If I Only Had a Stump

Do you ever feel like certain things are holding you back in life? Of course you do. Why would you think otherwise? Accepting responsibility for your mediocre life accomplishes nothing. It’s everyone else’s fault. It always has been and always will be. But what if it’s not just other people stifling your growth? What if a part of yourself is getting in the way?

People with Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) know the truth. Needless limbs are hampering our potential. Appendages are nothing more than extraterrestrial flanges meant to oppress us. Walking sucks. Who needs legs? Creating the wheel is pointless if we’re just going to plod around. The disabled don’t know how fortunate they are. Their treacherous limbs are removed for them through random good luck. The rest of us have to gallivant across the globe and consult a money-siphoning amputation specialist. 

Life would be so much better if I was gimped out. My id would be free to fulfill its desires. I’d introduce myself as “Dr Bob Knobblestub” to everyone I meet. Their uneasy glances would tingle my insides. I’d also insist that they shake my stump. Refusing to glad-hand my knob would illustrate their intolerance of the handicapped. Anyone who won’t shake a stump is clearly a misogynist. 

Besides being a great prop, my stump would also serve a practical purpose: guilt-tripping anyone who disagrees with me. I could make the most outlandish claims imaginable and people would have to comply. A few contrarians may challenge my assertions that cats can smell polkadots or that God speaks through microwave beeps, but they’d change their tune the second I held up my stump. My eyes would get as dewey as a dandelion field at dawn. My bottom lip would tremble like a tuning fork. Everyone would look at the would-be critic as though they had punched a baby. The naysayer would eventually hang their head in shame and forfeit the argument. Sympathy for the legless trumps logic in every debate. It’s a fact. 

Despite my condition, I wouldn’t hobble or ride a wheelchair; I’d go sidewalk rafting. A grocery cart would be my ship. A soiled mop would be my paddle. Pedestrians would be forced to dive out of my cart’s path as I sail the city. I’d sing off-key sea shanties down by the seashore in a falsetto voice, annoying everyone I come into contact with. My stainless steel vessel would be anchored in a public pool with a naval mine. I’d drop a line and fish for swimmers. I imagine I’d have to beat some of the livelier ones with an oar to keep them from flopping around on my imaginary poop deck. 

There are occasions when a shopping cart wouldn’t be appropriate, however. If I approached a staircase, I’d tumble out of the grocery schooner and onto the steps. Other people would have to wait patiently and politely as I flop my way up the stairs. Anyone who gets angry or feels uncomfortable is simply being intolerant. If somebody offers me assistance, I’ll scream at them for condescending to me. Don’t interrupt. My inner monkeyface prickleback is testing its land potential. And don’t suggest using a  handicapped ramp. Why would I want to make my own ascent easier when it means I can’t slow other people down?

Stump stamping wouldn’t require a cart either, but I would have to bounce around like a robotic pogo stick. The knot on my leg would be painted with various designs. Buildings, sidewalks, postal trucks and children’s faces would all be branded. I’d use glitter paint during my festive moods. One day I could emboss churches with purple dick prints and the next I could stamp glow in the dark tangerine swastikas on daycare centers. The world would be my canvass. Each stamp would be shit-quality graffiti made with minimal effort and produced by a crippled malcontent. Art fags would love it.

Naturally, I’d become a world-famous artist overnight. Fortune would follow once I agree to do a commercial for crotch fungal cream. Real artists prostitute themselves in TV and internet advertisements. I’d look down at my prestigious stump with pride. Part of me would want to give something back to my fellow cripples. That side of my personality would be swiftly murdered by the part of me that knows how to have fun. I may give my fellow nub-wigglers a pittance for good publicity, but that would be it. I’ve got better plans for that money. 

Golden stilts. 

My stump’s stilt would have to be longer to balance out the length discrepancy. I’ll dominate and control everyone once I learn to walk again. Who can resist the demands of a fifteen-foot-tall dictator with golden legs? Nobody, that’s who. A few dissenters may be tempted to disobey, but not because they’re rebelling against my tyranny. They just want the honor of being kicked by my golden foot and I’m happy to oblige. I do what I can to help the little people. 

And why stop at stilts? My newfound fortune could provide me with a litany of enhancing features. I’ll get testosterone injected directly into my eyeballs. This would allow me to kill living things just by glaring at them. Anyone who thinks otherwise will be glowered at until their internal organs rupture. Swords will be attached to my finger tips. They would be fashioned out of the strongest thermoplastic polymers in order to evade magnetic resistance from the alloy-mining mole people. Anyone wishing to avoid slaughter would have to stand on a stool and kiss my stump. 

Obviously, I’d be a god among men if it weren’t for my stupid, functional limbs. Like a rabid demigod on a meth binge, I’d stalk mortals for sport, destroy their cities rule everything around me. People would pray for safety as they avert their eyes from the golden-legged giant with buff eyes and razor-sharp claws forged from plastic. Plus, I’d be rich, which means I could buy the justice system. Not that I’d need to. Nobody would challenge me. I’d just want to use cops and judges as lawn darts. 

And I could, if I only had a stump. 

Unforgivable Neck Hat

You know it instantly. Looking at it invokes hatred. A tossed salad of genetics stares back at you. Stock footage of train wrecks play in your mind. Words tumble out of their mouths. It’s all babble. You can’t hear anything. It’s not just jumbled, cacophonous ear lard during group conversations. It’s always trivial blather, even when just one of them is talking. Maybe they have something important to say. Who cares? If they wanted to be taken seriously, they’d get facial reconstructive surgery. 

I hate people’s faces. 

This sentiment doesn’t just apply to ugly people. Have you ever noticed that when someone is ugly, yet they’re also nice and funny, they don’t seem ugly? Too bad pleasant individuals with a sense of humor are virtually nonexistent. Ugly people remain ugly. As for pretty people, their faces turn to shit immediately after they speak. Human physiognomy conforms to emotions and thoughts, assuming there are any. Most people wear a blank stare with an imaginary “Gone Fishing” sign on their foreheads. Sometimes you can see scheming, self-aggrandizing twaddle infinitely pursuing validation from others. They always look satisfied with themselves, which I find unacceptable.

Looking at people is self-abuse. Seeing their faces grinds my stomach, but I look regardless. In the past, I’d stare at the ground when I was out in public. Life became easier. The sea of bowel-clenching mugs was finally gone and I was discovering sidewalk treasure. What more could I ask for? A lot, it would seem. There was too much I was missing out on. Car accidents, illiterate graffiti and homeless tomfoolery were absent from my life. If I wanted entertainment, I’d have to look up. 

Besides, why should I have to gaze at the ground? It’s other people who have stupid-looking faces. Why should I be punished for that? They’re the ones with the problem. If they had any decency, they’d cover up. If I were emperor, people would have pictures of kittens hot glued to their faces. Not only would I have something pleasant to look at, but they’d finally be able to take a worthwhile selfie. Just kidding. There has never been nor will there ever be a worthwhile selfie. 

Eyes are the first attribute I notice when looking at someone’s neck vomit. The windows to most souls are blemished with smugness and desperation. Beady eyes are the worst. They look like they’re constantly squinting. People excuse their strabismus by saying they’re either blocking light or attempting to concentrate. Neither of these are sufficient justifications. Stare at the sun and take the retina damage like a trooper. As for concentrating, lobotomized jellyfish can focus harder than most of the people I see. Have you ever watched someone attempting to figure something out? It’s like seeing a turtle walk uphill. There is no excuse for pea-sized eyes. Put on a dark pair of sunglasses and stop ruining my day. 

And what’s the deal with upturned noses? It looks like the tip of the nose is trying to escape the rest of the face. Every time I see one it’s attached to some rich bitch. I’ve never met anyone below the poverty line who has an upturned nose. Why? I think it’s  evolution. The upturned flesh acts like the sight on a gun. It helps opulent twats aim properly when they look down on layaway shoppers. Evolution may endow creatures with greater functionality, but it never seems to make them photogenic. Just ask the anteater. Don’t ask someone with an upturned nose. Asking them would only make them talk and nobody wants that. 

