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[CLICK!]
A Philosophical Sentence
I was a mere undergrad when I entered the philosophy department library, deep in thought, certain of my existence, interrupting the philosophy professors' meeting, not having been aware of the philosophy department meeting sign outside the door because it was pushed aside, finding myself well inside, intent on returning René Descartes's Meditations On First Philosophy to its perfect slot, when I looked up, horrified, but I didn't show it, not even when the department head, who was speaking, stopped, and with the other philosophy professors, some standing, some sitting, watched my slow motion show, without words for the first time in his most distinguished career, until rebuking me with a distinct
AH-AHEM!
as I, having replaced the Meditations, now more certain of my existence than even René, retraced my steps and exited the library,
AH-AHEM!
exploding in my skull, mortified as though I'd broken in on an orgy of geniuses, but, still, I did not show it, I did not, for I was a student of philosophy, and equanimity was my ideal, and all these years later, I know that I failed this test, because, though I did not show it, I was filled with anguish, and I chastised myself for my behavior for a long, long time afterward, and I know now that I should have shown it, perhaps with a quick smile, apology, and exit, as soon as I realized the context, but I also wonder why the orgy leader, in all his wisdom and grandeur, didn't just say to me,
Laddie, unless you want to drop your pants and bend over, I suggest you drop that little book in the box outside, and have a good rest of your day.
Writer’s Block For Lovecraftian Cultists
Dear Initiate,
Congratulations upon making it to, and possibly surviving, the Third Level Initiation!
We realize that after the many dreadful oaths; the threats of fates so far worse than death that human languages, in self-defense, have never found words to describe; the utter secrecy; the repeated recitation that permitting a single Mere Human know a single one of our Sacred Actions which would make the average Borgia say, “Hey, now, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”—that in light of all that stuff, it’s odd that you’re now getting your instructions from public posts on the Internet.
The fact is, the early stages of your Cthulhu Culthood are tests of sincerity, of ability to keep a secret, of not being some sort of meddling do-gooder, and also, of whether or not, if we really need someone to jump on the sacrificial altar, you’ll do your part and push someone else onto the damn thing.
But the truth is, all of the Order’s more important secrets are freely available on the Internet. We simply call them ‘fiction’. You’ve seen this before; people think that the writer is simply playing out the tired trope of pretending that their fiction is reality pretending to be fiction, but in fact, it is the lively and dynamic trope of pretending that one’s reality is fiction pretending to be reality pretending to be fiction pretending to be reality.
Got it? Great.
Now, as usual, we’ll explain the esoteric meaning of yet another seemingly-harmless not-for-the-public piece of knowledge which has now penetrated mainstream culture. As usual, they believe there are Secret Monsters everywhere; as usual, they are right; and as usual, they are terrible at detecting the actual monsters. But it keeps them too busy to find us, and they seem to enjoy it, so, hey, more power to them, eh?
While this one goes out to the writers, it’s become so prevalent (good on us!) that even most readers are aware of it: “If you’ve got writer’s block, then one cure is to sit down for 15 minutes a day, every day, and write down 15 minutes of whatever comes into your head. Even if it’s silly, even if it’s nonsense. You’ll break through the writer’s block, and start writing freely again!”
Now, those of you of the Fifth Level or higher are already chuckling, of course. Like every joke, it’s not as funny if you explain it, but we feel like you deserve to know:
All humans, as you’re aware, are capable of performing magic. It is the Psychic Censor, the part of our consciousness which isn’t mapped in our brains, but hangs out near our astral centers of projection, which saves us from ourselves. It’s why you can say “DAMN YOU!” without immediately opening up a rift between here and Hell and sucking your enemy straight down to the 9th Level and automatically enslaving you to Something unspeakable an appropriate tax. It’s why we don’t all win the lottery, thus bankrupting whatever state might have provided the lottery ticket. It’s why most attempts to wield The Force end up as nothing more than foolish wand-waving.
