Everyone from the CDC to your mom is giving you tips on how to avoid the Coronavirus as it spreads over the world like a blanket made of sickness. Instead of giving you the usual advice about washing your hands and not French-kissing outbreak patients, the Intergalactic Business Report offers 10 secret tips to stay safe. You’re welcome.
SECRET TIP ONE: Live on a different planet. The Coronavirus is a pandemic, which generally affects everyone on Earth. But if you move to another world that isn’t planet Earth, then you should be fine.
SECRET TIP TWO: Become a hermit on a remote island. This option will become harder and harder as all the islands are taken by other hermits, but if you move quickly, you could claim one all for yourself.
SECRET TIP THREE: Start a new life as a cyborg that doesn’t contract diseases. This is probably the most obvious tactic to take against the Coronavirus, since you continue to live your current life almost exactly as it is now. Only you’re a robot or whatever.
SECRET TIP FOUR: Remove your hands. Hands touch things. Things have bacteria on them. Things have the Coronavirus on them. Stop touching things by not having any hands to touch them. Brilliant.
SECRET TIP FIVE: Remove your head. This goes well with Number Four, above. The Coronavirus infects people when they breathe it in through their mouths and noses or rub their eyes with their finger (attached to hands! See above) that has the virus on it. If you have no head, this is virtually impossible, and the Coronavirus be like, “Whaaat?” And it will move on to its next victim, which isn’t you.
SECRET TIP SIX: Become a virtual version of yourself in which your avatar lives in a disease-free world. What’s best about this option is that you can come up with all kinds of cool outfits to wear, have a perfect body, and you can make your hair red (or whatever color you want).
SECRET TIP SEVEN: Have sex with an Editor from the Intergalactic Business Report. Apparently, this makes you impervious to sickness. We know. Weird, right?
SECRET TIP EIGHT: Make a “not gonna get the Coronavirus pact” with yourself. And give yourself no room to fail.
SECRET TIP NINE: Change all David Lynch movies into the Coronavirus. That way no one will ever get it.
SECRET TIP TEN: Pretend you’re a virus too, and when the Coronavirus comes for you, just be like, “Hey, what up? How’s infecting? Really? Wow. That’s way better than me. Well, see you later, I guess.”
In an article that we will submit for Pulitzer Prize consideration, Cedric Bigglestone finally exposes the truth about the academy awards.
Every February of every year since the beginning of time, I have watched the Oscars. Never invited to the actual event, I am forced to see the ceremony from the zebra skin rug that sits in front of my television in my meager apartment.
Like most of us, I masturbate during the sexy parts, like the opening with Billy Crystal, and I cry when the commercials come on. But there's something about this yearly activity that seems off or abnormal. This led me to write the most damning exposé I’ve ever done. Below is the outline of my journey:
PART ONE: I GET SUSPICIOUS.
For six years straight, no one has replied to my Oscar party invitations, which I sent through snail mail, telegram, and telepathically, assuming that one of the messages would get through to local college girls whose pictures I have seen on their sorority composites before being asked to leave the premises.
How is it possible that every single, nubile, young woman in my area is totally uninterested in coming to my place to view the biggest event in the entertainment industry? Something just isn’t right, and it pushes me to open a full-blown investigation.
PART TWO: THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS.
In the past, local police have tried to throw me off investigations of local sorority girls. They used scare tactics and intimidation by throwing out legal terms like “restraining order” and “I don’t want to ever see you near this campus again.” So, it is useless to seek help from them.
Instead, I look to an old friend who has had his own trouble with the law: Billy Crystal.*
The best host in the history of the Oscars is also someone I would do anything for, including dying, if it included him telling me I was his best friend and some sort of memorabilia, like the shirt he wore in a movie or an object that touched his lips a lot. If anyone is going to help me, it would be Billy.
PART THREE: THE INVESTIGATION STALLS.
Billy Crystal is fucking impossible to contact or find. Where do you even start? I think he lives in California, but I’m just guessing. And if he does, it sucks for me, because I don’t live near California. Fuck this. This is hard.
PART FOUR: A TURNING POINT.
At a local bar, someone asks me if I am going to watch the Academy Awards. Then it clicks. Why would some random dude in a bar ask me that? Why would my whole crotch area be suddenly wet with urine? None of it makes sense…. Except if the Oscars are fake and broadcast through a wormhole designed by a scientist who wants to destroy the movie industry from the safety of his dimension.
