During an archeological dig commissioned by the Intergalactic Report, stunning new evidence has emerged that will change the way you see Christmas. Or at least the part of it having to do with elves.
While we are unable to reveal explicit details about the location of the dig site or the archaeologists involved, we can tell our readers that the place we dug was probably not sanctioned by any government or governing body that decides where you can hold an archeological “dig” and also that the man leading our expedition was very much like Indiana Jones if Indiana Jones were some fat dude with a bulldozer who screams stuff in a foreign language and keeps asking for money and then gets chased away by police-looking guys who also scream stuff and ask for money.
Anyway, here’s what we found:
THE BODY OF A TROLL
Our diggers uncovered an odd looking corpse which we dated at about a thousand years old.* It was big. It wore a colorful outfit that kind of looked like what a Christmas elf would wear. We named our find “Ruben” and someone noted that he looked like a troll.
AN ANCIENT BOOK
Next, we came across what could only be described as an ancient book. It had old pages in it and it was near Ruben’s body. Had it belonged to him?
While no one was able to decipher the writing, it appeared to be in English, but none of the words made any sense. It was as if the ancient culture that wrote it had stolen all our letters and then put them together in nonsensical ways. Who would have done that?
NEW THEORIES ABOUT THE ORIGINS OF CHRISTMAS
During a break in the dig, several of our researchers relaxed with bottles of mescal and mescaline.** They discussed the possible meaning behind our findings and a new theory was born. Basically, it was this: A long long time ago, Ruben, a troll, dressed up like an elf. But he wasn’t an elf. He was a troll. So, way back then, trolls were elves. And they had a made-up language. And then someone in our group started screaming that there was a monkey inside his chest that was going to eat its way out.
ANOTHER, SUCKIER THEORY, EMERGES
There is some speculation that Ruben was just a very ugly human being whose grave we dug up. And that the book was in Spanish, whatever that means. But what about his elfish outfit? The same guy who told us the rest of this lame theory couldn’t answer that. He just said: “Why did you guys dig up a dead body and dress it like an elf?” whatever that means.
In a magical age where dragons shot fire at dwarves who rode unicorns, a troll named Ruben entered the battlefield and fought for Christmas. Clutching his magic book, he was shot down by Eustacius Bonegiver, an evil dragon rider who was half man, half war swine. As Ruben fell into a ditch, the dwarves raced to save him. They dismounted their unicorns and hustled with their little legs towards what would soon become Ruben’s grave. They were too late to save him. But his legacy lives on today.
*It looked old. Really old.
** Mescaline, we discovered, is not the same as mescal. Mescal is like tequila. Mescaline is like injecting a crazy voodoo snake into your brain and letting it hatch crazy eggs.
Changing the word “year” to “beer” has potential to make this the best beer ever. By Cedric Bigglestone.
In an experiment worthy of a scientific prize, columnist Cedric Bigglestone embarks on a journey that takes place inside his mind, but has ramifications for everyone.
Last month, I made a decision to change the way I think about and see the world. The following is a journal of my journey which I journaled about.
PART ONE: The idea takes form.
We all know that drugs can ruin your life. But at some point, sniffing cleaning supplies while you’re wearing tight nipple clamps can blur the lines between what is a drug and what is just an experience.
In the midst of such an experience, I came up with an idea I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of before. It was simple. Pure. Elegant. I decided to switch the word “year” with “beer” and see what happened.
PART TWO: Some early setbacks.
At first, the idea didn’t seem so great. Especially when I took off the nipple clamps and stopped whiffing Lysol. I woke up the next morning with a note I’d written to myself on my own chest. It was impossible to read but it had something to do with trying to put something somewhere. Maybe my asshole?
Anyway, I stopped trying to read the note and just took a shower. It was then that I remembered my pledge to myself—to switch years with beers.
I was thirsty. So I went to my fridge for a “year.” That was stupid. Then I cracked open a “year” and drank it. This sucked.
PART THREE: I start figuring out how to make it work.
After drinking several more “years” I finally determined what was missing from my equation. It wasn’t that I needed to switch the words so much as just stop ever saying one of them. So I did it. I vowed to never use the word “year” again and to only use the word “beer” even when I was referring to beer. So, in essence I could drink a beer on New Beer’s Eve and then pour beer all over myself at the beerly beer festival. You get it.