When I see another person, I try to imagine them wearing a rotting walrus mask. It’s easier to look at than their actual face. Why bother with laws against nudity when people are allowed to flaunt their abominable head cheese? Have you seen their facial expressions? Fucking gross. Half of them look like they’re trying to keep their sphincter intact. The rest have gaping trough mouths that make a great nesting ground for insects. And they stare. Why do they always gawk at me when I’m trying not to look at them? I had a plan for this situation. It was to raise a mirror whenever I caught anyone staring. In theory, they’d see their own face, recoil with disgust and kill themselves out of shame. As with many great ideas, this scheme was proven unworkable by the internet. 

Let’s face it - the web has exacerbated the face problem. Symptoms of nausea, depression and erectile disfunction are common when a heaping mound of cranial waste appears in your image search. Everyone uploads pictures of their stupid faces because debate forums and genital torture porn aren’t making the internet ugly enough. Across the globe narcissistic skin bags fritter away every hour of everyday taking selfies and posting them online. I’m pretty sure so many selfies are taken from a downward angle because the self-absorbed rubes know I’m looking down on them. And they should be looked down upon. They’re ruining the internet in the same way that family portraits ruin shelves. Nothing has ever been improved by attaching a face. Missing persons flyers should have a vague description and nothing else. 

Even worse than having your eyes violated by online countenance abortions is seeing a face in person. The vacant deadness of their eyes vacuums into blank stupidity that stares back at you. Hearing wheezing breath puttering out of their noggin’s orifices doesn’t help either. Their drooling, flytrap muzzles salivate to a chorus of idiocy. I’m sick of seeing their noses wince and mouths curl. Plastic surgery may transform faces into rubber glory holes, but at least it paralyzes movement. If you don’t believe me, go to Beverly Hills and throw raisins at someone’s face. They may scream and flail their arms, but their ridiculous cartoon mask will remain perfectly still. 

God doesn’t want to see your face and neither do I. Religion may birth imbecilic attire like magic underwear and Catholic fun hats, but it did give us one redeemable article of clothing - the burqa. Men, women, children, transvestites, hermaphrodites and miscellaneous human byproducts should all be forced to wear burqas. Who cares if it turns people into religious extremists? A few national tragedies are worth not having to look at their skull meat. I could eat popcorn and watch explosions all day long, but I simply can’t regard a face for longer than ten seconds. It’s simply too horrible to contemplate. 

There may be other problems in the world, but they pale in comparison the facial vulgarity that parades itself so freely. Cover it up. Nobody wants to see your face. If you consider yourself a kind-hearted humanitarian, you’ll hide those ugly genitals dangling from your forehead. Think of the general welfare of those around you. Why do you insist on inflicting your face upon an unwilling public? It’s time to stop. Your face is making people sick and the free clinics only have so much room. Look in the mirror and tell yourself that you aren’t somebody. Don’t go outside. Put a blanket over your head and spend the rest of your life playing Scrabble. The world will thank you. 

Lick It

Is there anything people won’t lick?

Aside from putting their grubby hands on everything, people also feel the need to lick anything in sight. And I do mean anything. Humans think they’ve evolved beyond other mammals, but their numerous tongue escapades say otherwise. Make no mistake, everyone you encounter is a salivating predator itching to lick every part of your non-consenting epidermis. Everyone. And they won’t stop with you. They’ll lick any inanimate object and cover the world in tongue sludge. 

In 2012 a heel named Anthony was cruising for kiddie tootsies at a library in Rochester, NY. An employee saw him licking a young girl’s feet. Anthony was charged with two counts of sexual abuse and is suspected of five similar foot-licking occurrences in nearby areas. With a case like this, a lame excuse was sure to follow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he said that his tongue landed on the girl’s foot after he tripped. Fortunately, Anthony’s explanation was a lot more entertaining. While leaving court he claimed innocence and said he was being set up by the president and federal government. 

Despite common misconceptions, the government doesn’t kidnap targeted individuals and torture them. Don’t look at those tinted vans abducting homeless people; those are just nearsighted child abductors. When the government really wants to destroy its domestic enemies, it orchestrates events that portrays the target as a foot-licking weirdo. They harness the power of microwave beams to control a person’s cavity receptors and issue neurological impulses that command the subject to lick feet and make a spectacle of themselves. Look it up on Wikipedia. I haven’t, but I’m sure it’s there. 

Of course, things don’t always go right. Last week one of the government’s foot-licking drones malfunctioned and blew the whole operation. Alecia from Nashville tried to pull her neighbor’s pants down. When the neighbor ran to her apartment, Alecia followed. Once Alecia caught up to her, she began groping the woman and demanding access to her tongue-teasing feet. She also ordered the neighbor to fetch her five-year-old grandson so she could lick his feet too. The woman pushed Alecia out of her apartment. Alecia came back and smashed her neighbor’s window with a Lysol can. The feds obviously need to recalibrate their microwave signals. 

People don’t only lick things because their brain waves have been zapped by shadowy institutions. Some people let their tongues graze because they care. For example, Zhang, a zoo caretaker in China, saw a monkey suffering from constipation. Zhang would stop at nothing to remedy the pain. He did this by licking the monkey’s butthole. 

According to the story, visitors tossed the monkey a peanut. Since the primate was only three months old, it didn’t have a full set of teeth. It swallowed the peanut. Constipated, desperate and unable to medicate, there was only one thing to do. Zhang sprang into action and licked the monkey’s anus for over an hour. The peanut was finally defecated. Reality proves itself to be completely subjective everytime an animal’s life is saved by an interspecies rimjob.

Of course, not every tongue mutant licks for such noble causes. Across the sea from China, the Japanese have turned licking things into a series of fads. A few years ago, eye licking was all the rage. Large segments of Japanese youths were doing what teenagers do best - using their tongues for stupidity. Not surprisingly, this led to several cases of eye infections. Undeterred, eye-licking practitioners continued the act, claiming that it made them feel tingly and turned on. I’m left to assume they don’t have party drugs in Japan. Nonetheless, Japan does offer the world dancing robots and vending machines that sell used schoolgirl panties, so eye licking isn’t that unusual for them. 

At around the same time, another internet fad from the land of the rising tongue involved girls being photographed while licking doorknobs. Due to censorship, penises aren’t on display in Japanese porn. This is why logical substitutes like tentacles and doorknobs are used. Maybe knobs in the professional shoots were sanitized, but I doubt the girls posting knob-polishing selfies thought to clean them. Although, if you’re bobbing a knob, I doubt good hygiene is at the top of your priority list. If this results in a case of hairy tongue, beware. From what I understand, monster tentacle dicks hate rug burn. 

Since eyeballs and doorknobs aren’t tuna, I think the Japanese assumed they would be safe to lick. A few years before licking fads caught on, the Tokyo fish market had to temporarily ban tourists. Sightseers, no matter where they’re from and where they go, can always be counted on to act like brainless sunstroke victims on salvia. The incident that sent the fishmongers over the edge occurred when a British tourist licked the face of a tuna. 

Aw, the British. Is there anyone those food-boiling mushmouths can’t irritate? The ban was lifted shortly after the incident. Tourists are now educated with brochures on how to behave around tuna. Not that they should have to be told. Any heterosexual man can tell you nothing good comes from licking tuna. Lesbians seem to love it, which is baffling to say the least.

One pattern I’ve noticed is that most acts of tongue knavery are fueled by the accolades of uncaring peers seeking a cheap laugh. Sometimes it comes in the form of a girl’s sleepover. Despite popular mythology, girls don’t actually make out and have tickle fights. Young ladies today enrich their feminine bonds by daring each other to lick toilet seats. Every young girl realizes what true friendship is when her ovarian sisters convince her to tongue swirl the rim of a porcelain shitter.

But teenage tongue hijinks aren’t limited to girls. In 2012 a video of a boy licking a subway handrail in NYC spread like online chlamydia. Urged by the hurrahs of his idiot bromosexuals, the kid licked the handrail’s entire surface. It’s common knowledge that guys jerk off in subways, so I can only assume this lad was famished for secondhand dick. Or maybe it was the hefty bounty offered by his subway companions - a whopping $1.00. He has a promising future as a discount prostitute. 

