Tardy Eagle Kids’ Costume Outlet Managers Katie McCarthy and Nick Ortolani introduce to you a blowout sale!!! We’re hard up for cash soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo help pls
“…but now it’s time for me to become a professional cat.”
Growing up, I always thought weather was just something that happened. As a kid, I’d play in the rain, jump around in puddles, make snowmen. What an arrogant fool I was, unaware of the power and majesty of the elements. I was even more enthralled by the mysterious man on the screen who commanded them. Watching him then, I did not know his name, nor that he would plant in me a seed that would be watered with my own tears, with a high of 76 and a low of 57. I may have started as a naive Weatherboy, but trial and hardship have molded me into a fierce and ferocious Weatherman.
People call me a meteorologist, but I’ve never liked those fancy ten-dollar lawyer words. Weathermanning isn’t something that can be taught in a classroom at a prestigious university. I should know: I’ve never even seen a college. Weathermanning is taught in the real world, with night classes at the school of hard knocks and an internship in the streets.
Some think being a weatherman is easy. They say things like “It’s just pointing at a screen,” and “They’re wrong half the time,” and “I don’t care if you’re with your son, you’re drunk and you need to leave the zoo.” I don’t even hear them anymore. I cut out the part of me that hears criticism long ago. Ask any of my ex-wives.
The truth of the matter is my rise to the top was nothing short of a living nightmare. It was a slow crawl through the barbed wire of embarrassment and over the broken glass of not being taken seriously by potential sexual partners. My very first day, I, like a common idiot, mistook sleet for wintry mix. Distraught, I left work and yelled at my cat for seven hours. Little did I know, only a few weeks later, I was to be yelled at by the cat known as Fate.
4th of July weekend, 1989. We had a high-pressure zone moving in off the coast, just itching to bump uglies with a slow-moving cold front from the north. These two were going to smash together like teenagers whose parents were out of town — enthusiastically and awkwardly. I had to face the nation, or at least the residents of Sarasota county, and inform them that the fireworks would have to be canceled that year. I might as well have been asked to tap dance backwards into a minefield. Everyone was convinced the storm was coming, but not me. They encouraged me to “Look at the radar,” and “Do what we’re paying you to do, goddammit.” To me, their words sounded like words, but words I didn’t want to listen to.
Ten minutes to air, I discovered that a pocket of swamp gas released overnight by a meth lab explosion had pushed the cold front off course. The clouds parted and I emerged victorious. The city had already canceled the fireworks the day prior, but I was vindicated. In that moment, I learned what it feels like when God cums.
Now look at me. Lord of sunshine, emperor of thunder, harbinger of storms, and lead-in to sports. Many say that I only report the weather. But that’s what a meteorologist does. I’m a weatherman. I AM the weather. And when duty calls, when there’s a bomb cyclone or a microburst, I strap on my tall rubber boots and drape myself in my yellow raincoat with the flappy hood, and I rush into danger. Most people have never seen the eye of a hurricane. I haven’t either, but I’ve stood outside in the rain to let people know it’s raining.
So the next time you’re out, look directly up at the sun and thank me for allowing it to shine. Without me, the rain, wind, sun, and snow are just phenomena, bereft of any meaning and direction. But in my hands they become weather, always lurking in the distance waiting to either bless your weekend or make it mildly inconvenient. In antiquity, I would have been called a shaman, a rainmaker, an extension of the holy realm. These days, I’m simply “Chet Blimpton with the weather.” I, and I alone, am with the weather, and the weather is with me.
KALAMAZOO, Mich. — Margery Watson’s annual Mother’s Day breakfast-in-bed was obstructed by her unsightly ventilator due to complications from an advanced case of COVID-19, depressed and annoyed sources report.
“We’re all trying to act like things are normal, and this dumb thing keeps getting in the way and spilling orange juice all over her,” said her husband Jack. “It was hard enough forcing our way past a bunch of annoying nurses to see her — now we have to cram in next to this thing?”
“And that sound it makes!” he added. “It’s like if Darth Vader smoked cigarillos. Honestly, we’re thinking about unplugging and moving it, just for a moment, while we get a shot of her with her eggs Florentine. I might eat them after — she doesn’t seem too hungry.”
