She sat on one end of the table, I on the other.
The 3's in her eyes remained, hatching into delicate, mingling colors; hatching mirth, brightening the bitter resin inked by 3's. A luster painted over them, as she wondered gleefully with her fingers, feel the cool glass table.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like?" She asked.
"No." I said, searching my pocket for a cigarette. My mouth watered, listening to the music of an hour glass dribbling its sand, scratching its case.
"It seems like during my time teaching... I've felt like nothing was real. Not even now." She said, her voice resounding the hollow cavity scooped into her chest. Her face a pallid reflection of the lingering life still in her. Her eyes printed little numbers on the white parts, indicating the continuing flow of numerals I'd emptied into her veins.
I pulled a chessboard sitting in the middle of the table toward me to use as an ashtray, the tip of my cigarette charring inside a little flame, smoke gathering into a little plume just below the ceiling, pausing its stream for a moment as I drew back.
Her long, bushy hair teasing the dimples on my mouth, as she unraveled her smile.
I looked at the hour glass again, as our thoughts steeped in the hum, and tick of various household items. The trickle of golden sand shaping into a pointed pile, faded into a white fluffy powder snowing into the lower bulb instead.
I looked back at her, the tip of her nose recoiling in irritation. Her eyes were like folded red ruby's, walking you into hundreds of little doors of dimension, like a wall of honeycomb, or the faces rasped into gemstone. The glimmer of animation mirrored empty meandering streams into you, like the flicker of lightning reflecting a window washed in rain.
Her skin was so white, and so soft.
"I have to write this article. About those kids, about what's going on with them." I said.
"Are you sure?" She asked.
"I'm fairly sure..." I said, suspiciously.
She pondered me with her ghoulish, ghost-white complexion, puppeted by conflicting expressions. Double edged smile... scraping my lips, the piercing chill of her corpse-like hands feeling my bicep. We partook in a ravenous kiss, funneling something vibrant, dead, and cold into my body. The movement of her limbs were so slowed, I felt like time itself had been too. She snuck up my neck, etching grooves into my neck with the ruts dug into her hard lip, as I cracked the hour glass open, snuffing a pinch of cocaine, shuddering as she playfully drunk from the part of skin where my jugular was.
My lids cozily blanketed my eyes, hypnotized by this romantic undead vedana.
"I... I really need to be writing this article..."
"I can't let you do that, Bagels W. McPhag." She said, soothingly.
I sighed, feeling her suck my neck, sensually pacified in a way I've never experienced. It was like this zombified wretch was preventing me from completing the article, and returning to the Fawx News studio.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Actors Advertising Agency
I filed my hand against my scruff, contemplating the weepy morning. Beside me, a notebook scratched by pen, filled with luxurious poems. There was no question that I needed a shower, but I couldn't bring myself to have one. I got up at about 4pm, although I didn't know that until I checked the clock downstairs. Moments before, I was just laying in my bed, my whole body racked by a pendulous desire to write, and give it up. My eyes just moved up and down the ceiling, searching the blankness to find a modicum of inspiration, just to piece together another poem, just to relieve the ache of not having written one. I stared at the ceiling for so long, that the little plaster spikes began to flow into weird shapes. But the more I waited, the more the shadows of the afternoon, or dawn, made me tug my sheets in a sort dreary ambivalence. I wouldn't get up, had I known the time.
What was going on with the world? Sense frayed. Faux naif politicians ejecting congressmen with libel, armed with an artificial moral crusade, belying the actual political disharmony in an internecine state.
It was an image game. Because image is easy to discredit. An easy excuse. Naturally, a lot of emphasis is placed on that.
I've fallen into a sort of intellectual coma. Unable to brave the wilderness of political affairs, threatened by spuming apologists as I directed my insight towards documented, but uncharted land.
Bagels W. McPhag has slowly been pacing downwards, like the droplets on wet cavern walls coursing over ruts. Listening to myself drip... the refreshing plop of things just being let go.
This reporter has sought refuge in a bedroom asylum, drunk from poetry, committing poetic suicide. Rolling up my sleeves, so my cuffs don't wipe away the ink, but smudging it with my palm from time to time. Chastising myself as I scribbled down words, performing a self-exorcism in just sentences, or sometimes paragraphs.
But my intuition never failed me. I parted the blinds, overlooking a mountain of uncleaned dishes, eyes burning in a glaring ray of sunlight. As my vision settled, I looked over the bustling swarm of people, faces melded into the crowd, spirits laded by workload.
In my robe, in my slippers, in my scruff, my face furrowing hit by the brightness, I'd forgotten that as I shambled across the sidewalk, that I did not don any pants. How foolish.
I bursted through the doors of my old school, my smell perverted by the stale aroma wafted by the tiring cream walls. That smell.... like the reignited burn of lipstick on a shaven cheek. In the entrance, big meat hook dug through children, floating away on them into some depository.
"Weeeeee!" One kid said, as he flew by.
I flung the door open, propelling myself through the opening. Row after row, kids slouched over in their desks, hooked up to IV looking units, leaking numerals into them, amounting in the sum of someone, their soft breaths emptied by their comatose stare.
And I took a seat, in my old desk. The teacher, being delectable, developed my massive hard-on. Naturally. This was a little embarrassing as I had no pants on.