PART FOUR: Just saying the word gets old. You need to live it.
I quickly found that just saying the word beer all the time wasn’t as great as I thought it would be. At first, I just screamed stuff at my neighbors, like, “Hey! What’s your beerly income?” and, “It’s that time of the fucking beer!” But they didn’t get it. Whatever.
Then it hit me. I was just saying words. Not living them.
PART FIVE: The transformation begins.
I called my retirement planner and asked her how much I should be earning per beer in order to have enough money when I retired in thirty beers. She told me something about how I haven’t reported an income in more than seven beers and that she was pretty sure there was still a restraining order out against me for harassing her last beer and calling her asking for retirement advice when she was just some woman who greeted people at Walmart.
PART SIX: I establish a five-beer plan.
I decided to do what the Russians did under Stalin and do five-beer plans. When I was done with one, I would simply start a new one, till I needed to get more beer.
PART SEVEN: I am able to time travel because of beer.
That heading is a little deceptive. What I mean is that I am able to speed up or slow down time dramatically. For instance, forty years ago is a long time. Forty beers ago is this morning. A hundred years from now, we’ll all be dead. A hundred beers from now, I will probably be dead, but not for sure. It kind of depends how fast I drink them over how many minutes.
Bonus: Haley’s comet comes every 76 years. Now it comes every 76 beers.
PART EIGHT: My obligations are taken care of almost instantly.
Everything I’m supposed to do once or twice a year are now done once or twice a beer. Doctor’s appointments, eye exams, updating my passwords, and Christmas are all done while I’m slamming a beer. The problem is doing all these things every beer because I drink so much and can’t enjoy having one without doing all this other shit too. Oh, and the doctors won’t come see me anymore. None of them.
CONCLUSION: I have solved the universe.
When someone finally solves the universe, I guess you’d expect him to be really cocky and arrogant. I’m too drunk to do that.
If you’ve ever watched Apex t.v., you’ve seen videos of a guy who purports to be a time traveler. He sits at a picnic bench and has his face blurred out because, we guess, he’s afraid a secret government agency may show up at a picnic area at a public park and murder him.
Anyway…. We were skeptical about the time traveler’s story so, we talked to other, real time travelers, to hear theirs.
Many of them were fake. We’re just going to come straight out and say that. But then, one walked in our door and gave us information he could never have known without having seen the future and come back. We sat, astounded, by his tales.
The following are excerpts that will astound you too.
INTERVIEWER: So, I just want to get this straight. You’ve traveled through time?
TIME TRAVELER: I guess you could say that.
INTERVIEWER: You guess.
TIME TRAVELER: I mean, I traveled here. Right now.
INTERVIEWER: You were in the future and you came here?
TIME TRAVELER: Uh. More like the past. I was in the past and came here, to now…
INTERVIEWER: So you can travel into the past? What did you see? Where did you go?
TIME TRAVELER: Well… I was driving…
INTERVIEWER: Your time machine.
TIME TRAVELER: No. My Ford Focus.
INTERVIEWER: Your time machine is built into a Ford Focus. Kind of like “Back to the Future”?
TIME TRAVELER: No.
INTERVIEWER: Jesus. Do you understand how an interview works? You need to give us a little more. Be colorful. Tell us in detail about your time travels.
TIME TRAVELER: I’m scared.
INTERVIEWER: Of the government?
TIME TRAVELER: No. You.
TIME TRAVELER: Listen, man. You ordered a pizza. I delivered the pizza. Can I go?
INTERVIEWER: We don’t want your fucking time traveling pizza. How do we know there isn’t weird bacteria all over it from going through wormholes and shit?
TIME TRAVELER: You don’t even need to pay me. Just let me go.
INTERVIEWER: O.K. I get it. If we untie you, and let you go, you’re just going to get in your time traveling machine and go somewhere in the future where we can’t get you.
TIME TRAVELER: Yeah? I guess?
INTERVIEWER: Who wins the Jets-Dolphins game this weekend and by how much?
TIME TRAVELER: I don’t really, uh, follow football…
INTERVIEWER: Why? Because football isn’t a sport in the future?
TIME TRAVELER: It isn’t?
INTERVIEWER: I’m asking you! Did you do something to football? Did you take it away from us? What the fuck did you do? What did you do, man? I fucking love football.