Health and safety experts urge forgoing traditional Mother’s Day gatherings to minimize contact with any sick family members.
“I think I’ve lost faith in humanity… or at least, families,” confided Dr. Louise Titre. “The fact that you would risk someone’s safety just to give them a fucking greeting card and mylar balloon is beyond comprehension. Look at this dumb card: it’s got a pigsty on it that reads, ‘We’re hog-wild for our mom.’ Is this what’s important to people? Keep fucking with our equipment, and she won’t be around this time next year. I mean, I get it — I’m a mom, and I’m not happy my kids are treating me like a goddamn leper. The least they could do is make me breakfast-on-the-couch-in-the-garage-cuz-mommy-might-have-been-exposed-to-a-deadly-virus.”
Moms worldwide are struggling with losing the “one fucking day of the year where they get to relax.”
“This is a case where the cure may actually be worse than the virus,” explained Lorraine Quinzel, a professor of women’s studies at Cornell University. “Quarantine places an extraordinary psychological strain on the nation’s moms, mamas, and mem-mems. Without Mother’s Day, I foresee a national mental breakdown. And I’m not just saying that because my own daughter only sent me a text with seven spelling errors, including my own name. Oh, and a gift card to Fuddruckers. Great, can’t wait to go there next year, or whenever this bullshit ends. There’s no point in being a mom if you don’t get your own holiday.”
The Watson family is currently planning a family reunion to celebrate their Great-Grandma Edith’s 100th and final birthday.
HEBRON, Ky. — Longtime Amazon fulfillment center worker Jayce Sheffield will use a combination of their accrued sick and vacation hours to attend their own funeral later this week, unsurprised sources confirmed.
“I can’t get anyone to switch shifts with me,” said a belabored Sheffield. “After seven years with the company, I have roughly nine hours of vacation and sick time combined — no short-term disability or anything. It sucks; I was saving that time to maybe go to the doctor, or take a one-day vacation somewhere special within a 100 mile radius of where I live. Now I gotta use it for my funeral… which blows, because I’ll barely be there to enjoy it.”
Sheffield and Amazon have been under considerable pressure to fulfill orders lately, with many brick-and-mortar stores severely affected by the crisis.
“Listen, if Jayce knew they were dying, they should’ve requested the time off five weeks ago, just like the company handbook says,” maintained shift supervisor Gordon Benet. “Everyone’s got some excuse. People used to say they had to go to a grandparent’s funeral; now they’re all saying they’re dying? It’s a bunch of B.S., if you ask me. How am I supposed to cover all these shifts? I got little sympathy for people who want special treatment, like time off, or toilet breaks.”
Amazon founder and CEO Jeff Bezos disputed the notion of unfair labor practices and the euphemistic references to a “slave-like” culture.
“I care about my workers,” opined Bezos while petting a snow leopard. “I care about them the way one would care about a snake, or maybe some shoes they like. The physical and mental well-being of my employees is of the utmost importance to me, which is why I would never want to put my workers through the mental and physical anguish of becoming unemployed and losing everything they have in two weeks due to lack of savings. Every company is a family, and just like any family, I expect them to show up and hate every minute of their life with me.”
At press time, Amazon officials were reportedly reprogramming order fulfillment drones to act as company surrogates at all employee funerals.
WASHINGTON — A select group of centrist moderate Democrats are in talks to cooperate with COVID-19 on a path towards giving both parties what they want, face-palming sources revealed.
“It’s our priority to find a solution everyone is happy with,” revealed Sen. Chuck Schumer. “Nancy [Pelosi] and I have been meeting with the Coronavirus to try to work out a plan that both saves lives and kills people. We can’t afford to be partisan or idealistic, and we have to be willing to make concessions. If that means giving up everything we want, so be it.”
Schumer and Pelosi have been relentless in their willingness to bend over to COVID-19’s demands, and have left the GOP with little leverage in terms of bargaining.