The teacher sat in a wooden chair up front, unzipping her skin with a surgical knife, taking out one organ, after another, presenting little known facts about them. I could only assume that this was a biology class.
The cloying animation in her eyes waned, as waves of blood swept up particles on the floor. She began to nod off, becoming more apparent that her body was grew detached from her pith. She gradually unfolded, completely unconscious.
All around me, with scissors and precision blades, they cropped out bits of text from literature, combining them into little messages. The teachers head fell forward, her clothes squishing, dying with blood. They glued these little strips of text over their eyes, reading little morals removed from works by humble authors. When they conversed, their entire script was merely a cut-up of words from books. No word was actually their own. It was like they were actors, involuntarily rehearsing their lines.
I looked up at the teacher. She broke into consciousness, barely moving, but beckoning me over with her skittering fingers.
"H-h-h-help..." She asked.
I had to think on my feet. I milked her arm, feeling for a vein. Sure enough, it pressed against her skin. I yanked an IV cord from some stupid kid, little digits spat onto the ground, and watering her arm as I jammed it in. She sparked to life, in convulsions. Her pupils roiled, finally vanishing, relinquishing to little "3's" that appeared instead.
Her breath reeked of the sterility of alcohol.
"Get me out of here..." She whispered, lunging herself to my ear.
Strangely, I still had a massive hard-on, making this slightly awkward as I carried her out of the building. Still with no pants.
As we stumbled out of the classroom, we were immediately acknowledged by school officials, who hollered in response to my errors.
"What are you doing? She's supposed to die, do you know how hard it is to keep a constant flow of teachers?" They remarked, loading their staplers. I turned around, sprouting my massive boner in plain sight.
"Oh god." They said, completely deterred.
Escaping was rather easy.
What was going on with the world? Sense frayed. Faux naif politicians ejecting congressmen with libel, armed with an artificial moral crusade, belying the actual political disharmony in an internecine state.
It was an image game. Because image is easy to discredit. An easy excuse. Naturally, a lot of emphasis is placed on that.
I've fallen into a sort of intellectual coma. Unable to brave the wilderness of political affairs, threatened by spuming apologists as I directed my insight towards documented, but uncharted land.
Bagels W. McPhag has slowly been pacing downwards, like the droplets on wet cavern walls coursing over ruts. Listening to myself drip... the refreshing plop of things just being let go.
This reporter has sought refuge in a bedroom asylum, drunk from poetry, committing poetic suicide. Rolling up my sleeves, so my cuffs don't wipe away the ink, but smudging it with my palm from time to time. Chastising myself as I scribbled down words, performing a self-exorcism in just sentences, or sometimes paragraphs.
But my intuition never failed me. I parted the blinds, overlooking a mountain of uncleaned dishes, eyes burning in a glaring ray of sunlight. As my vision settled, I looked over the bustling swarm of people, faces melded into the crowd, spirits laded by workload.
In my robe, in my slippers, in my scruff, my face furrowing hit by the brightness, I'd forgotten that as I shambled across the sidewalk, that I did not don any pants. How foolish.
I bursted through the doors of my old school, my smell perverted by the stale aroma wafted by the tiring cream walls. That smell.... like the reignited burn of lipstick on a shaven cheek. In the entrance, big meat hook dug through children, floating away on them into some depository.
"Weeeeee!" One kid said, as he flew by.
I flung the door open, propelling myself through the opening. Row after row, kids slouched over in their desks, hooked up to IV looking units, leaking numerals into them, amounting in the sum of someone, their soft breaths emptied by their comatose stare.
And I took a seat, in my old desk. The teacher, being delectable, developed my massive hard-on. Naturally. This was a little embarrassing as I had no pants on.
The teacher sat in a wooden chair up front, unzipping her skin with a surgical knife, taking out one organ, after another, presenting little known facts about them. I could only assume that this was a biology class.
The cloying animation in her eyes waned, as waves of blood swept up particles on the floor. She began to nod off, becoming more apparent that her body was grew detached from her pith. She gradually unfolded, completely unconscious.
All around me, with scissors and precision blades, they cropped out bits of text from literature, combining them into little messages. The teachers head fell forward, her clothes squishing, dying with blood. They glued these little strips of text over their eyes, reading little morals removed from works by humble authors. When they conversed, their entire script was merely a cut-up of words from books. No word was actually their own. It was like they were actors, involuntarily rehearsing their lines.
I looked up at the teacher. She broke into consciousness, barely moving, but beckoning me over with her skittering fingers.
"H-h-h-help..." She asked.
I had to think on my feet. I milked her arm, feeling for a vein. Sure enough, it pressed against her skin. I yanked an IV cord from some stupid kid, little digits spat onto the ground, and watering her arm as I jammed it in. She sparked to life, in convulsions. Her pupils roiled, finally vanishing, relinquishing to little "3's" that appeared instead.
Her breath reeked of the sterility of alcohol.
"Get me out of here..." She whispered, lunging herself to my ear.
Strangely, I still had a massive hard-on, making this slightly awkward as I carried her out of the building. Still with no pants.
As we stumbled out of the classroom, we were immediately acknowledged by school officials, who hollered in response to my errors.
"What are you doing? She's supposed to die, do you know how hard it is to keep a constant flow of teachers?" They remarked, loading their staplers. I turned around, sprouting my massive boner in plain sight.