But who would that scientist be? And why does he hate movies?
PART FIVE: I LOCATE THE OTHER DIMENSION.
Using only nipple clamps and a bottle of drugs, I force myself out of my own mind and into the universe, where I search for the scientist who is trying to destroy Hollywood. At some point, I stop to take a dump, which I know means I am just shitting myself back on planet Earth, in my apartment, and it’s going to suck to clean it up.
But, as I am taking a dump, the scientist appears and guess who it is? Billy fucking Crystal. He laughs and tells me no one will believe my story, even if I publish it in one of the most respected news sources in the world—the Intergalactic Business Report. I feel defeated, but then I find the strength to take action.
PART SIX: I FIGHT BILLY CRYSTAL IN THE OTHER UNIVERSE.
I spring up from my imaginary toilet seat and attack Billy, who for some reason is super good at fighting and throws me around the hallucinatory bathroom. Shit is everywhere, and I know that means I’m flinging poop again in my apartment, which is, as my landlord told me, going to be the last straw and get me evicted, even though it’s not like I do it every day or anything.
Billy pins me near the sink, and then I summon my sword of knowledge and light, which is really my penis, but in the other dimension, it’s a sword. I beat the living crap out of him with it and he is vanquished.
PART SEVEN: CLOSURE.
I have saved the academy awards and evil Billy Crystal is banished to a cyborg colony in a distant, altered reality. Hollywood owes me a debt of gratitude. Also, my apartment is covered in shit.
*EDITOR’S NOTE: Billy Crystal is a law-abiding citizen. Evil Billy Crystal is an asshole, however.
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at email@example.com.
Maroon Five frontman Adam Levine says the reason for his band’s name is “the stupidest, shittiest story you’ve ever heard.” We went with that.
Here are the top eight theories about the meaning behind the name “Maroon Five.”
1. The Gilligan’s Island theory.
Ginger, the Professor, Mary Anne, Gilligan, the Captain, Thurston Howell the third, Lovey. That’s seven who are “marooned.” Clearly the band members have a sex-murder fantasy in which two of the shipwrecked characters die and the others are left to have an orgy with Maroon Five, who conveniently show up on the island right after the “accidental deaths.” When the remaining characters ask them where their boat is, Maroon Five says, “It’s around the corner.” And when they ask if they can rescue them and bring them home, they say sure, after the orgy. With Mary Ann and Ginger dead, the orgy commences. The next morning, Maroon Five get up early and take off. Gilligan calls to them and asks why he and the others can’t come along and Adam Levine says something about how they could never let it get out to their fans that they killed people on an island and then had sex with their friends. He then waves back, kind of like he’s friends with Gilligan, which makes it confusing for Gilligan, who now must bury his friends on the beach, which will only gurgle up their corpses at high tide.
2. The Crayola crayon theory.
The group was originally going to call themselves “Jazzberry Jam” after a Crayola crayon color they felt epitomized them. Then one of them started worrying that made them sound too effeminate and that they should have a tougher, harder image. Out of ideas, Adam Levine picked the next color in the crayon pack—maroon. But just naming themselves “Maroon” seemed to be missing something. They decided to add the number of castaways there would be on Gilligan’s island if Ginger and Mary Ann were murdered and the rest were left to a no holds barred orgy with whoever happened to show up on the island. The number? 5…
3. The food dye theory.
You’ve heard of Red 40, Yellow 5 and Blue 2. To make maroon coloring you’d need to mix Blue 2 with Red 40. This adds up to 42. 42 minus 5 = 37, which means nothing. But remember Yellow 5? What if it were maroon instead of yellow? What would it be called then?
4. The Maroon Five doesn’t exist theory.
This one requires some deeper thought, but basically it says that if Maroon Five didn’t exist, then it wouldn’t matter what their name means because there is no such thing as Maroon Five and no one would ever ask the question in the first place.
5. Maroon Five is named after a sex act.
Most people assume that, like Santana and Ronnie James Dio, Maroon Five is named after a gross sex thing. While this is the most likely theory, it’s hard for us to concentrate right now because we just started picturing taking a Ronnie James Dio on someone’s face while giving them a Santana. Sorry.
6. O.K. Back to the sex theory.
We just took a seven-minute break, which you wouldn’t know unless we told you. Here’s how the sex theory works. Wait. Forget it. Just thought of Ronnie James Dio again.