As much as I would love to dismiss teenagers as hormonally-retarded troglodytes who’ll lick anything, the sad fact is that this behavior is learned. Older generations are leading by example. When your life instructors are Baby Boomers and Gen Xers, you’re probably not going to develop into an intelligent person. Although, you will get plenty of tutorials on how to squander every available resource and learn the art of whining about how hard life is. 

A four-year-old girl in El Paso, TX received a life lesson of sorts when she entered a public bathroom. She was immediately followed by Marcellous, a fifty-four-year-old homeless man. Marcellous exposed his unwashed stick and bindle to the girl and shook it at her. Maybe he wanted to put on a puppet show and couldn’t find a sock. That still wouldn’t explain why he licked the girl’s face and quickly left the bathroom. I’m not sure if you can become homeless from being exposed to transient saliva. For the girl’s sake, let’s hope not. You can’t pay for therapy sessions with a cup of loose change. 

Clearly, licking things that should go unlicked transcends generational gaps. Did you know it also travels beyond death? A couple of years ago, a Swedish woman was arrested for keeping human skeletons in her apartment. Police discovered photos of her licking the craniums. In one photo, she grazes her tongue across a skull’s exposed teeth. The woman kept images of her dome-licking dalliances on discs labeled “My necrophilia” and “My first experience.” Madame Skull Licker claimed that she bought the skeletons online. The web’s digital playground really does bring the world together. For some reason, people who romanticize the internet’s ability to connect humanity never mention necrophiliacs. 

Her story is so empowering. The “creepy” adjective is often thought to be cornered by men. It’s refreshing to see a woman come out and prove that being creepy knows no gender. A woman can inspire nausea just as well as any man. This woman is a hero for equality. You go girl!

Given all the evidence, it’s apparent that the human tongue is a disgusting abomination. It looks like a swollen clitoris after collagen injections. I’m almost certain mother nature was huffing computer duster when she designed it. Combine this filthy organ with mankind’s inability to control itself and you’ve got a recipe for an embarrassing disaster. It’s time that humans, as a whole, admit to themselves how terrible those moist flaps inside their mouths are and remove them en masse. No longer would anyone have to worry about being licked or having their property licked. Plus, I wouldn’t have to hear anyone speak and that would be pretty nifty.

India: Land of Frivolous Suicides

Suicide is like smoking PCP on a roller coaster. It’s your life and your choice, yet other people stick their noses in and offer unsolicited advice. If I wanted their opinions, I’d kill enough brain cells to think like them. Other people don’t know they’re the reason suicide is such a tempting alternative to living. 

As much as I don’t like people, I do enjoy using them for my entertainment. I don’t want to commit suicide, but if I did, I’d make it as memorable as possible. I’d rent four horses and take them to Knott’s Berry Farm. Once the steeds are fed a sufficient amount of amphetamines, I’d shove hooks into my flesh and chain them to the horses. Then I’d whip the foals in different directions, ripping my flesh off in the process. I’d sing and dance, delighting young and old alike with my skinless antics. Eventually, my organs would splatter on Snoopy’s feet and I’d die of massive blood loss. 

I understand why some people kill themselves. They’ve lived half their life, or more, and nothing has improved. In fact, everything gets worse everyday. Sounds become louder and more invasive. Their sense of taste is dulled to a faded layer of metallic film. Only their sense of smell gets stronger. Everything reeks of sweating bodies and rotting food. It enters their nostrils and destroys their brain. Everyone they meet is ugly, boring and they always have some passive-aggressive agenda. Every relationship is a nightmare. Every attempt at human contact is a failure. Nothing ever works out. Each day they slide further into poverty and isolation. Their minds have halted because trying is no longer worth the effort. Every sensation feels like it’s been smeared with novocain. Every muscle is nearly dead from atrophy. When there’s no point, there’s nothing worth hanging onto. 

Or maybe they commit suicide because dad wouldn’t let them take the bike out.  

This was the case of Jayant in Bangalore. He and his friends were all set to go to Wonder-la for a day of pubescent theme-park tomfoolery. Jayant’s dad, being a big, unreasonable meanie, told Jayant that he couldn’t take the two-wheeler out. Instead, he advised his son to take the bus to Wonder-la. Devastated by the injustice of such parental abuse, Jayant huffed and puffed and lynched himself from the ceiling fan. The real tragedy in this story is that he didn’t turn the fan on before croaking. If only he could’ve been discovered circling in midair. That would’ve made a great gif!

For some reason, India has a lot of frivolous suicides. Jayant’s case isn’t unique. In fact, it’s not even one in a few. It’s known that India has some of the world’s highest suicides rates, especially among teenagers. What’s not recognized is that many cases of self-annihilation in India are caused by minor inconveniences. When looking through world news, I’ll often see a story about a young Indian girl who hangs herself because she can’t by new clothes or because her dad told her not to watch TV. Sometimes, I’ll see a more interesting story, like the Indian guy who set himself on fire because of an argument he had with his wife over food preparation. The one thing these stories have in common is that they’re all caused by trivial events. 

At their worst, these cases represent unchecked sensitivity, entitlement and stupidity. Before anyone says it’s cheap and easy to make fun of someone who’s dead when they can’t defend themselves, I’d like to add that it’s also rewarding. I don’t have to hear their idiotic rebuttals, which makes it the perfect argument.

To be fair, India isn’t the only country with frivolous suicides. They just seem to have a lot more of them. Before proceeding with a buffet of featherbrained, dot-headed suicides, let’s take a brief look at vapid acts of self-destruction in other countries. 

England - Vanity Suicides

In 2013 a woman named Frances suffered from emotional turmoil so extreme that she hung herself. Her body was found eighty miles from town in the woods. So what set her off? A bad hair day, that’s what. Frances was convinced her hair was turning ginger. At least she didn’t live to see her face turn blue.

In 2013, Danny tried to off himself when he couldn’t take a perfect selfie. He spent his days at home, taking up to two hundred selfies a day. When he realized his fanatical dream of an idealized selfie was unattainable, he attempted to OD. His mom saved him, which means he failed at two things that day.  

United States - Partisan Suicides

In 2004 Mr. Veal, a philandering, liberal vegetarian, blew his head off at Ground Zero with a shotgun. He was so distraught over the reelection of G.W. Bushwhack that he drove to New York from Georgia and killed himself. That’s a lot of work and emotion to dish out for a mentally-challenged male cheerleader for shadowy world powers. 

In 2012 a gay, conservative tanning-salon owner in Florida killed himself because B.O. Barackus was reelected to the office of exalted figurehead. Hamilton intentionally overdosed on Xanax and Seroquel. He scrolled the message “Do not revive! Fuck Obama!” on his will. I wonder if it would’ve eased Hamilton’s anxiety to know that Obama is George W. Bush in blackface. 

Kenya - Soccer Suicides

In 2013 a man in Kenya jumped from the seventh story his apartment complex after his favorite soccer team lost a game. John Macharia, not realizing how boring of a sport soccer is, decided it was worth killing himself over. This wasn’t the fist soccer suicide in Nairobi. Another fan hung himself in 2009 when his favorite team lost. After the 2013 incident, Nairobi’s County Police Commander actually had to go on record and state that fans should not kill themselves over soccer matches. 

We’ve now established that India isn’t the only country with citizens attempting suicide over frivolous nonsense. They just have more of them. I can’t say if it’s the long hours of working tech support or being denied cheeseburgers that prods them into trivial suicides. Maybe it’s just the way their four-armed god fashioned them. Either way, they seem to have a low tolerance for life. In all fairness, if I thought I was coming back to live multiple lives, I’d probably kill myself just to get on with the show.

For Aditya in Sriramanagar, the show wasn’t permitted to go on. He had a song in his heart and a burning desire to belt it out, however, it was not meant to be. In 2011, the 21-year-old college student’s parents banned him from singing at a concert. If one can’t sing, it stands to reason that life is no longer worth living. Aditya went to his room and hung himself. He probably wouldn’t have made a good singer anyways. Good musicians don’t listen to their parents. 