"Oh god." They said, completely deterred.
Escaping was rather easy.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Catchy Gay Slogan Results in the Death of Millions
Queers sung en masse early this morning, crowded together in an endless flow through the Pradmore, Canada downtown district streets, the slogan “We’re gay, it’s okay, I do, do, we get paid, we need a say!” erupting well into the cityscape. The origin of this catchy rhyming rhetoric which had infiltrated many ears, but had also raised the ire of many conservatives, and fascist liberals, who have noted that the longer this joyous, and happy combination of words had escaped the “propaganda organs [mouths] of pop endorse and killing of music”, the more the uplifting tone had been reduced to a collective droning.
Against all scrutiny, millions of gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoplesbegan transforming their flamboyant floats, and bedazzled kites, which had appeared to be harmlessly drifting through the breeze alerting citizens of such flashy messages as “Don’t keep the gay at bay!”, into weapons of mass destruction. At roughly 8:30pm, residents on Caldwell Street remarked on the “perhaps nefarious” activities of a group of “fags” tying sticks of dynamite to the wooden structure of their kites. They saw smoke, and notified the police of strange “fffssshhhh” noises they had heard. Mere seconds later, kites equipped with explosives began ramming into buildings, ripping giant holes into them and injuring countless of bystanders with shards and chunks of debris; thousands of deaths wereattributed to the initial explosions tearing through these buildings, and even more to the few subsequent demolitions. At 8:43 PM, as the sound of crumbling concrete and startling booms echoed throughout the city, huge floats with phallic designs began inexplicably firing mortars, resulting in further structural damage of city infrastructure and residential property, along with the dozensof point-blank impacts sending thousands of innocent civilians into flight, shattering their bones, and detonating their vital organs upon contact with the ground. The onslaught continued for another 3 minutes until it was officially announcedvia poor quality megaphone that the terrorist coalition Al-Gayda had beenformed, and immediately announced retaliation for “historical obliviousness ofhomosexuality everywhere”.
Floats, suddenly equipped with SCUD missiles by 8:45PM, were launched into the city, knocking over a chip rack in a near-by convenience store and being speculated as to causing two heart attacks in acommunity for the elderly.
The prime minister solemnly gave his grievances, and members of the UN council noted that the shells of the weapons of mass destruction had been found near the knocked over chip rack, and was undeniable evidence along with the debris of other depleted munitions as having violated a UN convention necessary to become eligible of undertaking the option of intervention. The prime minister of Canada cited this in his speech, saying “These terrorists have no regard for the law, and have been effectively loitering in downtown Prodmore by blowing up buildings and leaving empty mortar, and SCUD missile shells all over the place, and this isn’t the only damage they’ve caused, as they’ve initially caused considerable damage against the environment with their beforehand impact.” Head councilman of the UN followed this up with the committee’s decision. “This is a serious transgression against nature, as it is very hard to get rid of these from the environment. The “No Loitering on UN Property” convention was not taken into regard, and we, the majority, are required by US opinion inthe UN convention we had at 9PM that we take action against this.” A full, hard on military invasion, funded by Germany and France, and bolstered by the military ranks of a dozen countries, most predominately the United States, is planned to usurp the gay pride militarists who threaten to make a foray into Blakmore, neighboring city, due to their “micro-cultural crimes against fashion”, a statement anonymously supplied by a member in this radical, and certainly aggressive movement.
UPDATE: American military intervention is motivated by corporate interest, and religious principle as control of Blakmore, in the hands of gay pride terrorists, would result in the loss of the Dale Chip factory, which is the lead supplier of fresh, crispy chips for The United States America. Stopping them from gaining access to the Dale Chip Factory would be pivotal for continued economic, and religious growth of that grand, and glorious nation of capitalists. Quoting President Obama Binbiden, "Dale Chips has been a symbol of the unending american strive for good chips. The knocking over the rack of chips, unwittingly American owned, by Gay Pride rallyers has its impact too, as a metaphor for their unwavering hatred for good, fresh baked Canadian chips. We will not take any of this. As we plow through the gay pride rallyers, we will burn any bags of chips in their possession as a symbol of our moral victory, and also as a means to cut off valuable supplies necessary to their potential success with their stupid military coup."
Against all scrutiny, millions of gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoplesbegan transforming their flamboyant floats, and bedazzled kites, which had appeared to be harmlessly drifting through the breeze alerting citizens of such flashy messages as “Don’t keep the gay at bay!”, into weapons of mass destruction. At roughly 8:30pm, residents on Caldwell Street remarked on the “perhaps nefarious” activities of a group of “fags” tying sticks of dynamite to the wooden structure of their kites. They saw smoke, and notified the police of strange “fffssshhhh” noises they had heard. Mere seconds later, kites equipped with explosives began ramming into buildings, ripping giant holes into them and injuring countless of bystanders with shards and chunks of debris; thousands of deaths wereattributed to the initial explosions tearing through these buildings, and even more to the few subsequent demolitions. At 8:43 PM, as the sound of crumbling concrete and startling booms echoed throughout the city, huge floats with phallic designs began inexplicably firing mortars, resulting in further structural damage of city infrastructure and residential property, along with the dozensof point-blank impacts sending thousands of innocent civilians into flight, shattering their bones, and detonating their vital organs upon contact with the ground. The onslaught continued for another 3 minutes until it was officially announcedvia poor quality megaphone that the terrorist coalition Al-Gayda had beenformed, and immediately announced retaliation for “historical obliviousness ofhomosexuality everywhere”.