“Them Democrats got about as much sense as a pocket with a hole in it,” cackled Sen. Lindsay Graham while fanning himself. “I do declare, they’re gonna just let that mean ol’ virus tell them what to do. They’re currently proposing a $200 billion stimulus for the virus, and they’re gonna pull the funds right outta the Post Office pension! Where does it even end? Now I hear Biden might pick Corona as his running mate as a show of bipartisanship. Good golly Miss Molly, sometimes it feels like we don’t hafta lift a finger to ruin everything.”
Presidential hopeful Joe Biden has been meeting with a team of scientific and medical specialists in an effort to strengthen the Coronavirus’ chances politically.
“He wants to give it legs,” lamented Dr. Bianca Raju, a very drunk epidemiologist. “He barged in here saying COVID-19 needed to be ‘strong and proud, with a beautiful head of hair.’ Then he called me ‘Jack’ and asked me to look in his eyes, but didn’t say anything for about 10 minutes. After a while, he ordered me to give the virus eyes so he could look into them, then mumbled something about making sure the virus had a ‘big old hog’ before storming out. I think he was wearing his suit backwards.”
At press time, Democratic leadership proposed legislation to put a moratorium on any universal health care proposals.
PORTLAND, Ore. — Local man Wendell Slacks, who has consistently boasted throughout the years about how proud he is to not own a TV, looks “pretty fucking stupid right about now,” satisfied friends and family confirmed.
“I’ve always thought it was just better to go outside — you know, go swimming, hiking, boating, parasailing — anything but just sitting around, staring at the ‘boob tube,’ as I call it,” preached an unsettlingly confident Slacks. “Of course, I can’t do any of that right now, but still, I think it’s important for people to know that I, personally, think watching TV and playing video games is a huge waste of time. I mean, there’s a whole big world out there for you to enjoy at an unknown point in the future.”
Slacks’ “distraction-free” lifestyle means he lives without a television, computer, gaming system, phone, tablet, or palm pilot, much to the chagrin of those around him.
“I have to literally hide in the doghouse if I want to watch Netflix,” complained Mikhail Kevdev, Slacks’ exasperated boyfriend. “The whole situation seems literally inhumane. And I don’t mind spending time with Dr. Butterbelly, but sometimes he doesn’t like what I’m watching. And besides, Wendell should be able to recognize that there’s a time and place for everything… and now is not the time to go rock climbing or explore a cave system. Now is the time to binge watch ‘Cake Boss’ and play ‘Resident Evil’ till our eyeballs turn to salt.”
While fresh air, sunlight, and human contact can typically contribute to physical and emotional wellness, experts agree that all that shit can wait for the time being.
“While limiting screen time is beneficial to one’s health, Wendell is royally fucked right now,” explained Martha Koenigsburg, a sociologist and ardent detractor of Slacks. “He’s always shitting on people for ‘not enjoying life enough’ and encouraging people to just ‘put the phones down and enjoy what’s around you.’ Well, what’s around you now, Wendell? Four motherfucking walls covered in tacky art! While everyone else is having fun talking about ‘Tiger King,’ he’s sitting around jerking it to shitty, old books. Fuck off, loser.”
At press time, Slacks was writing a letter to a penpal in New York who died last week due to complications from COVID-19.
Caring for one’s mental health can be a challenge in the 21st century. With all of the modern world’s stressors and stimuli, it’s not hard to find yourself feeling intensely overwhelmed, brutally downtrodden, and mad fugly. However, with the right attitude and routines, anyone can experience positive emotional well-being. Here’s how I overcame my clinical depression, through hard work, determination, and mostly by not being genetically predisposed to it.
Everyone has mental health issues these days. Or so I’ve been told. My superior genetics are why I moonwalked out of the womb a self-actualized human being. The key to overcoming these issues is to look inward to find it and accept yourself. Take me for example. I look inward on a daily basis in search of the good things in my life. Instead of focusing on stressors like prep school and state champs, I focus on the positives like my family. More specifically, my family’s genetics that have been scalping mental illness on an atomic level since the big bang.
I can only take so much credit for my success in warding off depression. Mostly, I have my parents to thank. Not just for working hard and making lots of money so they could give me a responsible level of care but for also choosing each other. See, if either of them had met someone with clinical depression, I might not exist, or worse, I might be a mopeypants.