Parents always try to ban everything. It’s like they want their kids to commit suicide. Just ask Aishwarya from Parbhani. Actually, you can’t. She’s dead. The 17-year-old knew that life was a waste when her passion was cruelly snatched away from her. Aish’s parents heartlessly banned her from using Facebook. Don’t they know that people need Facebook to escape their sad lives? Don’t they see how people rely on it to fabricate third party validations in the form of “likes”? Of course they don’t, which is why Aish hung herself. It’s unreported how “likes” her suicide got on Facebook.

Another girl from India hung herself in her bedroom because her mother told her to stop using Facebook. Many women and young girls in India kill themselves over Facebook. At first glance, it would seem that Facebook makes people retarded. The fact is, social media prolongs life. Sure, the quality of that life plummets faster than a suicide jumper, but it lasts longer. Who cares about quality? Bed pans, life support and Facebook - that’s what living is all about. 

But it’s not just Facebook. In general, parents are a bunch of killjoys who don’t know how to have a good time. That’s why they never kick down money for booze and drugs. In Delhi, a 22-year-old named Rakesh hung himself because his mother wouldn’t give him money to drink himself into a life-affirming stupor. In Mangalore, an 18-year-old named Sneha hung herself because her parents wouldn’t finance her drug habit. 

These two incidents leave me quite bewildered. Asking your parents for anti-sobriety funds and killing yourself when they refuse? When did it go out of style for addicts to suck dick for their fix?

If anyone could’ve benefited from putting their mouth to work, it was Narsingh. The congress leader from the Agar constituency should’ve realized that the only way to get ahead in politics is to give some head. But no, Nar was denied a poll ticket in the election, which lead him to swallow poison instead. He died in the hospital shortly after. Though he tried to lead in life, I think it’s death that will make him a true inspiration. If every politician followed his example, the world would be a much better place. 

The world would also be a better place if movies would get to the theatre on time. Vishnu could attest to that. Apparently, the four-armed god came to earth in the form of a 20-year-old construction worker. His purpose among mortals was a noble one - watching actor Vijay’s movies right when they hit the big screen. Unfortunately for the creator god turned mortal movie fanatic, the film was delayed screening because some protest group did what protest groups always do, which is whine about dumb shit and irritate anyone who actually tries to do something constructive with their lives. Distraught over not being able to see his favorite actor’s new film, Vishnu went home and hung himself. It was probably easier than having to slit all four of his wrists. 

When it seems the suicides can’t get more frivolous, a man kills himself because a crow sat on his head. Anand, a 23-year-old engineering student, poisoned himself because a crow sat on his head twice in the same day. Instead of celebrating his new flying hat, Anand freaked out and snuffed himself shortly after. As a Hindu, he saw the crow as a bad omen. Hindus believe that crows house the souls of people who’ve committed suicide. If an ominous, soul-imprisoning crow scares you, the most logical course of action is to commit suicide and become crow food. 

I’m not one of those life-affirming boners who goes around saying “Life is precious.” That’s because life isn’t precious for everyone. Some people have good reasons for committing suicide. And for the record, suicide is not “the coward’s way out.” There’s nothing cowardly about leaving behind familiarity to enter the unknown. However, if you do plan on ditching life, it may be worthwhile to have a good reason for it.

Or at least go out with some dignity. 

If someone killed themselves simply because they were bored with life, there would be nothing to make fun of, as long as they remained calm and composed during the process. Getting hysterical and offing yourself because you didn’t like dinner will ensure your last moments are reduced to a punchline. One would think this would be self-evident, but it obviously isn’t. For whatever reason, suicides inspired by triviality are on the rise in India. Maybe this pattern will peak hard enough to issue a decline. Or maybe its volume will spread to other countries. I’m not sure. What I do know is that if this trend continues, every suicide in India will be accompanied with a blooper reel and laugh track.

Pickled Hate

There it is: the tastiest cheeseburger I’ve ever seen. 

The buns are softer than a fluffed velvet cloud. Juice tears down the flame-broiled meat without making the bread soggy. The cheese is slightly melted, creating a row of golden streaks down the side. My teeth itch with anticipation of the first bite. It’s really going to happen - a pure moment of delicious ecstasy. Life doesn’t seem like such a sad joke anymore. The world may not be as shitty as I once thought. Maybe there is hope. 

No! Fuck no! Why? Why?!!!!

My world is shattered. Tentacled UFO overlords have defecated on my existence. This is a conspiracy, a goddamn conspiracy! Someone is trying to destroy me. If I wasn’t retching guts through my throat, I’d find the perpetrator and give them a fork facial. My body’s convulsions won’t allow me to move forward. Here I am, immobile and hoping to regain strength. I’m not sure I’ll recover. Someone wants me dead. Maybe it was that albino panhandler squatting next to the parlor palms. Whoever it was, one thing is clear - someone is out to get me. 

Someone put pickles in my cheeseburger. 

We have robot vacuums, yet we still allow pickles to exist. Why? Is there a reason behind putting cucumbers in brine and waiting for them to morph into goblin intestines? What’s the advantage? Can’t we just paint turds green? Wouldn’t that accomplish the same thing?

Those are rhetorical questions. I don’t need answers. I need pickles outlawed, now and forever. Ordinarily, I would never suggest banning something, but as much as I like dismissing rules, I also enjoy imposing my whims on anyone weak enough to let another person dictate their life. I hate pickles and so do you. Don’t try to argue, that’s just the way it is. 

Before anyone says it - no, I can’t just remove pickles from a cheeseburger. Nobody can. Pickle juice contaminates food and makes it inedible. I’m now forced to throw my hamburger in the garbage and set fire to the trash can. I wouldn’t give the tainted burger away, no matter how hungry someone is. Why would I subject a starving person to the horrors of a pickle-stained hamburger? Haven’t they suffered enough?

A pickle looks like the Jolly Green Giant’s dick after a herpes outbreak. It’s slimy, green and bumpy. Why would anyone want to eat it? Putting something like that in your mouth won’t make your father love you. In fact, no one will love you. Don’t put it in your mouth. Nothing good will come from it. 

Pickles smell like octopus shit boiled in liquid asparagus. I’ve cleaned public bathrooms. I’ve shoveled animal excrement at the zoo. I’ve been less than an inch from maggots feasting on rotten dog food. Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the sour rank of pickles. Whenever tar fumes from road construction seep through my apartment window, I think, “This is giving me a headache! It smells awful, but it’s still not as bad as pickles.” If a pickle eater tried to talk to me, I’d vomit in their face to show them how bad their pickle breath stinks. On the other hand, they like pickles, so they’d probably like the smell of puke. 

Whenever I hear about someone giving a rimjob, I know that they’ve eaten pickles. If someone can tolerate eating a pickle, they can handle asshole nibbling. For all we know, they’re tongue diving the shit chute to get the taste of pickles out of their mouth. Like all other food, pickles are sometimes deep fried. Nothing can cover the sour taste of squishy vegetable muck. Alchemy is dead. You can’t deep fry feces into gold.

If the Vlasic Pickle Stork flew over my apartment, I’d shoot first and not ask questions later. Who does that feathered pickle pusher think he is? Why can’t he get sucked into the blades of a ghetto bird? I don’t want a brine-drowned vegetable corpse in my home. And what’s the deal with storks anyways? Whether it’s babies or pickles, they’re always trying to dump unwanted burdens on your doorstep. Storks should do the world a favor and go extinct. 

There are some people who like pickles. There are also people who approve of sex slaves and psychic hotlines. Coincidence? Don’t kid yourself. Pickle lovers are racist, child-murdering Communists who worship the devil and steal social security checks from the elderly. I don’t have any evidence to back this up, but there’s no evidence proving they aren’t child-killing commie thieves who praise Satan and hate the idea of a multi-colored bowling party. That’s enough evidence for me. Fuck those pickle-loving weirdos.