Floats, suddenly equipped with SCUD missiles by 8:45PM, were launched into the city, knocking over a chip rack in a near-by convenience store and being speculated as to causing two heart attacks in acommunity for the elderly.
The prime minister solemnly gave his grievances, and members of the UN council noted that the shells of the weapons of mass destruction had been found near the knocked over chip rack, and was undeniable evidence along with the debris of other depleted munitions as having violated a UN convention necessary to become eligible of undertaking the option of intervention. The prime minister of Canada cited this in his speech, saying “These terrorists have no regard for the law, and have been effectively loitering in downtown Prodmore by blowing up buildings and leaving empty mortar, and SCUD missile shells all over the place, and this isn’t the only damage they’ve caused, as they’ve initially caused considerable damage against the environment with their beforehand impact.” Head councilman of the UN followed this up with the committee’s decision. “This is a serious transgression against nature, as it is very hard to get rid of these from the environment. The “No Loitering on UN Property” convention was not taken into regard, and we, the majority, are required by US opinion inthe UN convention we had at 9PM that we take action against this.” A full, hard on military invasion, funded by Germany and France, and bolstered by the military ranks of a dozen countries, most predominately the United States, is planned to usurp the gay pride militarists who threaten to make a foray into Blakmore, neighboring city, due to their “micro-cultural crimes against fashion”, a statement anonymously supplied by a member in this radical, and certainly aggressive movement.
UPDATE: American military intervention is motivated by corporate interest, and religious principle as control of Blakmore, in the hands of gay pride terrorists, would result in the loss of the Dale Chip factory, which is the lead supplier of fresh, crispy chips for The United States America. Stopping them from gaining access to the Dale Chip Factory would be pivotal for continued economic, and religious growth of that grand, and glorious nation of capitalists. Quoting President Obama Binbiden, "Dale Chips has been a symbol of the unending american strive for good chips. The knocking over the rack of chips, unwittingly American owned, by Gay Pride rallyers has its impact too, as a metaphor for their unwavering hatred for good, fresh baked Canadian chips. We will not take any of this. As we plow through the gay pride rallyers, we will burn any bags of chips in their possession as a symbol of our moral victory, and also as a means to cut off valuable supplies necessary to their potential success with their stupid military coup."
Rebellion & Bonfires: A Journalistic Report
Rebellions and bonfires have been springing up all over the nation, and I've decided to begin my investigation in a school who recently experienced a bonfire event, and a group of rebelling students. Below, are my heart-gripping realizations....
I sat a few inches away from the school’s dean, who intermittently tipped a tiny cup over his lip and washed his tongue with expresso, and then I watched as he pursed his eyebrows, staring intently at this inquisitive reporter, listening to the crackles of his cigarette as he drew on it, and leisurely expelled a light grey plume of smoke. Sitting next to him were three council members, two of which female, who were required by school formalities to measure their appearance to the deans; they all had a ring of dark gray hair encircle their scalp, an overall orb which had an oily sheen to it, and all, even the women, had a scruffy, but tamed goatee on their face. They followed his movements precisely, sipping on expresso, and smoking cigarettes. I sensed they were worried, but yet their sturdy faces discouraged any suspicion that perhaps doubt was attached to their minds, disturbing their nerves.
“Dean, could you give us a brief explanation as to why the students are rebelling?” I asked. He pulled one eye open and sent a chilly, probing beam of his vision through my pupil.
“But firsts we need ‘ta look at the history son…” He went silent, and I could feel the sheer intensity of emotion cookingin the room. Finally, he broached the subject.
Five weeks ago, the government began a program which allowed government sanctioned rebellion to take place in schools, under the condition that it was agreeable, and appropriate for toddlers with slight speech impediments so not to emulate any “no-no” language. Highschoolers were supplied with markers, crayons, and construction paper to come up with creative ways to rebel against the persecution of hot current issues,such as gay marriage, gay marriage, and the Arabic flight passenger who was being stared down by a dog, who is being held in custody for racial mistreatment via profiling. The dean, with a big grin, held up a very well done construction paper sign with round, glittering words which read, “Homosexuals are people too, and deserve equal rights!” He then showed me sixteen other posters and signs which expressed the same message with the same sentence configurement. However, his face turned in disgust, as he reached for a big, orange rectangular sheet turned facedown, his hand trembling with rage, as though the emotion it evoked was strong enough to warm his blood to such unbearable temperatures that it were scorching his veins. His glassy, narrowed eyes became glued to it; he observed it one last time. He flipped it over, his lip quivering, and I could see why, the sub-deans all around him cocked their head backs and their faces became mangled with fear. He revealed to me a poorly constructed sign a group of radical protesters created as with clubbed hands. It read, “Say no to rebellion enabled by government!”
“Why would the students do this?” I asked.
“No idea… But what it caused… was… catastrophic.” The deans around him quietly nodded as he finished.
“According to the home room teacher, he held up the sign once he finished it, and everyone began to panic. A bunch of kids shoved their desk together, and a bonfire magically materialized, setting the whole classroom ablaze!”