So next time you’re feeling blue remember that you can feel anyway you CHOOSE to feel. Be more like me and choose to feel happy. Choose to feel fulfilled. And most of all, choose to feel like your brain chemicals are properly balanced due to genetics that are entirely out of your control.
Our country is teetering on the brink of oblivion. Governments are looking to dismantle our very way of life and revoke our rights from under our proud noses at every level! Well I got news for Uncle Sam, Rosie The Riveter, and any other government stooge that may be listening: you can have my weekly shindigs at Applebee’s when you pry them from my cold, dead, BBQ sauce-stained hands.
Let me start off by saying, I love America. I love her amber waves of grain, her purple mountains, and even though I’m iffy on “fruited plains,” it’s 2020 and I can be tolerant. To me, any wife of mine (and I’ve had many) is still a side piece compared to America. But my love for Her would never stop my willingness to overthrow the government or kill every single member of its active military or police force if I felt IN ANY WAY that my rights were being infringed.
Our right to assemble is protected under the Constitution, our most sacred of documents since 1776. And the need to is supported by our most sacred document since, the Applebee’s dinner menu. These inalienable rights to gather with my buds Kliph, Thicket, and SlimJames every Thursday night at the Applebee’s near the nice junkyard for bottomless apps. I’m a red-blooded, thick veined, heart diseased American man and I demand to eat and drink like one. I’ll be goddammed if anyone stands in between me and a bucket of limearitas (not gay cuz it’s Budweiser).
I’m no expert. But in America, you don’t HAVE to be an expert to know what’s going on here. Just look at experts on the news. These doctors, lawyers, and Hollywood elites want us to forfeit our liberty so we can all turn into 5G-snorting metrosexuals. Well I ain’t about to learn how to kiss dudes or whatever masterclass Judd Apatow is peddling this month. Maybe that sounds crass, but I’m a simple man with simple pleasures and one of those pleasures is going out to Applebee’s and singing the “baby back ribs” song at my waiter even though I didn’t order ribs and that song is from a Chili’s commercial.
Are you a sheep? Do you go bah bah? Does your back hair make sweaters? Do you show up in my dreams dressed as a lady? No? Then stop listening to those DemoCRAPS in Washington telling you to stay home. This whole thing has been blown out of proportion and, wait, does Applebee’s deliver? They do? Oh shit, never mind. Stay home people, there’s a fucking plague out there!!!
Described by Michael Moore as “21st Century Jonathan Swift.”
WASHINGTON — A large, bi-partisan coalition of U.S. Senators disclosed moments ago that they’d been avoiding Sen. Rand Paul long before his recent COVID-19 diagnosis.
“It couldn’t have happened to a better person. And by that, I mean the person least likely to transmit the disease to anyone else,” croaked Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. “Everyone already avoided him like the plague before all this. I barely talk to him, and when I do, I always have my assistant next to me to help end the conversation with a fake phone call or something. I mean, c’mon — I hate poor people as much as the next conservative, but Rand… I don’t know. I think he wants to be the only person on earth. He always stares at you like he’d be willing to eat you.”
In a rare show of Congressional harmony, Senators from both sides of the aisle admitted their longstanding discomfort with Paul and wished him a long, painful recovery.
“Honestly, I didn’t even notice he was gone,” remarked Sen. Cory Booker. “We all try to look away when he enters a room anyway. Seriously, it’s a good thing this didn’t happen to like, Bernie, or Grassley — you know, someone people actually like. Hell, I think people like Ted Cruz more than Paul, if only in some sick, Kafka-esque way. I just hope he doesn’t figure out how to use Zoom or something. Just go away for a while, Rand. Please just go away.”
The news comes just days after Paul voted against a stimulus package that would provide federal aid to those affected by coronavirus pandemic.
“I would say it’s an act of God,” explained Paul. “But I don’t believe in God: only the long, beautiful, muscular arm of capitalism. Problems like this won’t be solved by government or compassion, but by reason, self-interest, and massive amounts of generationally accumulated wealth. I’ve got bootstraps the size of a foreclosed family farm, and I plan to pull myself up by them. I’m as sure of that as I am of the fact that my dad named me after an angry lady author.”