Now we, ourselves, aren’t exactly interested in Magic in general, except (as with everything else in this world) as a means to an end. Obviously, we want to use sorcery to bring about the thing we’ve wanted for millennia: an opening of the gates between Here and There, which will bring our Eldritch Masters through the Purple Spiral and into this world.
But we just can’t find the right combination of words to do it.
Every time we try, we go mad.
People keep talking about the brilliant Abdul Alhazred, and, of course, we all revere him, so much as we revere any members of the puny race whose only purpose is to be extinguished that we may feed the hunger of the Great Old Ones. But, like most people who managed to disable his Psychic Censor sufficient to intentionally write something monstrous, he went mad and was, as we all know, shredded by invisible demons in broad daylight.
Don’t worry. It won’t happen to you. You’ll be different.
But in the meantime, the best thing for us would be for some human who is ignorant of That Which Lurks Beyond to do the summoning for us.
And many have come close. Many writers, doing this exercise day after day for a few weeks, begin feeling peculiar emotions and hearing strange sounds; most of all, cats and dogs and other household pets (unless they’re snakes, obviously) begin to act very alarmed during the writing process.
So far, none have quite succeeded. Either they’ve broken the writer’s block just before opening the gate, or they’ve opened it only long enough for the writers, themselves, to be sucked through—and then it shuts again. This scarcely ever happens, and when it does, we try to provide homunculi as substitutes. (Sorry about Mr. Martin; we were looking forward to reading the end of that series as much as you were.)
But if you keep encouraging people to just relax, sit down, and write or type, and let whatever’s within come out…
…as you know, that’s one invitation magic can never resist. So far, it’s mostly just made the world a lot more surreal, but that’s okay. We’ve waited for millennia.
We can wait a little longer.
In conclusion, if you ever have writer’s block, it’s definitely your mind torturing you with a lack of words because it’s mean, and certainly not your mind trying to save you from yourself. So break through the…barrier. That way you can do lots and lots of writing. You can write ’til the end of the world, if you want.
That’s just an expression, of course.
The grating sound of my teeth makes it's treacherous way to my ears as I storm out of the corporate building and onto the bright street.
I wish I could say pathetic fallacy because I feel pretty pathetic right now but I can't because if this was a pathetic fallacy then it would be raining or something.
How could they do this to me! The moronic boss man-- no sorry, IDIOT didn't take my interview into consideration as soon as I delivered it, like a perfect performance at a concert, he was all like, "No, this dumb corporation has a better idea! We're going to hire an idiot because we need to present a united front. Sorry!"
I kick a small Pepsi can as I walk to the bus stop. Then I realize that my reaction wasn't big enough so I take off my coat and trample it because why would I need it now? If they can't recognize my obvious genius then who would?! Now I need to go live in the suburbs and become a cashier at a Walmart! I ruffle up my short brown hair and decide that a proper reaction would be to walk it off like an adult. But I guess only proper people can work at big companies so I scream into my elbow.
Some teenagers across the street are filming me so I give them the finger.
"Hey!" I look up and see a homeless man beckoning to me from the bus stop.
I roll my eyes, "I don't have any money, hipster."
The man grins amusedly, "I wasn't asking for money, bougie." He points to my coat, "Can you pick that up and bring it to me?"
I take a step back with shock, "No! That's my coat!"
The man's smile turns wry, "It didn't look like it."
I pick up my coat, make a show of putting it on and walk over the bus stop and set myself down right next to him, "My coat."
The man shrugs, "You seem pretty down. Tell you what. If I can make you smile, will you give me your coat?"
I turn to him, a huge frown on my face, "You can try.
"I have a knock-knock joke but you have to start it."
I roll my eyes again, "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused.
We stare at each other in completely bewilderment for a beat.
When I get on the bus I am without a coat.
Welp...Fuck me, I guess.
I'd like to start with two statements of fact: 1) I fucking nailed that shit, and 2) I'm an asshole.
