boobs are so old and then you catch yourself because this dude’s probably into that and you’re into some weird shit too so why judge?
Six months ago, Cedric Bigglestone entered a mental health program. Here’s the letter he wrote to himself that he has to read today.
Intergalactic Business Report columnist Cedric Bigglestone entered a mental health program six months ago. Let’s not even get into the details. As part of his therapy, he was required to write himself a letter that he would re-read six months later. Today is that day and we are publishing it. (Just imagine Cedric talking while you read it.)
Sorry I put ourselves in this mess. I say, “ourselves” because I feel like there are two of us now since I’m writing a letter to myself but there’s also me, who’s writing, but is also myself. I guess that makes two “myselfs”?
Wait a fucking second. Am I in here for having multiple personality disorder? Someone’s saying no, that isn’t it. I guess I’m not allowed to write my own fucking letter. Some doctor is going to do it for me. (Now she’s saying to go ahead and write whatever I want and to ignore what she said.)
O.K. So I guess I’m in here for multiple personality disorder and as I write this, I’m screaming every word so my therapist can hear me even though she’s standing right next to me. Now she’s moving away from me, so I need to scream louder.
Now I’m going to write what she’s saying. Guard. Guard. Guard. Can you please come in?
Sorry for the interruption. They made me stop writing but now I’m back. I think my other personality came out and started doing shit like yelling a lot and now I’m back—the calm one.
Being here at the ______ has really helped me figure out a lot of my issues, like the one where my other personality comes out and drinks so much that he tries to hunt mimes and other street entertainers because those motherfuckers are stealing babies again.
I guess that’s about it. See you in six months.
Cedric Bigglestone the first (not the bad one)
Intergalactic Business Report columnist Ed Mountaineer’s recent article about black holes received extensive criticism for its insensitivity, and now Ed issues an apology in which he addresses some of the claims made against him.
From Ed Mountaineer:
Dear IBR readers:
I want to apologize to all of you for any comments I made that could be construed as inappropriate, insensitive, or tone deaf. Sorry. In my article on black holes, I asked several questions in the spirit of scientific inquiry and many of those questions were called out by you, the readers. I want to take each one and explain my thinking and then say sorry. Thank you and I hope you won’t cancel me.
1. When I said that maybe black holes are just giant buttholes and then speculated that maybe the buttholes belonged to “girl giants” that was not to say that women are more comfortable with showing their buttholes than man giants are. Sorry.
2. I apologize to all giants, giant buttholes, and women and men who have buttholes and others who have buttholes too. if I have offended them by talking about buttholes and who has them and it doesn’t matter if the butthole belongs to a man or a woman or anyone or anything else because it’s just a butthole. A vast, giant, black butthole that is out there in space. Sorry.
3. In case that wasn’t good enough, I pledge to put in the work to study buttholes more carefully and maybe not even call them buttholes anymore but come up with a better, more respectful name that doesn’t sound so buttholish. Sorry.
4. Here’s the name: essential output (or input) space. Sorry.
5. To test my new word, I will use it in a sentence: I want you to jam your cock into my essential output and input space. Sorry.
6. I insinuated at one point in my article that I may be god. I apologize to anyone who believes in god and it’s not me. I understand how the possibility that I am god and not whoever you worship would be a trigger for you and threaten your view of the universe. If you do think I’m god and worship me, I want you to know that there are other options out there and you can do those too. Sorry.
7. I also said that maybe we only see black holes because the giant is too shy to show us the rest of its body and I realize this is offensive to introverts. I apologize to all of them who just want to show their buttholes and nothing else. That’s totally fine. Sorry.
8. I speculated that human buttholes are very small compared to giant buttholes. I want to say sorry to everyone whose identity centers around having a huge butthole. I didn’t mean to suggest that yours was small. Please go back to believing your butthole is gigantic. Sorry.