TIME TRAVELER: I’m sorry. Just please. Let me go. I just want to leave.
INTERVIEWER: Jets-Dolphins, motherfucker.
TIME TRAVELER: Jets win 23-17.
INTERVIEWER: Fuck. I knew it. I need to call my bookie.
TIME TRAVELER: Can I go?
INTERVIEWER: I don’t give a fuck.
At this point in the interview, the time traveler re-entered his time-travel machine and took off. While we couldn’t see the Ford Focus disappear or shoot through a worm hole, it did drive far enough away that we couldn’t see it anymore.
In a recent Intergalactic Business Report article, we warned you that space aliens were partnering with the Chinese. We also predicted that no news organization would investigate this claim and would, instead, sit on their squirrel-sized hands and wait for us to do all the work, which of course we did.
To do this, we turned to our own Cedric Bigglestone, who has consistently delivered stunning exposés on everything from the seedy history of the periodic table of the elements to the fact that gold is fake.
The following is his report:
I first learned about exposés when I began to expose myself to people in public parks. I was great at it, and it led me to my work at the Intergalactic Business Report. The people there allowed me to flourish and grow and understand how to not only expose myself but also others. Today I expose both the Chinese and their alien friends. This is how I did it.
PART ONE: I accidentally find a clue.
While sifting through a bin of toys at a children’s birthday party, I came across an odd box wrapped in gift wrapping. I tore through its paper armor to get to its core and found a space creature action figure. On it, in small letters, I noticed the words, “Made in China.”
Curious, I pocketed the item and left the house, stopping briefly to tell the owner that there was no Zordon in her house. When she asked if I meant “Radon” I nodded and fled, since I had thought I was hired to clear the house of the demon lord Zordon, and not whoever Radon was. Anyway, I’m getting off subject.
PART TWO: I examine the object more carefully.
Indeed, the “Made in China” markings definitely said, “Made in China.” So the question was, why would an alien toy be made in China? Why wouldn’t aliens make toys at a factory in outer space?
PART THREE: I eat Chinese food till I pass out.
In order to think like a Chinese person, I decided I needed to eat like one. I ordered food from a local restaurant with a Chinese name. Then I called back a few minutes later and changed my voice, and ordered more food. I did this several times till I had ordered about four hundred and seventy-nine dollars worth of Chinese food.
Back at my apartment, I began my death feast, consuming flavors both sweet and sour, and marinating my innards with Kung Pao something something. I ate so much that it felt as if General Tso himself had taken me from behind and gently thrust inside me, then pounded me hard for about twenty-three minutes. During this experience, I began to see visions of aliens shaking hands with Chinese government officials. After the hand-shaking, they exchanged plastic toys. Boo boo beep, said a nearby robot, though I still don’t know what he said, since I haven’t figured out robot language yet.
PART FOUR: I wake up with proof.
Sometime in the next 43 hours, I awoke in a mess of Chinese takeout containers and vomit. It was the first time in several months that I could produce a full erection without someone holding a loaded gun in my mouth. Did this mean I should eat more Chinese food?. Or did it mean I was coming out of a sort of vision quest, sweat lodge thing, that had finally let me see things through the eyes of a god?
I decided quickly that this meant I had been anointed as a superior creature and been given powers that I didn’t understand yet, but would discover as I challenged random opponents to fight in Target parking lots and raced against junior high school students—their scooters and bikes versus me and my supernatural legs.
PART FIVE: I solve the riddle.
That stuff about me being a god turned out to be false and I was arrested near a junior high and again at a Target parking lot.. Stuff is still pending in court, so I can’t talk about it.
Anyway… Maybe it was the physical exertion of chasing people or being chased myself, but at some point it hit me—the answer had been right in front of me all along. MADE IN CHINA. If you put those three words together they spell MADEINCHINA, which you could pronounce MAH-DEE-INN-CHEE-NAH. These were the exact words the robot in my dream was saying. Shit, actually, he was saying boo boo beep, which isn’t even close. Fuck! This is hard! Fuck this!
CONCLUSION: It’s clear the Chinese are in collusion with space aliens.
This is the conclusion.
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
As we’ve done many times in the past, the Intergalactic Business Report investigates curious and mythical objects we find on the internet. Our task is simple. We identify an object, find it online, and then purchase and review it for you.