The damages were obvious; the room was damp, and charred. The rebels, had rebelled against rebelling. I spent the next few days following the youngsters rebelling, against rebellion. As they fled from the school, being chased out by teachers swinging around rulers with tacks sticking through them, they immediately seized control of an idled car in the parking lot, and began rebelling inside of it; currently, they sit there motionless, slowly dying of dehydration, one amusingly tapping an air freshener which dangles from the neck of the rear view mirror, another staring listlessly into the distance. Nothing has happened so far. However, bonfires continue to magically appear all over the nation, instinctually engaging people to commit rebellious acts.
Is there a link between spontaneous bonfires, and excessive acts of rebellion? This news reporter says yes. Every time a bonfire mysteriously appears within a person’s visual radius, chaos erupts – and who is to blame of this? Time will tell.
I sat a few inches away from the school’s dean, who intermittently tipped a tiny cup over his lip and washed his tongue with expresso, and then I watched as he pursed his eyebrows, staring intently at this inquisitive reporter, listening to the crackles of his cigarette as he drew on it, and leisurely expelled a light grey plume of smoke. Sitting next to him were three council members, two of which female, who were required by school formalities to measure their appearance to the deans; they all had a ring of dark gray hair encircle their scalp, an overall orb which had an oily sheen to it, and all, even the women, had a scruffy, but tamed goatee on their face. They followed his movements precisely, sipping on expresso, and smoking cigarettes. I sensed they were worried, but yet their sturdy faces discouraged any suspicion that perhaps doubt was attached to their minds, disturbing their nerves.
“Dean, could you give us a brief explanation as to why the students are rebelling?” I asked. He pulled one eye open and sent a chilly, probing beam of his vision through my pupil.
“But firsts we need ‘ta look at the history son…” He went silent, and I could feel the sheer intensity of emotion cookingin the room. Finally, he broached the subject.
Five weeks ago, the government began a program which allowed government sanctioned rebellion to take place in schools, under the condition that it was agreeable, and appropriate for toddlers with slight speech impediments so not to emulate any “no-no” language. Highschoolers were supplied with markers, crayons, and construction paper to come up with creative ways to rebel against the persecution of hot current issues,such as gay marriage, gay marriage, and the Arabic flight passenger who was being stared down by a dog, who is being held in custody for racial mistreatment via profiling. The dean, with a big grin, held up a very well done construction paper sign with round, glittering words which read, “Homosexuals are people too, and deserve equal rights!” He then showed me sixteen other posters and signs which expressed the same message with the same sentence configurement. However, his face turned in disgust, as he reached for a big, orange rectangular sheet turned facedown, his hand trembling with rage, as though the emotion it evoked was strong enough to warm his blood to such unbearable temperatures that it were scorching his veins. His glassy, narrowed eyes became glued to it; he observed it one last time. He flipped it over, his lip quivering, and I could see why, the sub-deans all around him cocked their head backs and their faces became mangled with fear. He revealed to me a poorly constructed sign a group of radical protesters created as with clubbed hands. It read, “Say no to rebellion enabled by government!”
“Why would the students do this?” I asked.
“No idea… But what it caused… was… catastrophic.” The deans around him quietly nodded as he finished.
“According to the home room teacher, he held up the sign once he finished it, and everyone began to panic. A bunch of kids shoved their desk together, and a bonfire magically materialized, setting the whole classroom ablaze!”
The damages were obvious; the room was damp, and charred. The rebels, had rebelled against rebelling. I spent the next few days following the youngsters rebelling, against rebellion. As they fled from the school, being chased out by teachers swinging around rulers with tacks sticking through them, they immediately seized control of an idled car in the parking lot, and began rebelling inside of it; currently, they sit there motionless, slowly dying of dehydration, one amusingly tapping an air freshener which dangles from the neck of the rear view mirror, another staring listlessly into the distance. Nothing has happened so far. However, bonfires continue to magically appear all over the nation, instinctually engaging people to commit rebellious acts.
Is there a link between spontaneous bonfires, and excessive acts of rebellion? This news reporter says yes. Every time a bonfire mysteriously appears within a person’s visual radius, chaos erupts – and who is to blame of this? Time will tell.
Man Abducting Children in Rocket Ship
As reportsof missing children’s continue to rise, suspicions of a lone man abducting children on a massive scale had also risen. The influx of missing children’s cases incidentally corresponded with the introduction of a new federal program called “Steve’s Rocket ship of Enlightenment”, which teachers could apply their class for. Steve, rocket ship entrepreneur, was offered a grant by a prestigious university to kick start his educationally relevant field trip-esque institution that sought the show kids the “beauty” of the inner cosmos. This was deemed highly important, as quoted by professional educators, “for absolutely no reason besides the obvious ill-defined implications, good or bad, of being in space. Mostly to get those little apathetic sh*ts out of class so we can put our attention to the students who really matter.”
As more youngsters ascended into the solar system, more were routinely reported missing within weekly periods. Scientists have tirelessly probed space, and based upon the initial trajectory of the rocket ship, have guesstimated its position, and has been confirmed tobe orbiting Mars, shooting ladders towards the ground which rows of youngsters were seen descending; further satellite photos of red planet reveal solid, one piece encampments, bordering a developed settlement which on the main entrance of a big banner signifies a perhaps nefarious plot, reading “The Super Milky Way Death Cult of Earth, and The Order of a New Age Regime of Mars.” After laborious hours of research on their website, it would appear that the SMDC & TONARM is a socially driven campaign to assimilate young boys and girls into a societythriving with new ageist ideologies and spiritual practices.