Do you want these undesirables trolling for your children? That’s right, think of the children. Think of them so I can manipulate your weak emotions and take advantage of your unusual child fetish. Bringing up the safety of children, whether relevant or not, is always a sure way to blindside rubes into falling in line. With all that said, do you want these picklers corrupting your kids? Think about that and nothing else. Now think about how much you hate pickles. Good job!

What’s to be done? Legislative action, that’s what. My personal hatred of pickles must be imposed on everyone. It’s for the good of the nation. Fermenting a cucumber is the worst thing a person can do. Worse than the Holocaust? Worse than the Rwanda Genocide? Worse than the Crusades? Well, none of those events ever fucked up my cheeseburger, so yes, a thousand times worse. 

We need comprehensive pickle control. Did you know that anyone, regardless of mental health or criminal history, can walk into a store and buy pickles? There are parents all over the country who keep pickles in their home and don’t lock them away in a secure place. Their kids can get into them at any time. This is madness! Where’s the sanity? 

We all hate pickles. Some people like them, but they’re not really people, so they don’t count. Let’s treat them like the scum they are. Let’s annex Trinidad. Once the island is cleared, we’ll fill it with cannibals and giant spiders. Anyone caught making, eating or licking a pickle will be banished to Trinidad for life. The cannibals can send us progress reports by pickling leftover body parts in jars and throwing them in the ocean. I’m sure they’d wash up on our shores eventually. If not, who cares? They’re just pickle eaters. Does it really matter what happens to them? 

The war on pickles must start today. Why are drugs outlawed when pickles infest our streets? Drugs are just a cheap way to go on vacation without leaving your couch. Pickles offend all senses. Nothing useful has ever come from a pickle. Whether gherkin, brine, dill or lime, they all taste like a swamp witch’s abortion. I can understand self-hatred and masochism, but I can’t understand willingly consuming a pickle. There’s no need for it. Flog yourself if you must. Burn yourself if you feel like you have to. Hire a prostitute to piss and spit on you if you feel like you deserve it. But eating a pickle? That’s just unnecessary. 

Put the pickle down and walk away. It’s not worth it. Winners don’t eat pickles. Be above the influence of brine.

Smack to the Future

Do you hate the world? I know I do. 

Despite this sentiment, it’s difficult to hate waterfalls and koala bears. Difficult, but not impossible. It’s easy to hate other people. Humans make obnoxious noises with their mouths. They ennoble their prejudices and whistle through their nostrils. Whenever I see someone who’s about to speak, I instantly hum a song in my head. What’s the point of hearing their burble? Their conversations are nothing more than squabbles between shit-flinging faction followers. These people are under the impression that they matter. Someone should tell them they’ll be dead and future generations won’t give a fuck about their stance on gay marriage. Of course, that person would be talking, so they’d be just as culpable. 

Obviously, I’m not too fond of people in the present. I receive more mental stimulation from watching a used condom float across a puddle than I do from a lively debate between identical rivals. But it’s not just the present. People from the past are annoying too. Maybe not as annoying as people now, but that’s only because I don’t have to be around them. I refuse to appreciate the past or any of its accomplishments. Everything they did led to our current world of interdependent realities and technological fascism. Way to go fogies!

Unfortunately, I can’t go back in time and ruin these people’s lives. Sure, flapping your arms and wearing a helmet made of forks during an lightning storm might transport you to ancient Rome, but who knows if you’ll ever make it back. Vomit covered orgies may sound fun, but puke and genital juices dry in the sun. The last thing a person wants is to spend the rest of their life as a crusty servant to a tyrant in drag who fucks as many holes as his dagger creates. And for all their excess, the Romans didn’t have bacon-stuffed bacon burgers or adult baby regression fetishists. I laugh derisively at their concept of decadence. 

Going back in time and attacking histories greatest figures with thumb tacks and lit matches would warm my heart, but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. What a shame. I was hoping to bomb Woodstock with tear gas and antibacterial soap. However, as I look at the modern world I see hordes of tongue-clicking fad followers who deserve nothing short of complete degradation. That’s not to say that people didn’t suck in the past. If you don’t think the past was full of null-minded simpletons, you must be stupider than boiled ice cream. The Puritans and Bill Saluga will prove you wrong every time. And yet, in spite of the religious idiocy and unfunny comedy of yesteryear, I find the people of today to be infinitely more humorless, boring and narcissistic than anyone in the past. 

People, like all things in nature, are subject to entropy. As time moves forward, we can count on people being even lamer in the future than they are now. As difficult as it may be to believe, the future will be populated by inhabitants who’re dumber and more annoying than social justice warriors. If this is to be the future, which I’m positive it will be, I have no choice but to work towards its destruction. I may only be one person, but I can huff spores and convince myself I’m many people, so my quest may not be so useless after all. 

The first thought that comes to my mind is ruining the environment. I’ll carry salt on me at all times. Most of the places I go are covered in asphalt and pavement, but I do occasionally spot patches of dirt with what could be vegetation. I’ll make it my mission to cover all exposed earth in Los Angeles county with salt. Not only will I cover it, but I’ll mix it into the soil throughly, ensuring the destruction of plant life in various plots of dirt all over the city. Hopefully, I’ll eventually travel to exotic new locations, salting their soil and spreading desiccated surfaces wherever I go. 

While the salt robs plants of moisture, I can rob the world of water by wasting it as much as possible. A distant future of rationed water may suck for future citizens, but I’ve already reassured myself that I hate them. Three hour showers are in my immediate future. Whenever I see a faucet, I’ll be sure to turn it on at full power and walk away. Hydrants are another great target. I’ll get a monkey wrench and open the hydrant as harshly as possible to guarantee a stripped threading below. Then I’ll toss the cap in a nearby sewer and skip off to my next adventure.

Bottled water is also a great way to waste Earth’s most important resource. Instead of getting a cheap filtering system for your sink, just buy bottled water everyday. Of course, if you’re like me and can’t afford to waste money on endless containers, you could waste other people’s drinking water. All you have to do is go into a store and prick each plastic flagon with a safety pin. The store will be forced to replenish their inventory, but what they don’t know is that you’ll be back next week to wage war on an hydrated future. 

Not only do I want future generations to feel uncomfortably dry, I’d also like it if they had trouble breathing. A large amount of our planet’s oxygen comes from plants and trees, which I’ve already resolved to salt out of existence. There is, however, the matter of a more prevalent oxygen source. Scientists estimate that half (or more than half according to some) of Earth’s oxygen comes from the ocean. Phytoplankton, like plants on land, use photosynthesis to grow and expel oxygen in the process. Obviously, phytoplankton must be destroyed. I’ll do my part to fuel their extinction. 

Acidic properties lower PH levels in ocean water and threaten phytoplankton. This reaction is caused by carbon dioxide emissions that dissolve in the sea. I intend to start having a bonfire once a week by the pier. I’ll steal gas from people’s cars, forcing them to buy more gas and create more CO2 emissions. Then I’ll pour it on a pile of coal. I’ll keep the fire burning throughout the night by drenching it in hairspray every fifteen minutes. Just for fun, I’ll pour gallons of shampoo off the pier. That won’t kill the phytoplankton, but I like the idea of bubbles ascending from the ocean waves as I blacken poisonous dioxide hot dogs for hungry seagulls.

And yet, despite my desire to snowball my carbon footprint into a carbon canyon, I feel like my efforts may be pointless. There’s an online carbon calculator that tallies your CO2 output. After consulting a form of pseudoscience that only the internet can provide, I was dismayed to discover I only produce 15 tons of CO2 per year. That may sound like a lot, but according to the same calculator, the average US citizen produces 27 tons of CO2 annually, which makes me feel quite inadequate. My CO2 levels will never be as big as theirs. I’ll continue to do what I can to destroy the world, but I’m only one person (except on multiple-personality Mondays). 

There is one way I could create a larger output of CO2, but I’m not willing to do it. I may care about defiling the world, but not enough to defile myself. The method I’m alluding to is too disgusting and tedious to consider. Obviously, I’m talking about having children. More people means more CO2 emissions, meaning that anyone with kids hates the environment as much as I do, if not more. The fact that I have something in common with parents sickens me. I’m going to need another three hour shower of power. 