This week we bought a UFO space commander’s helmet, and this is what we found:
1. It’s hard to certify that the helmet belonged to an actual commander. Our team originally went looking for a simple UFO or space helmet, but some members were adamant we get one that belonged to a commander or general. This made things quite a bit harder, because it was difficult enough to find a UFO helmet, let alone one worn by a leader. We talked with several sellers around the world who would say things like, “Oh yeah, sure, this one was worn by a commander,” but we didn’t totally believe them. Finally, a contact named Albert convinced us that his was the real deal because he charged 25 grand more than the others. This, it seemed, was pretty good evidence that his helmet was more likely legit. We tried to ask him more about the origins and history of the piece, but he said some shit in Russian.
2. Aliens must have huge fucking heads. When we received the helmet, it was gigantic and we could almost fit two people’s heads inside. This led us to speculate that perhaps UFO space creatures shared the helmet, so we sent two team members out on the street to simulate a land battle with random civilians. The civilians easily won, as our interns could not coordinate their attacks or even really walk in a coherent direction while jammed inside the helmet, leaving them open for nut punches and depantsing, which left them humiliated and defeated. Also, we couldn’t get the helmet off them for maybe fourteen hours and at one point gave up and left them near some warm garbage while we regenerated at Taco Bell.
3. The UFO helmets are made in China, which means the Chinese are aligned with the aliens. This was perhaps our most shocking discovery, as we found tiny letters on the outside of the helmet saying it was made in China. This totally busts the Chinese for collusion with UFOs and we hope someone has the balls to fucking investigate, even though they probably won’t and it’ll be left to us, as usual…
4. The UFO helmet can easily fit an entire order of nachos but will tilt a little bit to the side if you set it on a couch while you’re eating. We recommend you kind of squeeze it between two people in order to keep it in place. Those two people would have to share the nachos and anyone else would probably need to ask their permission to have some.
5. If worn too long, the helmet will drive you insane. As we found out when our interns couldn’t get their heads out and spent the night in an alley and had their pants stolen. When we finally picked them up the next day, they had given in to madness, shouting crazy things to us like, “Where the fuck were you guys? I thought you said you were getting help?” and, “How were you at Taco Bell for fourteen hours?”
6. Conclusion: The UFO Space Commander’s helmet is probably real and can summon an alien armada if we can figure out how the buttons work. One button, when pushed, makes an alarm sound. Another makes a beeping noise. We feel strongly that if we can push these buttons in the correct order and combination, we will be able to call spaceships from around the universe who will be loyal to us and pretty much ask if we want them to take over the planet for us. Don’t worry. We’ll say no probably.
In previous articles, the Intergalactic Business Report has issued stern warnings about the rise of humorbots, which are subversive propaganda tools used by foreign governments to eerily critique America while praising their own countries and cultures.
Unfortunately, humorbots are on the rise again, and this time, they aren’t just limited to a couple countries in economic competition with us. Below we reveal 5 new bot-generated memes from around the world that seek to infiltrate your brain with humor only their cultures could find funny. Don’t laugh. Don’t share. Just beware.
Our first entry is from Uruguay:
Next is one from Iceland:
Another comes from Italy:
This one, we believe is from Mongolia:
Finally, a mesmerizing selection we have traced to servers in Greece:
You go to the dentist. He looks around in your mouth and says stuff. You nod and pay him money. Then he drills the fuck out of your teeth. In what world is this okay?
For many years, the Intergalactic Business Report has suspected that the profession of dentistry is fake, but we could never definitively prove it… Till now…
Following an exhaustive investigation of the dental industrial complex (including dental “schools” and offices all over the country) IBR offers conclusive evidence that the entire practice is a made-up money grab that steals from you as it makes mouth molesting “dentists” rich. Here’s the proof:
1. Those aren’t X rays you’re seeing.
Dentists always show you pictures of your teeth, point at them, and say, “Look. See that?” and you have no idea what they’re talking about but you nod anyway. We found that the picture they show you is just a black and white close up of a man’s teeth from 1959. They just share that photo and show it to everyone and then make up shit about what it means. For instance: “See that? That’s a cavity. That’s bad. That needs to be fixed. Now give me some money.”