Their website goes on to explain, “Our goal is to show children that there are peaceful, relatively simple ways to co-exist in society. Our philosophy is that by exposing kids to death through exotic means of public execution and responsible displaysof safe suicide, they will come to terms with this inevitability of nature andbe deterred to anything except simply exist in society. We envision a society run entirely off of suicide, and depression, resulting from religious practices of death. It’s a fundamental truth of all spiritual exercises, that acceptance of death is mandatory to a happy life style!” Based upon financial reports parlayed from their internal web servers, one thousand child suicides, 50% assisted, with “tiredness” being cited as a general complaint among child laborers who then become eligible for “nap time”. Analysis reveals that the new children arrivals are immediately sent to work, and when upon becoming too weary to shop keep, farm, or work public transit, 9/10 submit to having their veins flooded with a synthesized, fast-acting toxin which shuts down their central nervous system. Most curiously, they are kept in a post-paralytic state and kept for storing, with mentions of “feeding liquefied consciousness through IV tubes”, “inserting consciousness into a physical, appropriate receptacle [brain] to generate a supreme entity” and “bodies are afterwards disposed, or mindless vessels are utilized to encourage cult specific acts” (Pages 6-23 ofthe TEMPARM annual financial status report) peppered throughout the memo of the paper, which indicates that supplies are being transferred from Earth, to Mars; thusly, further investigations are pending.
As more youngsters ascended into the solar system, more were routinely reported missing within weekly periods. Scientists have tirelessly probed space, and based upon the initial trajectory of the rocket ship, have guesstimated its position, and has been confirmed tobe orbiting Mars, shooting ladders towards the ground which rows of youngsters were seen descending; further satellite photos of red planet reveal solid, one piece encampments, bordering a developed settlement which on the main entrance of a big banner signifies a perhaps nefarious plot, reading “The Super Milky Way Death Cult of Earth, and The Order of a New Age Regime of Mars.” After laborious hours of research on their website, it would appear that the SMDC & TONARM is a socially driven campaign to assimilate young boys and girls into a societythriving with new ageist ideologies and spiritual practices.
Their website goes on to explain, “Our goal is to show children that there are peaceful, relatively simple ways to co-exist in society. Our philosophy is that by exposing kids to death through exotic means of public execution and responsible displaysof safe suicide, they will come to terms with this inevitability of nature andbe deterred to anything except simply exist in society. We envision a society run entirely off of suicide, and depression, resulting from religious practices of death. It’s a fundamental truth of all spiritual exercises, that acceptance of death is mandatory to a happy life style!” Based upon financial reports parlayed from their internal web servers, one thousand child suicides, 50% assisted, with “tiredness” being cited as a general complaint among child laborers who then become eligible for “nap time”. Analysis reveals that the new children arrivals are immediately sent to work, and when upon becoming too weary to shop keep, farm, or work public transit, 9/10 submit to having their veins flooded with a synthesized, fast-acting toxin which shuts down their central nervous system. Most curiously, they are kept in a post-paralytic state and kept for storing, with mentions of “feeding liquefied consciousness through IV tubes”, “inserting consciousness into a physical, appropriate receptacle [brain] to generate a supreme entity” and “bodies are afterwards disposed, or mindless vessels are utilized to encourage cult specific acts” (Pages 6-23 ofthe TEMPARM annual financial status report) peppered throughout the memo of the paper, which indicates that supplies are being transferred from Earth, to Mars; thusly, further investigations are pending.
Fascist Space Aliens Enslave Earth Women
Streaks of light bounced in the beady, watery eyes of spectators last week as a box shaped metallic aerial compartment hovered above flattened, whistling treetops at roughly 30 minutes past midnight. Emerging from a blinding wave of colors, unveiling mists as it shot in all directions, were a group of renegade space aliens. Their stature short, but cranial size large, they began to address the spectators, and people of Earth via available media sources, through a translator expressing their “entrepreneurial wishes, specifically inthe market of women’s products” here on Earth. Finally, marking that day, and after days of amassing a sizeable fortune to spearhead their business, the small union of space aliens has launched an advertisement campaign for “breast enhancement supplements”, “space-age bras”, being supplied at a specialized clinic which additionally offers “vaginal and breast exams.” A long, winding attendance of women filled the streets, as the line segmented into portions roughly ten to fifteen at a time and burst into a crowd, cramping into the small shop. The joyous afternoon quickly took a turn for the worst when women were reported as not having “left the shop” or “return home”. Reactions were cool until an eye witness report was anonymously supplied by an escapee fromthe shop.
“When I was waiting in line for a free breast exam, the aliens looking down the line with those cold, calculating eyes, we were all moving down this long tight tunnel like place, arranged one by one, and all I could hear was this loud “pop” sound at the end of it a few minutes after someone entered a door at the very back. I finally got there, and this bolt gun was pressed to my forehead, and it squeezed it, and I was knocked unconscious... But I hadn’t died.” After wiping the tears from her eyes, she continued to tell her eye-widening, gut-wrenching account of what was to come.