My anti-environmental practices may seem like a fruitless endeavor, but there are other ways to fuck over the future. Eliminating anything interesting or entertaining would make the future bleak. Luckily, this is already being done for me. 

Whenever I go online or watch TV I see only talentless birth blemishes on fame’s gilded pedestal. The collective media focal point for frivolous obsessions is packed with comedians that aren’t funny, musicians that duplicate formulaic songs and overpaid line readers that call themselves actors. Anyone with a hint of talent or an original idea will drown in obscurity. The upside is that after generations of fixating on prepackaged idols, people may devolve to a point where drowning in a bowl of cereal becomes the most common way to die. 

Even though humanity is continually nudging itself towards complete idiocy, I don’t think it’s happening fast enough. I will make it my personal mission to spread ignorance and stupidity throughout the world. Even though I already do that by writing articles with no socially redeeming value, I think there’s more I can do to dehumidify the already evaporating craniums of my fellow humans. 

For instance, I can start spreading rumors. Feeding distorted truths and outright lies to people will help populate the future with open-mouthed morons living in a fake reality. Since most people are too dumb to question anything, I’m positive this will work. Whenever I’ve tried to get someone to analyze a lie they’ve been told, I’ve always been met with the default response that accompanies defensive gullibility: 

“Why would they lie?”

Because they can. They lie because people like you will nod your head, store the lie away and use it at a party to impress some drunk cunt. If someone can get away with something, more times than not, they’re going to do it. Liars have a distinct advantage in our world: they know most people will believe their fabrications. The few that don’t accept the lie will be branded as paranoid rubes wearing tin-foil hats, so nothing they say will make a difference. 

If I told a hundred people that the president saved a dying child from rectal cancer by donating a chunk of his anus, I’m sure at least half of them would believe it. I’d back up my story by saying his oncoming bowel movements (which are urgent at this point) are the reason he stumbles and mumbles during speeches. A few people would say they thought it was because the teleprompters were on the fritz and that the exalted puppet was floundering without his prewritten personality. I’d laugh and patronize their inability to passively accept my lies, even though I know what they’re saying is true. People are trembling milksops when it comes to ridicule. After a few detractors are ostracized, the misinformation spreads and in a hundred years the mindless gerbils of tomorrow will remember the president as the man who struggled to keep it all in. 

Most people will deny being gullible by nature. The ones that do admit it will try to compensate with the internet. Like a strap-on dildo, the internet functions as an artificial organ. The unintelligent have a surrogate brain they can call on to determine their world for them.

“We live in the information age,” they’ll say, “Any lie can be disproven at the click of a button.”

People’s blind faith in technology is proof that God has left the sky and now resides in a glowing screen. Since technology is created and used by humans, wouldn’t it be flawed like humans? For instance, it’s still widely believed that the internet is used for information. Did you know that many people think the Huffington Post is a legitimate source for news? They actually believe that articles from the gaping Huffhole are researched, edited, fact-checked and proofread before publication. Granted, there are still people who believe the Salem witches were burned, so I’m not surprised that poorly-written, biased news sites are accepted as valid news sources.

A few years ago a “study” came out stating that Internet Explorer users have a lower IQ than people who use other browsers. Despite the fact that the original posting site was only a month old and filled with images from a non-related French research company, HuffSlow, along with other news outlets, ran with the story. The difference between shit-Huffers and other online subscribers is that a few readers from other sites questioned the story’s authenticity while HuffPo’s snark-vomiting commenters embraced the story and declared all of their perceived enemies to be IE users. Even though the article was eventually updated and recognized as a hoax (due to reports from the BBC), I’m sure there are still people who believe a preference for a product somehow determines a person’s intelligence. 

If I can do my part to aid in humanity’s decline I’ll feel like my life has had some meaning. If I can be a jerk to a total stranger for no reason, maybe they’ll pay that negativity forward. Maybe that negativity will travel through the ages and cause future generations to suffer. When I look at annoying clumps of wasted DNA in the present, I’m disappointed to think that nobody from the past did anything to prevent their existence, which makes people from bygone eras assholes. 

Mankind’s slide into oblivion is the only outcome that seems probable, so why delay it? Recycling and driving hybrid cars doesn’t mean anything when you produce more resource-suckling offspring. Educating people is worthless if they never learn to question their indoctrinators. At this point it’s almost as though people are biologically predestined to be walking embarrassments. If there ever was a hope for the world, it ceased to be long ago. Let’s destroy the future and ensure this sad joke can’t continue. It’s not like the future would be worthwhile; it’d be full of people. Who wants that?

Telepathic Crime Spree

I’m not telepathic. I wish I was, but regardless of how many how many midgets I kidnap and dress up as leprechauns, life simply isn’t made of wishes. If I did have telepathic powers, I’d beam auditory transmissions of howler monkeys vomiting through megaphones to everyone I come in contact with. Why? Just to fuck up their day. What better use of a psychic ability could there be than to spoil everyone’s good time? I suppose telepathic powers could get me a talk show, but then I’d have to wear lavender suits and pretend to care about people’s problems. 

There are people who claim to be telepathic. Since I’m not inside the sand dunes that comprise their minds, I can’t say with confidence that they’re lying, though I assume they are when they act like normal, caring people. Powers like reading minds and sending brain messages would only be used for tomfoolery. Have you seen the people walking around outside? If they can’t use minimal brain functions to create a semi-dignified existence, wouldn’t extra abilities only exacerbate their ridiculous tendencies? The upright reptiles in front of CVS would use telepathy as an excuse to steal a truck and turn the parking lot into a zoo, and we know what kind of people go to the zoo.  

Lawrence from Rockford was headed to the zoo, looking for boys to help him explore his animal instincts, when psychic intervention halted his quest to the Neverland animal prison. Justin Bieber, the world’s most obnoxious penis mitten, telepathically instructed Lawrence to try his luck at the local high school instead. The Biequeefer’s mental voicemail paid off. Lawrence, to his finger-slithering delight, happened upon a boy’s swim meet. Riverside police found him mentoring his inner child in the bleachers. He told the officers he was there to watch his own kids, which probably raised more questions because of the trauma salami in his hand. Lawrence was charged with one count of disorderly conduct and one count of criminal trespass. Justin Bieber could not be reached for comment, but I doubt the testimony of a waxed muppet prostitute would hold up in court. 

The pool boy incident highlights a glaring problem within the realm of telepathy. Unreliability should be expected from most, if not all, people. Bieber telepathically nudged Lawrence to fondle himself to swimming schoolboys, so why didn’t that wiggling jizz casserole have the courtesy to transmit a mental memo warning Lawrence of the impending police cock block? Because Justin Bieber doesn’t care about his fans, that’s why. Though middle-aged pedophiles adore the manufactured blowup doll from the mythical land of Canada, Justin Bieber doesn’t give them even a fraction of the consideration they shoot into their sweatpants for him. Just because a talentless pop stain (or anyone else) gives you a telepathic command, doesn’t mean you should trust them. They’ll bail on you the moment cops arrive, leaving you in the back of a police car as they skip off to their next televised embarrassment. 

Daniel from Maple Grove should learn this life lesson. He was smoking pot and minding his own thoughts when he received a telepathic message from someone urging him to destroy their apartment. The sender of the message told Daniel to come over and break all their stuff, which only sounds unusual to people who can’t hate inanimate objects. Daniel, being of a helpful nature, finished his bowl and went to the apartment. A woman said she saw Daniel jump from the balcony of one apartment to another before smashing through the sliding glass door of his desired location. The apartment was vacant. I’m sure Daniel assumed the occupant was out buying sledgehammers and chainsaws for the long work ahead of them. Daniel, showing the highest levels of gumption, began work early, breaking everything in the apartment and tossing the wreckage through shattered door. 