9. I also want to apologize to farts. I’m not sure what I did wrong on this exactly but I said some stuff that sounded kind of negative and suggested they couldn’t be trusted because sometimes when I fart crap comes out and not just butt vapor. The crap part is my fault not the fart’s. Sorry.
10. Just to get ahead of this, I think the thing I said above about jamming your cock into my essential input/output space is probably also offensive. I don’t know who you are and it’s worded so that anyone in the world could be the one I addressed, so I’m sure out of everyone out there someone has a reason to be hurt by this. Sorry to whoever that is.
Ed is an essential input/output space at the Intergalactic Business Report. He can be reached at email@example.com.
Intergalactic Business Report columnist Ed Mountaineer uses scientific inquiry to discover the true meaning of black holes.
This week I couldn’t stop thinking about science, so I decided to do my column on it. I began with a simple question and let my mind go from there.
Anyway, this is my scientific inquiry:
1. “Is my butthole a black hole? It looks black. And it is a hole.”
2. “Is a black hole just a giant butthole?”
3. “Who does the giant butthole belong to? A giant?”
4. “Where’s the rest of the giant and why do we only see his butthole?”
5. “For someone so shy he won’t let us see the rest of him, the giant seems pretty comfortable showing us his butthole.”
6. “Maybe it’s a girl giant?”
7. “Is it possible that it’s actually a small butthole but it seems really huge because we’re so small but just don’t know it?”
8. “Which would mean our buttholes are really really small?”
9. “How do we fit anything in ours? How does anything come out?”
10. “What happens when a black hole farts?”
11. “What happens when I fart? What’s going on with that? It’s like I’m crapping myself but just butt vapor comes out. But sometimes a little crap comes out, like it’s escaping… from a black hole???”
12. “Am I god?”
13. “I guess I am?”
14. “I’m done writing now. Goodbye?”
Ed is probably god. You can reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org
When you put the word “dark” in front of something, it’s instantly intriguing. We try it with some new words.
Dark Web. Dark money. Darkwing Duck. The word “dark” can make anything sound cool and sinister. Super creative minds have used this fact to make up all kinds of totally original names for anything they want to sound evil.
Today, the Intergalactic Business Report uses this ad agency style brilliance to rename some other things that frankly need to have an evil version of themselves. Soon everyone will be referring to:
Dark Cheesecake. That thing where the cheesecake goes bad.
Dark Doodoo. The poop that’s dark and you don’t want to touch it because you’d be touching not only poop, but the bad kind.
Dark Yoga. Like regular yoga, but the instructor only accepts cash and doesn’t report it to the IRS.
Dark Balls. Those things in your mom’s mouth.
Dark Grocery Shopping. When you go to the supermarket, but you don’t tell anyone and if someone says they saw you there you pretend that’s impossible because you were with a bunch of your close friends who always want to hang out with you and not buying Little Debbie snack cakes because you have a lot of friends and you don’t even eat that much anyway.
Dark Bunion. That thing on your foot. Better get it checked out.
Dark Underwear. When you shit yourself but don’t change. That’s what you’re wearing.
Dark Chess. Playing chess in pitch blackness so nobody knows what moves anyone’s making or even where the board is. And then someone punches you.
Dark Dingleberry. That thing stuck in your taint. How bad is your hygiene?
Hey, it’s me. Rhoda. No, I don’t care that this is a terrible way to start a column. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. Since my last article, a lot has happened. We got a vaccine. In fact, we got a bunch of them. And we started vaccinating people. And then we started vaccinating so many of them that it was like one or two million a day. It’s totally turned my mood around except that it totally hasn’t. Here’s why:
First, my dick hurts. And I don’t even have a dick. That’s got to be bad, right? Every day it’s like I have a different ailment even though I’ve lived the past year like someone who’s hiding from the nazis and kind of hoping they just fucking find me and I’ll be like, “Hey, what the fuck took you so long?” I know that doesn’t even make sense and that my sentences are written like I gave up caring about anything I write or do or think and that’s accurate. So take a trophy from my trophy case and give yourself an award for figuring that out. Oh, and people who have given up on life often give away things of great value to them, like their trophies.