Should've been hired. Should've been fine dining with my newly raised salary by now, but no. Why? You ask. I'll tell you why. Because of fucking Derek! Derek, for lack of a better term, is a fucking cunt. Pardon me. I'm sorry. I'm not, but I am, if you know what I mean. Because he is actually a bitch with a capital C. For context, here's is my (very apt-and not biased at all) description of Derek: tall muscley guy who wears shirts three sizes too small, always stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels so as to subtly thrust his junk in the direction of anyone who's unlucky enough to be trapped in unwanted conversations about his latest investment pursuits or protein shakes, and smells like cabbage farts. I'm not wrong, ask Lenny (my completely unbiased friend who just so happens to not work in the office and has never met Derek). I'm a reliable narrator. You'll just have to trust me on that.
Anywho, Derek got the promotion...Why? Couldn't fucking tell you, but do you wanna know who can? Stanley. Stanley can. Who's Stanley, you ask? Well, if you'd calm the fuck down for a second, I'll tell you. Stanley is the homeless man I vented to whilst not drunk at all waiting for the blue line to arrive. For the record, I'd like to say, that I'm handling this whole thing very well. Anyway, do you wanna know what Stanley pointed out to me when I relayed my woes? Stanley said, "Wanna know what I think?" I don't recall giving my consent for the continuation, but continue he did, saying, "I think you'd be pretty pissed off if I showed up at your house unannounced and dropped all my emotional baggage in your lap, and that's why Derek got the promotion." And then he motioned for me to get off his bench.
Cancelled For A Laugh
Disclaimer: Please note that I am following the prompt here and pushing the tasteless envelope. Shallowgenepool neither subscribes to this kinda bullshit nor tolerates it. You'd have to watch FOX News for that level of ignorant, stupid, sincerity.
With dread, I look out at the audience to find they aren't laughing. They're greeting my jokes with the same amount of enthusiasm as a hooker greets micro-dicked client number fifty at a one-night NRA convention. If I can't get them laughing soon, things will turn uglier than a cancerous growth on a pigs butt. Really, ducking hostilely thrown watered down $20 Long Island iced teas isn't the way I wanted to end the night.
Inner Monologue: "Fuck! A necrophiliac has a better chance of making a corpse cum than I do of making the audience laugh with this new material. Time to switch gears. It's that or give up the new Porsche, the luxury condo, and the Norwegian, double jointed, sexually adventurous supermodel that's warming my bed. Fuck it. I'll probably go straight to hell for this, but here goes nothing."
To the audience: "I just don't understand what is wrong with people these days. Remember the good old days when it was okay to make fun of those different or less fortunate than ourselves? Well frankly, I'm sick of having to be sensitive to the plight of others. Admit it, this new kinder, gentler society is fucking boring!
So, I say we should make the weak and unfortunate toughen up by our brutal, but hilarious criticisms. For example, let's go back to picking on the fat kid at school. Nothing is funnier than squealing like a pig at the size XXXXL Sears Husky brand jeans wearing porker in the lunchroom. After all, they're an easy target and humiliating them can make school lunchtime fun! If they don't want to be picked on as they're oozing their way towards their lonely cafeteria table laden down with thirty thousand calories worth of meat loaf, imitation mashed potatoes, and four puddin' cups, then they should do a fucking pushup from time to time. And by push up, I don't mean the orange sherbet filled toilet paper roll with a stick you get from an ice cream truck!
Really, why shouldn't we get a laugh at the expense of the fat kid who by the time he's ten fucking years old has man boobs that rival Dolly Parton's gravity and age defying massive mammary mounds? Is it our fault the fat Shamu-looking fuck has to Crisco himself into the boy's bathroom stall so that he can cry his gravy laced tears because he's being picked on for having the water displacement of an aircraft carrier and doesn't have any friends? I think not!