“I felt them load my body in something, and I felt like I was rocking in the back of a car or something… Then I woke up… and I was in this room, really wide, piled under dead bodies… I saw these aliens, on an alien space like altar thing… a big rectangular, stainless steel block which bodies were placed on… had very elegant things carved on it I think… But these girls, tossed on the slab, were resurrected after they said odd chants and threw up weird hand signs… These girls were brought back, and they were… slaves. Sex slaves. For the space aliens.”
Shocked and disturbed by these accusations, members of the alien trade union denied this saying “Foolish females with naturally inclined diminutive cognitive organ function, pre breast augmentation examinations does not equate to pre-requisites for sex slave trafficking.” In other, but related news, reports of citizens staring warily at the newly constructed “Pleasure Box”, a menacing box which the city now dwells in the shadow of, has urged police investigation between the unfounded accusations of sex trafficking, and menacing cubes of alien construction. FAWX News Reporter McPhag decided to achieve an in depth analysis of the Pleasure Box’s inside to further the story, which began as an elegantly marble foyer, guiding guests to an array of passages, snaking through the complex in a maze like construction. McPhag reports that he was greeted by a man with a dark hair, and calm eyes, and drenched in long, silky red cloth, patterned with gold thread. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“I’m McPhag of action FAWX news; can I investigate a few of the rooms in the so called ‘PleasureBox’?”
“Jimzoth tastes the purity of the shimmering waters in your mind. Desire liquefies and trickles through your bone, soft chills dust them lightly like the brim of a feather. Her whimpers send warm tingles through you, as her moist eyes relay lust in yours, you feel her body break with your hands upon her, and you feel the shivers of her skin in your tips. Liquids flood her mouth, she swells and she feels a pressure gradually build, unbearably, and she gulps, as your tongue courses over the goose bumps of her neck, as you breathe in the soft air of sweat and hormone… She anxiously shudders, as you pluck her sturdy, rosy nipples, as your fingers draw near the heated, wet cleft between her soft thighs…”
“Creepy. I’d like to have some of that.”
“Sorry sir, this is for space aliens only. Also, this is only for space aliens in the space alien union.”
However, further anonymous testimony validates the previous allegations against the Pleasure Box, and the space alien trade union, stating that Aliens working in the female product and genital observatory store pick and choose which to kill in the effortless manner of a cattle abattoir, then resurrect their bodies in the “Pleasure Box” using ancient alien ritual tecniques, where they then serve their alien masters by performing incredible sexual acts in an attempt to gratify them. Damn.
So could it be possible that these entrepreneurs actually infiltrated earth to gain access to our hot Earth women, and abuse them as a commodity in their freakish, inter-galactic fetishes? Time will tell.
UPDATE: McPhag has been fired from FAWX news for violating the FAWX news ToS for supplying erotic commentary in a seemingly harmless article.
“When I was waiting in line for a free breast exam, the aliens looking down the line with those cold, calculating eyes, we were all moving down this long tight tunnel like place, arranged one by one, and all I could hear was this loud “pop” sound at the end of it a few minutes after someone entered a door at the very back. I finally got there, and this bolt gun was pressed to my forehead, and it squeezed it, and I was knocked unconscious... But I hadn’t died.” After wiping the tears from her eyes, she continued to tell her eye-widening, gut-wrenching account of what was to come.
“I felt them load my body in something, and I felt like I was rocking in the back of a car or something… Then I woke up… and I was in this room, really wide, piled under dead bodies… I saw these aliens, on an alien space like altar thing… a big rectangular, stainless steel block which bodies were placed on… had very elegant things carved on it I think… But these girls, tossed on the slab, were resurrected after they said odd chants and threw up weird hand signs… These girls were brought back, and they were… slaves. Sex slaves. For the space aliens.”
Shocked and disturbed by these accusations, members of the alien trade union denied this saying “Foolish females with naturally inclined diminutive cognitive organ function, pre breast augmentation examinations does not equate to pre-requisites for sex slave trafficking.” In other, but related news, reports of citizens staring warily at the newly constructed “Pleasure Box”, a menacing box which the city now dwells in the shadow of, has urged police investigation between the unfounded accusations of sex trafficking, and menacing cubes of alien construction. FAWX News Reporter McPhag decided to achieve an in depth analysis of the Pleasure Box’s inside to further the story, which began as an elegantly marble foyer, guiding guests to an array of passages, snaking through the complex in a maze like construction. McPhag reports that he was greeted by a man with a dark hair, and calm eyes, and drenched in long, silky red cloth, patterned with gold thread. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“I’m McPhag of action FAWX news; can I investigate a few of the rooms in the so called ‘PleasureBox’?”
“Jimzoth tastes the purity of the shimmering waters in your mind. Desire liquefies and trickles through your bone, soft chills dust them lightly like the brim of a feather. Her whimpers send warm tingles through you, as her moist eyes relay lust in yours, you feel her body break with your hands upon her, and you feel the shivers of her skin in your tips. Liquids flood her mouth, she swells and she feels a pressure gradually build, unbearably, and she gulps, as your tongue courses over the goose bumps of her neck, as you breathe in the soft air of sweat and hormone… She anxiously shudders, as you pluck her sturdy, rosy nipples, as your fingers draw near the heated, wet cleft between her soft thighs…”
“Creepy. I’d like to have some of that.”