When the vaccines started rolling out, I immediately signed up for an appointment that didn’t exist because you couldn’t get one unless you were like eighty-five, which is an age there’s no way I’ll live to, even if we didn’t have a future of new diseases coming every month until we all just quit trying and let the animals take over again like in those shows I watch about what Earth will look like when the animals take over again. (But not smart animals, like monkeys or whatever. The really dumb ones and insects that have no chance of evolving into anything but super predators with tiny brains but are super good at hunting the last humans who have banded together in a tunnel somewhere and think they’ll come outside once things settle down and are instantly zapped by eight-foot bugs who cocoon them and hang them in their food storage lairs.)
Sorry. I guess that’s pretty negative. Maybe the monkeys will survive instead and just rip our faces off.
Anyway, now vaccines are becoming available to everyone, so I may be able to get one. If I can get to a clinic before a mutation finds its way into the nasal cavity of the kid who’s chin-strapping his mask while he bags my groceries and breathes in my direction. I read an article about how the new variants can travel through masks and walls and make you think you have a dick even if you don’t. Fuck. It got me.
I also watched a news thing where this woman stayed inside for a whole year and then got vaccinated, but then on the day before it would give her any protection her neighbor came back from Spring Break and popped up behind her and said, “Hey, Margaret! Thanks for watching my dog while I was gone. He has Covid but I’m pretty sure he got it from me.” Then she died.
Some recent reports made me feel better. One says that new strains of the virus might kill us faster. Another article said that Netflix just announced a shitload of new movies and shows. If I die sooner, I won’t have to worry about watching them and then saying, “Why the fuck did all those articles say to watch these? They fucking suck. Why did I ever believe I should watch this ‘underrated sci-fi thriller that’s dominating Netflix’ before it leaves next week?” If I’m dead from Coronavirus, all that goes away.
By the way, if you’re reading this, I’m already dead. I asked that the Intergalactic Business Report publish this upon my passing. It’s freaky, right? Reading a dead person’s thoughts after they’re dead? I guess I’m finally at peace, if at peace is existing in a void of time and space and having no memory of anything and just floating there endlessly as a non-sentient thread of nothingness. When you get here and join me, I’ll be like, “……..” because I can’t speak or think or comprehend anything.
Anyway, they just told me that unless I’m dead today, they need me to write another article for this week. So, I just said publish this. Whatever. Like it matters if I’m alive or dead. I’m going to end with some good news. Snakes figured out a way to climb up poles. That’s good for their species, right? We can’t figure out Covid, but at least those slithery motherfuckers figured out how to go after telephone pole workers and strippers. I’m done writing now. Goodbye.
Rhoda Bloom is just a person who wrote this. She does not work for the Intergalactic Business Report. But you can leave a message for her at email@example.com.
In a pre-emptive move, Intergalactic Business Report columnist Cedric Bigglestone cancels himself before the cancel culture does it for him. Below is his story.
Dear IBR readers:
It recently came to my attention that people’s words, actions, and stuff they say is now being scrutinized to the point at which those things are now being held against them. I feel this directly threatens me based on things I have said and done and I believe it is time for me to do something about it.
Rather than wait for the public to find out about my indiscretions and sins, I have made the decision to not only admit to them but also to completely “cancel” myself before they can do it to me. This is the verbal equivalent of shooting myself in the face before a sniper takes me out by shooting me in the face. When I’m done, the sniper will be like, “What the fuck? He ruined my shot.” And I will be like, “I have no face anymore.”
Let me begin my self-inflicted trial in which I am already guilty before it starts by listing the stuff I have done.
I guess I got it all out and now I am cancelled, which means, I think, that I can do whatever I want as long as I don’t expect to get paid for it or have anyone like me, which is like it was before I was cancelled.
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who is now cancelled. Don’t contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Like yoghurt, we keep it cultured actively.