One would think that such a prompt response and dedicated work ethic would result in gratitude, but no. People are ingrates. The apartment’s resident told police that he didn’t give Daniel permission to enter his abode, leaving Daniel holding the telepathic bag. Daniel was charged with second degree burglary because of this person’s wishy-washy nature. If only Daniel knew not to trust people, he wouldn’t have been punished for his humanitarian efforts. Obviously, telepathic people are predatory by nature. Sometimes they take your freedom and credibility, but sometimes they cross that invisible moral line and usurp something more dear to you than any ideal - your money. 

A telepathic couple in Vietnam advertised their ability to telepathically locate lost war casualties and scammed families out of thousands. Nguyen and his wife, Man, charged people around $4,700.00 each for locating a total of 105 graves filled with deceased war pulp. The graves were filled with animal bones that Nyguyen and Man would bury before “locating.” I can’t say whether it was grief, stupidity or a combination of both that led people to believe the remains were human, but I do know that greed would be the downfall of Nguyen and his Man-wife. Nguyen began working with the state-run Vietnam Bank for Social Policies, assisting them in locating missing soldiers presumed dead. Since government, in every form, is the biggest scam of all, Nguyen found out the hard way that you can’t scam a bigger scammer when he and his lovely Man were taken into custody. 

This story of animal carcasses and family reunions may lead one to believe that all telepaths are lazy and conniving, but I think the case of Rockefeller would prove otherwise. Clark Rockefeller, a German man, abducted his seven-year-old daughter, known to her family as “Snooks,” in Boston. During a supervised visit, Rockefeller knocked down a social worker, bundled his little Snooks and drove away with her. Snooks was found six days later and returned to her mother, Ms. Boss. Rockefeller claimed that Snooks was sending him telepathic messages, urging him to take her away from the Boss. Rockefeller, unlike the Vietnamese necro-matchmakers, was not lazy. The prosecutors stated that he had spent months meticulously planning the abduction, proving how little one can accomplish with enough effort. 

To further illustrate how much the telepathically inclined help the world, consider Mark from Parkersburg. Everyone in town thought Ed Thomas, the high school football coach, was a normal guy. Mark knew better. Mark knew that Thomas was Satan in disguise. I can believe that Satan would come to Earth in the form of a high school football coach. Any grown man who wears shorts, blows a whistle and is content with bossing around teenagers must be an affront to God. Mark stated that Ed “Big Red” Thomas raped him and brainwashed him through telepathy. Thinking only of other people’s safety, Mark stole a gun from his parents and murdered the devil. The bible, written by schizophrenic desert wanderers, says many things that overlap and contradict one another, so it wouldn’t be surprising to find a passage saying that Satan could be vanquished with an earthly firearm. 

Unfortunately for Mark, our justice system is run by godless heathens who don’t appreciate someone ridding the world of evil. Mark was arrested and charged with first degree murder. This leads to the question of how much telepathic abuse someone can suffer before putting a bullet through their tormentor. Could a steady stream of telepathy be enough to make someone famished for murder? Since people kill one another for doltish reasons everyday, I think the question is easily answered, but if we need more proof we can always turn to Ireland. 

Martin from Thurles committed the rare crime of parricide when he stabbed both of his parents in their sleep. I assume he shanked them with a sharpened shillelagh. According to his statement, everyday became a battleground. He received an endless amount of telepathic messages. At the time, he thought his parents were bad, but he later told the court that his parents were decent people, leading one to believe that his telepathic communications had at least waned during the trial. And why not? Even intangible head voices don’t want to waste their day in court when they can drink and look for pots of gold.

Telepathic stabbings seem to be common on the other side of the Atlantic. In England, a country filled with snooty placenta suckers and nouns that sound made-up on the spot, an eighteen-year-old student in Chorlton (also known as Chorlton-cum-Hardy) was stabbed to death by a man from Bracknell. Imran Hussain said the young man telepathically lobbed racial slurs into his mind. Before the stabbing, Imran took a blade from his parents home and travelled to Chorlton, laying waste to his claims of diminished responsibility. The fact that Imran cleaned the blade and changed his clothes after the attack didn’t help his claim of insanity either, but for all we know those actions could have been commanded by different telepathic communications. At least now when someone tells you you’re being racist you can look them in the eye and confidently tell them it’s all in their head. 

Despite the abundance of telepathically-controlled criminals, telepathic influences don’t always lead people to commit violence. Sometimes, brainwave dispatches alone can victimize someone. Meloney from Utah claimed that she was telepathically raped by her neighbor on several occasions. Those wacky women are always crying telepathic rape. Even though Meloney looks like the illegitimate offspring of a sock puppet who got hate fucked by a frog, she believes her neighbor had to have her swampy brainhole. She comes from the land of magic underwear and golden plates, so it’s not hard to see why she would believe such a thing or how she could persuade her husband to believe it. After convincing Michael, her husband, that such mental violations had occurred, he took a handgun they kept under their pillow and shot the neighbor twice in the back. The neighbor lived, cursing Utah’s population to be mind raped by someone who doesn’t call himself a prophet.

I’m left to wonder what constitutes a telepathic rape. Is it merely the projection of non-consensual images or does the mind actually have to be penetrated by fuzzy brain rays? Obviously, this is a serious and complex problem that demands our immediate attention. Whatever pyramid schemes the government is currently developing should be put on hold while we deal with this issue. Who’s to say someone won’t project lewd thoughts into your brain at the library? Safety from telepathic rape can only be achieved through legislation. 

It seems that in a world of telepathic criminals, average people are helpless. We’ve seen solutions to this menace fail in the past. Tin foil hats, for instance, do not block telepathic mind beams as advertised. Everyone knows that heat makes metal expand and telepathic brain waves are about as warm as the defrost option on a microwave. Naturally, the tin foil hats expand when exposed to telepathy, leaving creases and openings for the telepathic waves to seep through. This is simple physics. I’m pretty sure they review this topic in high school science classes. Even though I always went to class stoned I remember it perfectly. The only reason this isn’t advertised is because it would bankrupt the economy by putting the tin foil industry out of business. 

As with all problems, the solution comes from within. Conflict is the fuel of the universe. Telepathic criminals need to see that their influence has results. These results are initiated by actions. The only way to prevent action is a firm resolve towards inaction. The next time your brain is under siege by suggestions or vulgarities from telepathic sadists, send your own transmission. Of course, not any transmission will do. The message your brain needs to repeat to your would-be attacker must be one that will make them see the uselessness of their endeavor. Based on what I’ve seen from the comments sections of online articles, the best method would be to endlessly repeat your stupid political opinions. The telepathic attacker will instantly grow bored and flee for more interesting horizons. I know I would.

Trigger Warning: Your Feelings Are Stupid

When phrases like “trigger warning” emerge, historians should mark the occasion as a new chapter in mankind’s continuing slide towards becoming a cluster of frightened gerbils. Trigger warnings have been popping up on what nettlesome hollow-domes refer to as the “interweb” for years, but I live most of my life offline, so I’ve only just heard of them. Trigger warnings (often abbreviated as “TW”) are short descriptions of triggering subjects placed after the article’s header and before the body. They give away the content, proving once again that spontaneity is something that should be abhorred. It’s done in the name of empathy, which doesn’t make sense. Empathy is a tumor on the brain’s prefrontal cortex. Why would anyone dedicate anything but a scalpel to it? 

I can see why the bland and stupid alike delight in trigger warnings. Like other precautions, they take the guesswork out of life. Unpredictable events are scary and confusing. How can a person be expected to anticipate a cup of coffee being hot, a shiny floor being slippery or some things on the internet not being agreeable with their sensibilities? It’s not as though they can control what they type into a search engine or anticipate the content of an article based it’s title. Predicting imminent subjects brought on by their own typing? People aren’t psychic. Most of them can’t even figure out how to use a self-checkout lane at the grocery store. 