Don't even get me started on the homeless! Why do we care that they're sleeping out in the open? Think about it! Many of us homed people will plan vacations and spend a lot of money for the chance to sleep out in the open just like the homeless. It's called fucking camping! So basically, the homeless get to do what those of us with jobs and homes have to pay for. So, we're supposed to feel bad for them? Their lives are one endless fucking vacation! I think we should stop calling them homeless and start calling them camping privileged!
Every time you turn on the news nowadays you see stories about, "War Torn Refugees." Why are we supposed to care? They can take care of their situation all by themselves! All these folks need to do is connect with one of the war correspondents and have them hook them up with an Only Fans page. You know there's a lot of sick 40 year old virgins out there who live in their parent's basement that would love to whack it to some malnourished, ribs showing, cholera plagued hottie in some Third World country. Well, so long as they still have teeth. Fuck, I bet they'd even be able to ignore the bombs falling in the background! These, "War Torn Refugees" need to take the initiative! Fuck, I bet a month after they start their Only Fans page they can afford to charter a LearJet, purchase citizenship, move the the United States, vote fucking Republican, and live the American fucking Dream!
Everyone in the audience is now laughing. They're making sure everyone else is laughing because they don't want to be seen as a hateful dick, but they're laughing.
To the audience: That's my set folks! Don't forget to tip your servers. Don't drink and drive. Oh, and don't forget to check out my Netflix Special, 'Shallowgenepool: Rubbing One Out In Front of a Live Audience' streaming soon!'"
Chalk Up Your Deductions Before Tax Day
Just because I'm a hitman doesn't mean I'll cheat the government. I follow the rules. I report all of my earnings.
My victims? Let's just say they didn't follow the rules. Somebody's, anyway. They screwed up either by design or because of fecklessness, but that's not my problem. I perform a service and once rendered, I'm paid and paid well.
It's not cheap being a hitman. You need to travel. A lot. And I'm not the type of guy to ride coach. Hell, I wanna take out half the people sitting next to me who feel they gotta yap-yap-yap all flight long. And that armrest hog, well, why, I could... It's why I fly first class.
I don't work for free or for me. I'm not putting any marks on people I'm not paid to "do."
And I don't work for my anger; I work for other people's anger. I just take my assignments, get paid, and file my taxes like any other red-blooded American 2nd-Amendment champion.
This year I'm going to take deductions. I pay taxes and I'm entitled to take any legal deduction allowed, right? Why should I have to leave money on the table? If Big Tobacco CEOs are allowed to deduct, with all the death they broker every day, then I should be able, too.
A very nice gun can cost a coupla K. Trump ended the depreciation of durable equipment, so I can deduct the entire amount instead of just depreciating it over years like before. I wonder if it was guns he had in mind when he changed that tax law. I'm not complaining.
When I considered deducting the cost of my bullets, I decided not to. For one thing, the government may not even flinch about deducting a gun, but they're sure gonna be curious about bullets. Second, I only go through about three or four very well-placed bullets a week--I mean how much could that really amount to?
So yes, I work for a living. And yes, I pay my taxes. And no, I don't take anyone down for personal reasons, just business. I just wonder how that jives for the guy they said was coming to audit me.
Outrage Over Controversial Winners, Dancing With the Czars
POLITICO NEWS FEED: February 24, 2024
VLADIMIR PUTIN LOSES A SQUEAKER ON DANCING WITH THE STARS
Tuesday's Dancing with the Stars was the most highly-rated broadcast in dance history. Nielsen rated the ABC show's points/share highly, even suffering from Russian TVs typically being "black & white" cathode ray types.
Guest dancer, Russian President-for-Life Vladimir Putin, paired with Congresswoman-for-Life-As-We-Know-It-in-Georgia Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA 14th District), didn't disappoint. Not that their rivals evoked any less notoriety...
1. Donald Trump/Stormy Daniels,
2. Funnyman Kim Jun Un and legitimate daughter, "Precious" Ju Ae,
and the
3. Cause Célèbre of the year, Woody Allen with Mia Farrow.
The show began with immediate controversy when both Allen and Farrow were stricken with Polonium-210 toxicity. Supporters of the duo were quick to raise objections, given Putin's recent interest in biochemistry. (He received an honorary PhD from Leningrad University, along with a collapsing ovation.)