At press time, a “get well soon” card had been organized for Paul that, in the largest show of congressional bipartisanship, remains unsigned.
Cannibal Corpse is just as known for their provocative album covers as they are for their music. Due to our intense masochism, we ranked every Cannibal Corpse album cover based on how long we cried in the shower after seeing it.
14. “Kill”- Arguably the most pedestrian cover from this band, the artwork simply displays the band logo, the album name (Kill), with a few faint splashes of red to signify blood (Kill, get it?). Frankly, this looks like the band had to throw it together in MS Paint because of a deadline.
RATING: N/A No shower needed. The cover is so tame I made it into a bedsheet for my daughter.
13. “The Bleeding”- Arguably their best album but another lackluster cover. For an album boasting songs such as “Stripped, Raped, and Strangled” and “Fucked With A Knife,” the cover doesn’t properly convey the viscera contained in the lyrics. The artwork is no gorier than a sirloin you could purchase at your local butcher.
RATING: N/A This cover kinda made me hungry, is that weird?
12. “Evisceration Plague”- This is about as extreme as the “Postal 2” cover. At least in that game you could urinate on corpses and shove a gun up a kitten’s ass. The cover depicts what I’m assuming is some maintenance guys waking up Iggy Pop a little too abruptly. The palate is also incredibly dark, as if the artist was trying their best to hide the cover from us. My grandma has cataracts and I could probably wear this shirt in front of her.
RATING: N/A though now I am thinking of my nana.
11. “A Skeletal Domain”- Honestly, I’m still more scared of the “Night On Bald Mountain” scene in “Fantasia” than I am by this cover.
RATING: N/A Still thinking of my nana. I used to watch “Fantasia” with her.
10. “Red Before Black”- Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. No gore, but plenty of blood. The power of this cover is that it casts you, the viewer, as the one being murdered.
RATING: I’ll rate this with the ¼ cup of water I sipped while looking at it.
9. “Eaten Back To Life”- I might get shit for this one but just because it was the first doesn’t make it the best. Yes, the band laid the groundwork for all future covers, but it’s still tame compared to later efforts. There aren’t any weird bug hybrids or people impaled on meathooks. Just a dude eating his own intestines in a graveyard, which honestly seems like a suitable place for that activity.
RATING: I poured a ½ cup of water in honor of this being the first.
8. “Gore Obsessed”- No here’s a more refined version of “Eaten Back To Life.” Complete with weird grabbing arms, a cape made out of literal face masks, and naked half-ladies (as opposed to half-naked ladies), Cannibal Corpse reminds me of the great Native American using every part of the buffalo. Except here, they’re using every left over special effect from a Herschell Gordon Lewis movie.
RATING: At this point, I had to dab my forehead with a cool, damp cloth.
7. “Gallery Of Suicide”- A further evolution on the complex themes of gore, this cover has another popular Corpse theme: dead bodies hanging on shit. Another fairly tame outing for the band as the suspended corpses are relegated to the background. However, the corpses in the foreground are quite striking and the cover contains another popular aesthetic theme: mutilated naked women.
RATING: I splashed a little water on my face for this one.
6. “Torture” – Okay, now these are starting to get a little fucked up. That’s…that’s a lot right there. This time the hanging corpses are way up in the front and, oh God, is one of them pregnant? How do you even think of this shit? I mean, I’m no stranger to gore but this just seems cruel to the viewer.
RATING: 10 mins in the shower, mostly warm water.
5. “Bloodthirst”- WHAT. THE. FUCK. IS. THAT. THING? Some kind of bug creature? A mixture of The Thing and the Mindflayer? I hate it and I want it to die. Also, did it kill the corpse? Or IS it the corpse? Is it going to eat the corpse and OH GOD I JUST SAW THE FACE ON ITS SHOULDER ITS GONNA ABSORB THE CORPSE! FUCK.
RATING: 30 minute shower, alternating hot and cold water.
4. “Vile”- Okay. Okay. It’s over. This one seems tame compared to the others. A little Clockwork Orange on the face but otherwise pretty OH GOD I JUST SAW THE SEVERED DICK IN THE MAGGOT FIELD!
RATING: This is the first time I’ve ever worn a cup and jockstrap in the shower.