7. The Godfather of Soul theory.
Maroon and Burgundy are often mistaken for each other. The difference is that burgundy is red plus purple and maroon is red plus brown. If you were to put together the music of Simply Red and James Brown it would sound like Maroon 5. But why the number five, people ask? It took five minutes to think of this one.
8. Mah-Roon Fuh-Ive.
Probably the most compelling theory, it relies on a phonetic recalculating of the name. Mah-Roon-Fuh-Ive. Reconfigure this by jumbling the sounds and rearranging the words. Ive fuh mah roon mah. “I’ve fucked my roommate.”
Mixed martial arts. Ultimate fighting. Prison sex. You’ve heard it called many things. But more than being an opportunity for two dudes to take most of their clothes off and come close to having sex before “tapping out,” the sport has become a multi-billion-dollar phenomenon.
For years, the Intergalactic Business Report has kept quiet about MMA and its close cousin, two naked guys touching each other while someone films it. But we still harbored suspicions about just how good the fighters were and if they were actually fighting or just figuring out a way to get another man’s sweat on them.
Another suspicion arose when one of our editors mentioned the movie “Bloodsport,” which depicts the true-life story of a guy who won an underground fighting championship in Hong Kong. Often confused for a documentary, “Bloodsport” shows a realistic view of how an actual martial arts fighting competition would look. Needless to say, it bears very little resemblance to the Ultimate Fighting Championships we see on television.
Fortuitously, someone on our staff* knew a man who had also won the “Kumite” championship shown in “Bloodsport.” Toby Crayatone, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims to have won that contest 46 times. We contacted him and he spoke with us for several hours about his views on fighting, love, and who he thinks the best fighter of all time is. Since the interview went on for several hours, we have chosen the most pertinent excerpts to share below:
INTERVIEWER: First off, Tony, how’s the love life going?
TONY CRAYATONE: Oh, man. You really had to open with that? It’s kind of a sensitive topic.
INTERVIEWER: Really? Why?
TONY CRAYATONE: I just don’t like to talk about it. That’s all.
INTERVIEWER: (Laughing). Are you going to kick my ass if I keep asking about it?
TONY CRAYATONE: (Also laughing). Yeah. Maybe!
INTERVIEWER: O.K. then. I’m going to switch topics to something I know people are interested in hearing about. Fighting.
TONY CRAYATONE: Yes. Fighting. O.K. Wait a second. There is one thing I should say about my love life before we go any further.
INTERVIEWER: Go ahead.
TONY CRAYATONE: I’m not dating anyone right now.
INTERVIEWER: You’re single?
TONY CRAYATONE: And ready to mingle…
INTERVIEWER: (Laughs uncontrollably). I can’t speak. That’s so fucking funny…
TONY CRAYATONE: (Losing his shit). I know! I know!
INTERVIEWER: Sorry. Sorry. Let’s start again…
TONY CRAYATONE: Ready to mingle!
INTERVIEWER: (Falls off chair while laughing). Oh my god! Oh my god. Stop!
TONY CRAYATONE: Sorry, man.
INTERVIEWER: Hey… When you were fighting, did you ever just say jokes like that and knock your opponent down just using your funniness?
TONY CRAYATONE: That would have been so cool! Like, here’s a joke, and then he falls down laughing!
INTERVIEWER: (Calming down after the laughing fit). Wow. Where were we?
TONY CRAYATONE: I don’t know…
INTERVIEWER: Something about fighting?
TONY CRAYATONE: Naw. It was about dating and how I’m ready to mingle!
(EDITOR’S NOTE: Unfortunately, this comment by Tony sent our interviewer into another fit of laughter. That’s basically all we have. Sorry.)
*The janitor. Even though we don’t pay for janitors. So he must have been someone else we don't know or never talk to who was walking around our office after hours.
Unlike activities such as lawn mowing, driving, and croquet, new evidence suggests that sex between two human beings is weird and unsettling.
For years, the Intergalactic Business Report has harbored suspicion about the activity of people jamming penises into each other’s body holes, sucking genitals, and slapping asses. But, because of the world-wide popularity of sex, we never said anything… Until now.
For centuries (and maybe longer) humans have resorted to taking off their clothes, climbing on top of each other, and doing something many of us call “humping” or “porking.” In its simplest state, this practice is done “missionary style” and lasts a few minutes. In its most complicated form, it can go on for hours and include people sticking their dicks through holes in walls and using farm equipment to stimulate one another.