“Sorry sir, this is for space aliens only. Also, this is only for space aliens in the space alien union.”
However, further anonymous testimony validates the previous allegations against the Pleasure Box, and the space alien trade union, stating that Aliens working in the female product and genital observatory store pick and choose which to kill in the effortless manner of a cattle abattoir, then resurrect their bodies in the “Pleasure Box” using ancient alien ritual tecniques, where they then serve their alien masters by performing incredible sexual acts in an attempt to gratify them. Damn.
So could it be possible that these entrepreneurs actually infiltrated earth to gain access to our hot Earth women, and abuse them as a commodity in their freakish, inter-galactic fetishes? Time will tell.
UPDATE: McPhag has been fired from FAWX news for violating the FAWX news ToS for supplying erotic commentary in a seemingly harmless article.
A Guide On How To Ensure Everyone Misses You After You've Been Kidnapped: 6 Easy Steps To Follow
There's no doubt about it; we live in a dangerous era. The Bible predicted that liberals and commies (how redundant) would rule the world during the End Times. We see this taking place in our world today like never before. Americans everywhere fear for their lives when stepping outside of their homes, even on short trips to local convenience stores, for fear of these people. So before a hippie pulls you into an alley, suffocates you with a chloroform cloth, and stuffs you into their trunk let's talk about what you have to do to make sure everybody knows you've gone missing!
Step 1. Have rich family/friends
You don't gain national attention without the support of national media. To get that, you need money. Fortunately (if you're a real American) you should have plenty of money, so just sit back and relax while you wait for your face to appear on your kidnapper's TV!
Step 2. Be a female
It really helps if you're a (good looking) female when trying to make people miss you being gone. Have some nice pictures taken every so often just in case something like this happens!
Step 3. Be a kid
If you can't be a female, at least be a kid! Everybody misses children. Anywhere from 12 years to just a few months old, the younger you are the more likely you are to receive attention. However, if you're between the ages of 13-17, it still counts. Just a little bit less.
Step 4. Be Caucasian
See Step 1.
Step 5. Have an interesting case
This one isn't too important, but it does help with gaining attention! Your story doesn't have to be too exciting, just make sure it isn't too boring either. For instance, no one is likely to care if you happened to be kidnapped while you were on your way to the store at 2 o'clock in the morning in your pajamas to buy a few gallons worth of chocolate milk to guzzle down once you got home to watch TV for the rest of the night while all your cats turn you into their personal mattress.
Step 6. Be a Christian
While not really a step to ensuring people miss you after you're kidnapped, it's a guaranteed way to make sure you are located very quickly! When people pray that you'll be found, they're actually sending energy that makes its way to you. If you're an atheist or a member of a bogus religion these energies bounce off! But when you're a Christian the energies build up and stick to your spirit. These help God locate you with his metal-detector while he invisibly traverses our planet from another dimension unseen to us. He then can call the local authorities to come rescue you, assuming it is His will. When they tell you an anonymous tip saved the day, you can say "thank God someone was watching out for me!", and then knowingly wink at the clouds!
There you have it. A six point plan ensuring that everybody misses you in the event you are kidnapped. Remember to use the time immediately after your rescue wisely, because after a short time people will stop caring about you. In the meantime, try not to get killed while you're held captive!
Step 1. Have rich family/friends
You don't gain national attention without the support of national media. To get that, you need money. Fortunately (if you're a real American) you should have plenty of money, so just sit back and relax while you wait for your face to appear on your kidnapper's TV!
Step 2. Be a female
It really helps if you're a (good looking) female when trying to make people miss you being gone. Have some nice pictures taken every so often just in case something like this happens!
Step 3. Be a kid
If you can't be a female, at least be a kid! Everybody misses children. Anywhere from 12 years to just a few months old, the younger you are the more likely you are to receive attention. However, if you're between the ages of 13-17, it still counts. Just a little bit less.
Step 4. Be Caucasian
See Step 1.
Step 5. Have an interesting case
This one isn't too important, but it does help with gaining attention! Your story doesn't have to be too exciting, just make sure it isn't too boring either. For instance, no one is likely to care if you happened to be kidnapped while you were on your way to the store at 2 o'clock in the morning in your pajamas to buy a few gallons worth of chocolate milk to guzzle down once you got home to watch TV for the rest of the night while all your cats turn you into their personal mattress.
Step 6. Be a Christian
While not really a step to ensuring people miss you after you're kidnapped, it's a guaranteed way to make sure you are located very quickly! When people pray that you'll be found, they're actually sending energy that makes its way to you. If you're an atheist or a member of a bogus religion these energies bounce off! But when you're a Christian the energies build up and stick to your spirit. These help God locate you with his metal-detector while he invisibly traverses our planet from another dimension unseen to us. He then can call the local authorities to come rescue you, assuming it is His will. When they tell you an anonymous tip saved the day, you can say "thank God someone was watching out for me!", and then knowingly wink at the clouds!
There you have it. A six point plan ensuring that everybody misses you in the event you are kidnapped. Remember to use the time immediately after your rescue wisely, because after a short time people will stop caring about you. In the meantime, try not to get killed while you're held captive!
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