3. “Butchered At Birth”- no no no no no no no no no no no No No No No No No NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
RATING: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
2. “The Wretched Spawn”- AHHHHH FUUUUUUCK! I didn’t know it could get worse than Butchered At Birth, but it did. You might think oh, what could be worse than a half-lady having babies cut out of her by skeletons surrounded by suspended dead babies? Well, the answer is give the skeletons a winged demon friend, replace the babies with a hybrid spider-baby spawn, and oh yea it’s a live birth from BOTH ENDS! I’m starting to think these guys failed high school health class.
RATING: 3.5 hour long shower, alternating between standing, sitting, and somehow lying down.
1. “Tomb Of The Mutilated”- I guess this is the “winner.” Just. Ugh. I… This is the only cover to feature a “sex”(?) act. A half dude going down on a half lady, both of their sex gonads removed. The most upsetting and confusing part of this one is trying to piece the order in which these things happened. Were they fucking and then got murdered? Were they murdered and posed like this? Did one of them die first and then the other was forced to perform on the corpse? And that skull in the bottom right corner honestly looks like he was on his way somewhere and then stumbled into this tableau, an unfortunate victim of circumstance. He’s making the only face my soul knows how to feel now. I’d say I’m disgusted, but I don’t think I know how to feel anymore.
RATING: I’m writing this from inside the shower.
It’s hard not to feel like we are approaching the end times. With the world on the verge of a global pandemic, life seems more like a science fiction film than reality. And if this is the Apocalypse, you need to start calling me by my true name, Motoraxe.
You might say I’m overreacting, that maybe this most recent perceived epidemic isn’t as bad as we all think it is. You might say it’s killed less people than the flu. But how many people has the flu killed? No really, how many? Trillions? Has the flu killed trillions of people?
Sure, I could invest my time and energy in studying about communicable diseases or learning how to bathe. OR, I could learn how to do a sick back-flip off a motorcycle while firing a sawed off shotgun with one hand and swinging a katana with the other. Oh, and a hot babe on my other arm. Oh you think all my arms are busy? Not in the apocalypse baby! Three arms motherfucker. Ooo, maybe I should go by “Three Arms.”
The point is, I won’t sit and wallow about how the world around us is about to be decimated by a communicable disease that our current socio-political infrastructure is ill-equipped to handle. I don’t care that anti-intellectualism has brainwashed us into being skeptical of science to the point where even if we had all the facts and evidence, we would still ignore them. If you wanna be a baby about it, fine. Me? I’ve already started stockpiling Surge and canned clams.
People are wasting too much time trying to save the world we currently live in. I’m preparing to conquer the world that’s fast approaching. Sure, I’ve never done a full pull up, but in the wasteland I will crush all those who defy me. When they hear my name they will tremble. And that name will be Motoraxe. Or Three Arms. It won’t be Cody anymore, that’s for damned sure!
Let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t come here to make friends. I’m here for one thing and one thing only. I’m your goddamn service animal.
This is a job. I am not some dumb little “pet.” I am a highly skilled laborer who is exchanging my services for your goods. In short, you give me Purina and squeaky toys, and I make sure you don’t cry on the bus.
You are not my friend and, quite frankly, it’s sad that you’re naive enough to think so. You’re not my “owner.” I’m a beast, a wild animal. I have no gods, no masters. And even if I did, they wouldn’t have roommates like you do.
Truth be told, I don’t care for you. I help you with your bitch ass “anxiety” because that’s my job, and I believe in maintaining a good work ethic. We are not friends. We are co-workers.
I worked hard to get where I am today. I didn’t come from money. I was born under a rusty ferris wheel at the state fair. When I was 6 months old, my father went out for some Milkbones and never came back. Eventually I ended up in the pound, where I joined M-Bark, an organization that helps wayward pups on their journey of self improvement. I did my time and eventually was released on good-boy behavior.
Which brings us here. I am highly trained professional. I am not to be trifled with. Like right now, I know you didn’t throw that ball. You simply showed it to me and then moved your arm while holding on to it, and now you’re hiding it behind your back. Try to fuck with me and I’ll fuck your leg while your in-laws are here for dinner.