2. They numb you, so they can pillage your mouth with their medieval tools.
Numbing, or “incapacitating the victim,” as dentists will call it in private, is a way to make sure you can’t feel the horror of what they choose to do inside your mouth. If you look over, you may see an area where they’ve set out all their little knives and pokers, and you naturally look away, because you don’t want to think about those things tearing through your burrito eater. But next time, look closely and you’ll see they are the same tools used in torture chambers in the middle ages and passed down generation after generation till your torturer got them.*
3. You can never see what the fuck they’re doing.
Dentists put on some music or, in some cases, harness you with a contraption that lets you watch movies. This is to distract you from figuring out that they are just doing random shit inside your mouth.
4. Dental sessions end when the dentist just gets sick of torturing you.
At some point during your punishment, the dentist will say something like, “O.K. we’re done,” and this just means he’s bored of fucking with your mouth and wants to move on to his next victim who waits, terrified, in the next room.
5. Dentists become defensive when you share our proof with them.
If you ever see a dentist at the grocery store or just out on the street, and confront him with our facts, he will act super angry and weird, thus admitting his guilt and that we are right about all of this. In our encounters with dentists, in which we followed them home or to Target parking lots and then cornered and questioned them, there was a high degree of fear and even violence exhibited. We find this to be a clear sign that we’ve hit a nerve, so to speak, with them. Some of their responses included: “Get the fuck away from me,” and “I’m going to call the cops,” which are things only the guilty say.
6. The word “dentist” means something in Latin that’s bad.
We are not experts in Latin, which we also believe may be fake and the subject of a future article, but we can say with almost one hundred percent accuracy that the word “dentist” comes from it and means something fucking horrible.
*We strongly believe, but can’t prove yet, that all dentists are descendants of medieval executioners and torturers. It’s kind of like being a vampire or a witch, sort of…
In an exclusive exposé, Cedric Bigglestone sits down with a gold company executive to find the truth.
My journey to truth began as it usually does. I sat in a bar, having a moderately priced fishbowl drink. The bartender had stopped talking to me and I was alone with the t.v. that hung nearby. That’s when I saw yet another commercial for buying gold.
“Buy gold!” the ad announced. "Buy it now because it outperforms the stock market and will make you rich." I knew my wallet was filled with credit cards and a few dollars I’d made from an impromptu lap dance for some retired postal workers. But that was just plastic and paper. Not precious metal.
So I longed for some. I longed for gold to be in my pants instead of what I had. Hell, I wanted a gold dick, a gold face, gold hair. Fuck regular money, I thought, and also screamed because my thoughts and my voice are the same I’ve discovered. The bartender simply pulled out his phone and threatened me with it as he always does. Did I want him to call the cops again? No. I guess not. So I left and wandered down the street.
It was there, on the concrete path of life that I had my revelation about the gold industry and that was that it must be fake. After all, if gold was so valuable and awesome why were the gold companies trying to get rid of it all the time? Why didn’t they just keep all the gold for themselves and be rich?
This led me to interview an anonymous representative of the gold industry. In a secret meeting with me, he revealed the stunning real story behind what we call “gold.” Here it is:
CEDRIC: So you’re a high level gold executive?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: That’s right?
CEDRIC: Named Barry Winters?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: Don’t use my name! You said you wouldn’t use my name!
CEDRIC: I’ll redact it or whatever. Don’t worry… Jesus… So, what does it mean to be a gold executive?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: I work for a company that sells gold.
CEDRIC: Like from pirates?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: What?
CEDRIC: Like pirate gold?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: We don’t have pirate gold, no. We have coins, yes… And…
CEDRIC: That’s fucking bullshit.
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: Pardon me?
CEDRIC: Nothing. Anyway, is gold fake?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: Fake?
CEDRIC: Why are you selling it all the time? Why not keep it all and just be rich?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: That’s not how it works. We sell the gold to our clients and they assume a risk if the price of gold goes down. However….
CEDRIC: I thought gold was a great investment. How would the price go down?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: Well…
CEDRIC: Is gold fake?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: You asked that before. I assure you, gold is very real. It’s…
CEDRIC: Do you know King Midas?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: The legend of King Midas? Yes, of course…
CEDRIC: No. I mean do you know King Midas? The man? The real man.
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: I think I should leave now. I’m feeling a little uncomfortable with the tone of this interview.
CEDRIC: Maybe you’re feeling a little uncomfortable with lying to people about gold. I mean, if you have all this gold to sell, why don’t you have like a gold sword or a gold helmet or something? Why the fuck are you wearing a suit? I mean a non-golden suit?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: I’ve tried to answer your questions. May I leave now?