Feminism is the radical notion that women can silence detractors by shouting over them. Along with asinine compound words such as “(insert noun or adjective) shaming” and “(insert noun or adjective) privilege,” trigger warnings were nuggets of cerebral mildew thrust onto the internet by feminist bloggers. When I looked up trigger warnings, the first site I found was geekfeminism.wikia.com. The “wikia” part of the web address made me take pause, as I knew the most noxious levels of ineptitude were sure to follow. I pressed on regardless, willingly subjecting my mind to the theoretical slop trough that is feminist writing. When I read the following sentence, I was triggered with fantasies of mass genocide:

“The phrase ‘trigger warning’ may itself be triggering to some trauma survivors.”

That’s right - trigger warnings may, in and of themselves, inspire triggers in trauma survivors. According to this mutilated logic, the courtesy warning is a potential linguistic predator raping a reader’s cognitive wellbeing, but it’s put into place anyways because, um....patriarchy! That’s why! Of course, actual results are of no concern to the “equality” broadcasters. What matters is committing oneself to empty gestures that, while never accomplishing anything of substance, will lead the rest of the femitwits and social justice Tumblr-tards to nod their barren heads in collective approval. Sensitivity is the trend of today. Forget writing about something intelligent, funny or interesting. If you can muster up enough outrage over life’s frivolous details you get to hang with the internet’s cool kids. 

Trigger warnings don’t help trauma survivors because anything can be a trigger, even the word “trigger.” For instance, if someone was nearly raped around a bunch of greeting cards, wouldn’t they freak out every time they pass a Hallmark store? I don’t see anyone putting trigger warnings on greeting cards. Apparently, our insensitive world doesn’t care about these victims. Maybe it’s too bothersome to fit a warning next to a flying half-naked baby mass-murdering people with arrows. Warning or no warning, I’m pretty sure the triggered trauma pile would slip into hysterics during the holidays. 

One of the defining staples of feminism and online social justice egalitarians is that they’re always wrong. Given this objective and completely non-biased truth, it comes as no surprise that the best way to help people with PTSD is by doing the exact opposite of using trigger warnings. Prolonged Exposure (PE) Therapy, if you can’t guess from its name, exposes a patient to triggering stimuli over a prolonged period of time. Numerous studies have proven that PE has the most empirical support in the treatment of trauma patients. By being consistently exposed to their trauma, the patient is, overtime, desensitized and the effects of their PTSD are reduced. Trigger warnings, on the other hand, encourage avoidance coping each time they’re used. The act of avoiding creates stress and anxiety, not to mention a sheltered life. This anxiety only gets worse with time, leading one to fly into a frenzy over the most trifling of circumstances. 

At this point I’m sure trigger warning advocates would say something akin to: 

“Yeah, well, whatever! It’s not like trigger warnings are being forced on anyone. Patriarchy!”

Oh, how wrong they are. 

UC Santa Barbara’s student senate recently proved why democracy doesn’t work. The “senators” passed a resolution requiring professors to issue trigger warnings for material that may prompt negative vibes in a fragile mind. Naturally, colleges are meant to cater to the weakest of intellects. Sitting in a stew of sentiment-drizzled bile is a provision stating that students who opt out of attending class for the day, because they’re so traumatized by words and pictures, will not be docked points. I’m sure no one will abuse that entitlement. 

This isn’t an isolated incident. Students who haven’t been thrust into the dying workforce and don’t know how lucky they are to attend college have taken to whining about icky topics. The Great Gatsby is so fucking traumatizing. People die and someone commits murder and suicide! OMG! 

Oberlin University published a document stating that their professors should use trigger warnings in the classroom. Apparently, mandating a sphere of abstract safety is what colleges now consider “higher learning.”

Remember when adults used to bitch about how young people were too wild and outrageous? Reality is once again turned inside out. Students are now whining that their stuffy old professors aren’t sensitive enough. This is the one thing about the trigger warning craze I can see something positive in. For years professors have preached the virtues of tolerance and being open-minded. Now they’re forced to tolerate the most imbecilic levels of hypersensitivity an open mind can plop out. Eaten by their own philosophy - hilarious!

Don’t think this will stop with blogs and classrooms. In the spirit of the PMRC, who, in the eighties, successfully pushed to mandate warnings or “Tipper Stickers” on album covers, the trigger warning crowd won’t let up until they get their way. They’ve gathered their numbers and they’re pushing for change. This is known as “mob rule.” Over at Change.org, a website used by busybodies to force their beliefs on others, a petition to put trigger warnings on TV has been underway for some time. I’m pretty sure that TV shows already put content descriptors before a program starts, but they don’t contain the actual words “trigger warning,” so they must not be sensitive enough. In our society of coddlers and do-gooders, I’m sure they’ll eventually succeed in getting trigger warnings placed on TV. I’m also sure these trigger warnings will issue the same bounty of rewards that the PMRC’s “Tipper Stickers” have produced. In other words, none. 

To summarize, the argument for trigger warnings against evidence of their uselessness breaks down in the following cycle:

“Trigger warnings help people with PTSD.”

Ten seconds later....

“Okay, maybe they don’t help people, but it’s not like they’re being forced on anyone.”

Ten seconds later...

“Do what we say you ignorant bigot!”

A question I’ve wasted barrels of time on keeps infesting my mind, especially in cases like this. Why would someone systematically try to control and dictate their own thoughts? What compels a person to self-censor the ideas floating through their noggin? Unless it’s acknowledged, the idea will keep manifesting itself. A man denying his homosexuality will, inevitably, see a phallus in nearly every object he encounters. I’m not sure what the female equivalent would be. Perhaps damp wedges would fill her world. A person denying their feelings of hatred and ugliness will unknowingly act like a cunt to everyone. It’s funny that in this epoch of human history people consider themselves so open-minded and educated, yet they’re still trying to chase away the evil brain demons. 

It makes me wonder how far this fad will go. Stupid ideas, like a virus, don’t take a rest. They consume and ruin anyone and anything foolish enough to accept them. The way I see it playing out is universal trigger warnings for everything. In order to up the ante in their poses for empathetic chic status, the social justice brigade will have to show their dusty predecessors of yesteryear how compassion is really executed - by issuing a trigger warning for all nouns and verbs.

Hence, we will be blessed with trigger warnings whenever a fire-haired jester tries selling happy burgers to kids because somewhere, at some point in time, someone was probably raped by a clown. Treadmills will come with trigger warnings because it’s likely that someone has tried to commit suicide while working out. Don’t snicker, it’s true. A segment of the world’s exercisers have body issues and people with body issues get depressed and people who get depressed sometimes try to kill themselves. So why not put a warning on exercise equipment? What about walking? You better believe the act of walking will come with a trigger warning. People get attacked when they walk all the time. Some people shit their pants while speed walking. Either way, it’s a traumatic experience and they should be encouraged to build walls around those memories. 

Indeed, I don’t think the trigger warning dictators will stop until every conversation begins with “trigger warning.” This is how a typical work discussion will go down:

“Trigger Warning: What I’m about to say may trigger panic attacks in anyone who’s ever experienced work-related stress, paper cuts or sexual assault with rolled up documents.”

“Anyways, did you print out the monthly sales report?”

Response:

“Trigger Warning: What I’m about to say may trigger panic attacks in anyone who’s ever experienced depression due to severe levels of disappointment that have somehow led to sexual assault.”

“Like I was saying, the printer’s still offline. I emailed IT about it twice, but I haven’t heard back. They’re probably out to lunch for the fiftieth time.”

Though it’s reworded and expressed in different terms, the act of telling other people what they want and need has been around since civilization’s birth. As always, it’s practiced by elitist pseudo-intellectuals who consider themselves the world’s only enlightened voices. Unfortunately, most people are too dumb to question anything, especially if it’s a warm, fuzzy sentiment that enforces symbolic gestures and rejects analysis, so they go along with the ridiculously self-serving and obviously flawed empathy wagon, lest they be called a big meanie. In doing so, they make themselves complacent as they look towards condescending warnings that protect them from the horrible act of thinking. 

Why would anyone try to navigate away from negative thoughts? I love negative thoughts. Their ability to destroy the weaker minds of the world titillates my sense of wonderment. And no, I won’t give a warning when I laugh at the wreckage of your former bubbled existence. In all fairness, I will yell “Bombs away!” when I flick dumpster cheese at your tear-stained face. 

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.