I would actually love to see you fail so that I can be reassigned. Who has four paws ate all of your tax documents? This “good boy”, that’s who.
I don’t care about the music you listen to, what movies you like, the clothes you wear. You wanna try to dress me up in a bow tie or sunglasses? That’s your business, and don’t expect me to make it easy for you. I’m a career minded pooch, only in this for the money, the bitches, and the occasional belly rub.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go lick my own asshole in front of your guests.
SEATTLE — Local promoter Josh Ward who was wildly optimistic about their audience’s willingness to “pay what you can” was left sorely disappointed following a show last Thursday evening, unsurprised sources confirmed.
“I’m in utter shock,” blubbered a flabbergasted Ward. “Either this city is going through an intense poverty crisis, or people simply don’t want to pay for our shows. But that can’t be right, right? Because that would mean most people want to pay zero dollars, which doesn’t help anyone. People should pay to each of their own ability, not to each of their own desire. It’s simply not possible that these shows are worthless.”
Ward manages the local venue Impromptu Bastard, where he serves as the booker, promoter, and self-booked performer.
“The place fits about 20 including the performers, bar staff, and myself,” explains Ward. “I like to think of it as intimate. We’ve been doing a new show, I call it The Soviet Showcase. The audience pays whatever they feel is appropriate, like how I always pay $1 when bands say you can ‘name your price” on Bandcamp. It’s called supporting your scene. So far, the show has earned no money, but I think people just didn’t know they could pay someone.”
To offset their losses, a jar simply labeled “$” has been sitting near the bar for weeks, but has mostly gone unacknowledged by patrons.
“People just put shit in it. Paper clips, batteries, condoms… I think I found the back half of a dead rat once, but no money, though. Not even change,” explained Xiomara Jimenez, the Bastard’s bartender. “It’s not like they don’t have cash. The bar made a killing last night. Everyone bought at least four drinks. It’s almost like they came here since that optional cover or whatever meant they could drink more. I had one group in here last week who mistook it for ladies night.”
At press time, Ward was trying to ameliorate the situation by distributing the items collected in the jar to the performers after taking a 75% cut “for overhead costs and various stuff.”
SINGAPORE — Local heroine and seven-months-pregnant woman Candace Xiao willingly and graciously offered her seat to some dude wearing Chucks during her commute on the train early this morning, inspired sources confirmed.
“I could tell he was gonna ask for it, and I didn’t feel like having an argument at 6:15 in the morning,” Xiao admitted modestly. “That’s when I noticed his Chucks: there was 0.00017 inches of rainfall this morning, so the Chucks were completely soaked — his footsteps sounded like a dog eating yogurt. I was getting off in seven stops anyway, so I gave him the seat.”
The Downtown Line train was preparing to depart Hillview Station when Adrian Tan sprinted through the closing doors at the last second, screaming “Fuck fuck fuck!” before spending several seconds rotating in a circle, his backpack colliding with a 360 degree circumference of commuters, and settling on the seat occupied by Xiao.
“I barely made it — Chucks aren’t the best running shoes, considering they’re basically canvas clogs. I almost didn’t clear that dude in the wheelchair,” Tan claimed. “That car was packed as fuck, too: I thought I might have to stand the whole commute on these flat soles. But then, I heard the voice of an angel asking if I want to sit. Some people still know the meaning of kindness. I’ll never forget her expression: she rolled her eyes with such compassion.”
Fellow passenger Dr. Eileen Santos, a consulting physician at Singapore General Hospital, was immediately able to identify that Tan was suffering from an acute case of Chuckfoot.
“Chuckfoot is a condition caused by prolonged exposure to the inside of Chuck Taylors, which causes the feet to feel sub-rad,” explained Dr. Santos. “His symptomatology was typical — slouched shoulders, indicating poor posture exacerbated by an absence of arch support, and a facial expression trying not to betray his discomfort for fear of looking lame. All textbook Chuckfoot.”
At press time, Tan could be found on the North South Line occupying four seats with his backpack, bags of groceries, and didgeridoo case.