CEDRIC: Why wouldn’t you be able to leave?
SECRET GOLD EXECUTIVE: Because I’m tied to a chair?
At this point the interview really ended because Barry wouldn’t be straight with me or answer my questions. Each time I asked something, he was evasive and my lie detector chip which I installed in my left temple gives me the ability to detect evasiveness and he failed.
But what does all this mean for you, the consumer? I’m still working on that. For now, I’m just going to say that I wouldn’t buy “gold” from anyone who doesn’t physically have pirate treasure or wear gold armor. For now, that’s all any of us can do. Till next time.
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at email@example.com.
As part of an awkward social experiment commissioned by the Intergalactic Business Report, self-identified socialite Tina Redinkio has hooked up her diary to the internet. The following is a live-streamed excerpt that has just been captured:
“…that’s what a bitch is called, bitch… and then I just told her that again because I didn’t think she heard it the first time. Ha. So funny. Ooh. I just saw that light come on which means they’re streaming my diary again! So exciting for everyone out there to hear all my personal thoughts live-streamed on the internet. Remember, these are my private writings! So be kind as you read them and remember these are not meant for public consumption. They’re secret. Dark secret thoughts. O.K. So, I want to give a shout out to Herbal Loop, which is like a new company that’s sponsoring me and their haircare products are so dope that I use them myself. And also, Snickers? I’m sponsored by Snickers? Oh shit. That’s my girl Jody just fucking with me. She said to say Snickers. What a slut! Ha ha. You know I love you, Jody. I do. O.K., so I was going to enter something just between me and myself and that was… uh…. So hard to do this… It’s like, what am I saying to my diary today, right? O.K… So here it is… Deep dark secret. I met this guy on Tinder and he was all like let’s have sex, but he said it after we had dinner, cause we met out for dinner, but it was this really janky place cause he picked it and said it was good, but it wasn’t? I ordered this salad and it was like three pieces of lettuce and then like a huge carrot or something and I was asking the waitress what that was and she said it wasn’t a carrot? It was like some root or something? And that was because the restaurant was Asian? So then I had to figure out if I was gonna have sex with this guy, because dinner was almost over and then… Fuck you Jody? WTF? Jody’s saying she knows the same guy? Anyway, diary, I just want to thank you for being such a good listener! Ha. So funny. Wait. Is the light going off now?...”
According to laws, we’re only allowed to broadcast a diary for about two minutes before cutting off the signal. So, till next time…
The “Dark Web.” Kind of like dark chocolate in that it’s like regular chocolate only it tastes like shit. With all the fear surrounding this netherworld, the Intergalactic Business Report went on some of the darkest, deepest sites and report what we’ve found.
Search at your peril for these dark Web sites:
Drunk house sellers: This is where you sell your house online when you’re really drunk.
Teddy bear bong purveyors: This horrifying Web site sells bongs made from the stolen teddy bears of children.
Nigerian Prince Connection: Here you are matched with an African prince who will transfer money to your bank account and may even marry you afterwards. So far, we think this one is legit and a wedding is being planned for next summer. Say congrats if you see us.
Man versus squirrel herd. Ever wanted to see a man fight about a hundred rabid-looking varmits? This is your chance. Spoiler alert: the men never win. (We think this one may actually just be a Japanese game show.)
Download my brain. This one features attempts of amateur surgeon/scientists to download the contents of their brains onto computers. Unfortunately, none of the participants seem to have any formal training in surgery or science.
Shitcoin. Like Bitcoin only people trade in pieces of shit, which are mailed to you.
Date my dead grandmother. A guy in a mental institution in Thailand invites you to go on date with his grandmother who died, we think, sometime in the last twenty years. If you sign up for it, we’re pretty sure he ends up killing you.
Illegal cigarette smoking network. Two guys named Igor and Jeff smoke cigarettes they acquired without paying the usual six dollar sin tax. They gloat and challenge the government to find them.
Evil twin sister. Ever wished you were someone’s evil twin sister? This site connects you with black market plastic surgeons who will change your face and body so you resemble another person so exactly that you can show up in her life and either claim you’re her long lost twin sister or simply just hook up with her boyfriend.
Reports so secret we hide them on this page.