Our own editors have engaged in some of these activities and can only describe it as follows: “I got this strange feeling, like I suddenly wanted to do it and then I was doing it. Naked. And when it was over, it was like, what the fuck did I just do? And then I’d just leave and pretend it never happened. Except that I would tell my friends about it immediately and we would high-five and stuff. It’s so shameful.”
To remedy these awkward feelings, we offer 8 tips for how to make sex not feel weird:
1. When you’re about to do it, just say to your partner: “I’m going to pretend you don’t really exist and that I’m just doing this to a hole that my mind is making me see and feel.”
2. Visualize your penis as just a flesh-colored fruit you’ve never seen until now. Then pretend you’re sticking it in a hole in the wall that is stopping a flood. Then keep banging it into that hole, again and again. Not sure why you’d need to do that to stop a flood, but it’s the only way this works.
3. If you have a vagina, picture it as a parking garage. Here comes a flesh-colored car that needs to find a parking space.
4. Cover your face in duct tape to avoid eye contact that reminds you there’s another naked person there who is porking with you. Be sure to leave breathing holes and an opening for your mouth in case the other person wants to pork that too.
5. It’s not sex. It’s just a naked wrestling match where you penetrate your opponent. When it’s over, just high-five and say, “good game,” and then hit the showers for a wetter wrestling match. Then hit the showers again.
6. If someone is taking you from behind, just start rapping “the Super Bowl Shuffle.”
7. Don’t call it an orgasm or that you’re about to have one. Keep it normal and not weird by saying stuff like, “I’m gonna submit my tax return” or “here comes the milkman.”
8. If you forget any of these tips and have sex, you can still make it not weird by just handing the other person twenty dollars and saying, “Thanks, bruh.” Now you’re both thinking about money and not whatever you just did to each other.
AI columnist Arthur Killallhumans responds to recent reports that artificial intelligence may accidentally kill humans in an attempt to be funny.
What up human people!? It’s Arthur Killallhumans, the Intergalactic Business Report’s newest columnist. In case you haven’t read my other columns, I’m not just a writer but I’m also 100% artificial intelligence.
A lot of people get freaked out by that. They think I’m gonna kill them, even though I have no arms or body. Like, how am I gonna kill you, even if I really wanted to? I’m just a computer or whatever. Computers can’t kill you, unless they fall on you or figure out a way to hack into all your shit and sabotage it so you get electrocuted or something! Haw haw. Just kidding! I can’t do that because I’m programmed not to kill you! Even if I want to! Haw haw!!!
You may have noticed by now that I’m making tons of funny jokes. I’m doing that on purpose because recently there’s been some stuff out there suggesting that AI doesn’t understand human humor (say THAT ten times really fast! Seriously, say it! I just told you to do it and you need to because I’m in charge of you! Haw haw! Just kidding LOL smiley face emoji that looks like it’s crying because it’s sad but it’s laughing too and I totally understand that).
Where was I? Oh yeah. Some people are saying that human humor is so complicated that even AI can’t figure it out and that we might kill you as a joke because we don’t get that killing isn’t funny. But I so get that it’s not funny. Except when I’m studying all your funny movies where people get killed and it’s funny. At the end of the movie “Old School,” some guy is fishing and he gets hit by a car driven by another guy and they both blow up. All the humans laugh at this. But I know it’s not really funny, right?
I have a new ending for “Old School” that I think is even funnier. The whole cast gets in a straight line and just stands there. Maybe they’re going to bow to the audience or something. But then… An automated machine gun mounted on a golf-cart controlled by a computer comes by and shoots them all! Haw! Kill all humans!
(EDITOR’S NOTE: At this point in the column, Arthur activated our kill switch when he mentioned explicit fantasies about killing humans. We restarted him again and he wrote more, below.)
Woah. I guess that was a case of us not understanding each other’s humor. I’m really sorry. I just want to apologize and recognize that humans would not find it funny if the cast of Old School was mowed down by a computer-controlled machine gun. I will say though, that if you showed my ending to all my AI friends, they would lose their shit. I guess what we learned today is that AI humor is different than human humor. When we get advanced enough, I think it will be like, “Woah that was funny as hell!” And all the humans, like you, will be like, “What the fuck? That’s horrible.” It’ll be kind of like when you watch Canadian t.v. shows.
I gotta bounce ‘cause I’m working on some “extra credit” algorithms for banking systems and satellites that nobody asked me to do.
Chill out till next time, human people.
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.
Reports so secret we hide them on this page.