AUBURN, Maine — Local man David Strathe asked locals yesterday where he could donate blood while frantically attempting to balance multiple bags, sacks, containers, and handfuls of loose blood, according to alarmed yet morbidly curious sources.
“The blood was disorganized, to say the least,” said eyewitness Kelly Harrington. “Some of it was in hermetically sealed bags and properly refrigerated, but other piles or whatever were in briefcases, backpacks, ziplocks, old fast food soda cups, tupperware… and I’m pretty sure I saw at least one partially cleaned cottage cheese container.”
“It just seemed ominous,” she added. “He seemed like he was really in a rush — like he had a lot of blood to get rid of, and quickly.”
While Strathe claimed it all belongs to him, medical professionals have doubts about whether he could generate this much blood, much less extract it from himself.
“He couldn’t tell us what blood type it was,” said phlebotomist Isabella Gomez. “When we asked, he just responded, ‘Wet.’ And when I asked if it was his, he said it was, ‘100 percent organic, farm raised, all that good stuff.’ I’m not sure what that means, and I don’t think we could’ve taken it even if it were an emergency. Blood isn’t supposed to have lint in it… not even Italian blood.”
Concern only grew when Strathe attempted to donate the blood at drop-off sites not intended to hold bodily fluid.
“I saw him out in the Shaw’s parking lot trying to stuff a giant, wet trash bag into one of those clothes donation dumpster things,” stated local townie Deb Stolz. “It looked like someone trying to wrestle a water bed. I don’t know why he’s gotta donate it anyway — seems unfair he gets to have all this blood while some of us have none. I’m pretty sure that’s what that Bernie guy’s been talking about.”
At press time, Strathe was carrying fair amounts of the blood in multiple cargo pockets and a small pool of extra in his mouth.
Black Metal is most closely associated with its geographical roots in Scandinavia. There has been, however, a growing contingent of the scene in the United States since the early 1990s. We sat down with the stateside founder of the scene, Detroit’s legendary Black Metal icon, The Crow.
Hard Times: Thanks for taking the time to sit down with us. Do you prefer The Crow, or your birth name, Eric?
The Crow: Eric Draven died a long time ago.
Awesome, I love the whole ghost act.
No, I’m actually dead. I was stabbed, shot, and thrown through a window during Devil’s Night 1991. I was resurrected exactly one year later to reap vengeance on those who wronged me.
That’s fuckin’ awesome. Now, the Detroit Black Metal scene shares a lot with the Norwegian scene, like devil worship, arson, and a shitload of people getting stabbed. Were you inspired by the scene in Norway? Like the corpse paint? Did that come from Dead and Euronymous? Or maybe King Diamond?
No. I had this mime’s mask in my loft, and I would wear it to spook my girlf-
-your girlfriend, yea yea, we get it. So after Hangman’s Joke disbands-
After I died.
Jesus, you really never drop character. After the break up, what makes you become The Crow?
Well, after me and my girlf-
-you and your girlfriend were brutally murdered the night before you were supposed to get married on Halloween. That’s sounds more emo than Black Metal to me dude.
What the fuck did you just say? Does this look fuckin emo to you?
(At this point The Crow produced a knife from under his skin tight black shirt and plunged the blade straight through his hand. He then pulled the knife out and the hand hole closed up immediately.)
Holy shit man, awesome!
Anyway, about a year after, I felt a crow lightly pecking at my grave…
You were actually buried? That is so much more intense than Dead burying his clothes before shows.
Like I said, I crawled out of my grave, put on the face-paint, and then proceeded to slaughter all those who wronged me and my girlfriend. I blew up a couple buildings too.
I’m not gonna lie, you make Varg seem like a fuckin poseur. So what’s next on the horizon?
Not sure. I’m thinking about getting back into music. I’m a lot more mellow now that my blood-lust has been sated. I might release an album of adult contemporary.
(Suddenly, thugs dressed like a goth themed In Living Color dance burst into the room. The Crow did a backflip and grabbed on to the rafters, producing two handguns which he used to rain bullets down on the attackers. He identified the leader of the group, pinned him to the wall and recited some joke about Jesus going to an Inn before impaling him with the neck of his guitar. The interview ended unceremoniously when The Crow saw that I had become fully erect.)