But where were Donald and Stormy when called to perform?
They had been rehearsing "privately" for weeks in the Marjorie Taylor "Green Room," but to no-show just presented poor showmanship. Said Donald, "The show must go on, but I say where!"
Kim and Ju's magnificent "Gangnam Style" wasn't just a dance, but a celebration, in true TerpsiKorean inspiration, of a horse-riding, galloping metaphor for the multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles (MIRVs) Kim has been firing over Japan, complete with a pyrotechnics climax (which, we understand, coincided with Stormy's climax backstage in the Green Room, vide supra).
Finally, Vladimir kicked like a Steppes wildman, doing his Prisyadka, the traditional Russian dance, which at one point connected with Greene and sent her ass to the floor, after which Vlad pumped a fist and shouted, "DA!"
When Vlad and Marjorie placed second (to Donald and Stormy--go figure!), the UN Security Council immediately passed a condemnation resolution:
"It's true he might've poisoned rivals (allegedly), and he may have brought down a plane or two (allegedly), and may have invaded sovereign nations (allegedly), and committed countless "alleged" murders with the KGB, but does politics have to enter the arts? Is nothing sacred?"
Unfortunately, the post-victory interviews were not televised due to a technical glitch involving strafing of the judges' desk before "going to commercial," a network trick and inside joke Russian networks have mastered.
We Are Sims
I stopped being serious because laughter is the only way to healthily process the absurdity of existence. Being depressed about it didn't help, so I've chosen to be blissfully happy. It's pretty damn cool over here, where I don't check the news and have no idea what's going on in the world. I mean, we lose socks in our washing machines like they've been sucked into another dimension. We keep animals in our houses and treat them as our children. We allow ourselves to be bullied by cats, and we all have something we're worried about today. We have to pay money to exist even though we didn't ask to be born. (Laughter helps me cope with this). We are sims living in a stimulation, continuing to go to work and hang out with our friends while we wonder where the world is headed. Where was I going with this? I don't remember. I'm not panicked about the state of the world at all. Me? Panicked? Never!
The Joke’s On Me
I can't believe it! I nailed the interview. The guy had no more questions for me after only 15 minutes. I made him laugh. I made him agree with me. My resumé, he said, was "sterling." And there was only one other candidate in the waiting room with me when I was called in. Slim pickings. How hard was it to beat out only one other guy? And look at him! He looked like a homeless guy. Smelled of alcohol. Tertiary smoke exposure stinking up the whole room. Shiny clothes that could stand up by themselves.
When I left my interview, exchanging with the other guy, I didn't leave. I re-sat. I wanted to see how long it'd take before the guy was thrown out on his ass. I wanted to hear the yelling that was certainly forthcoming.
Ten minutes went by. Twenty. An hour. I heard the man--the deciding man--laughing uproariously. Could this be happening? Was this guy his son or another relative?
I heard chairs shuffling and then the door opened. The "man," the deciding man, had one hand on the doorknob of the door he was opening and the other in a firm handshake with they guy.
"Then, Monday?" the man, the goddamn deciding man, asked, to confirm.
"I'm looking forward to it," the disheveled, stinky, dirty miscreant said through what few teeth he still had in his head.
The man, the fucking deciding man, returned to his office, closing the door behind him. Mr. Homeless walked over to me and held out both his palms, an announcement of expectations realized. Like, what'd you expect?
"Congratulations," I offered tersely and got the hell out of there.
At the bus stop, I melted into the bench, sorting out my loser life. Would I ever get a decent job. I gave up the one I had because I knew I could do better. Could I? Ever?
That's when he--the same guy--plopped down on the bench with me.
"Sorry for your loss," he offered.
"Who died?" I asked sarcastically.
"You, a little bit, don't you think?"
"Great. I have a philosopher here. Harvard?"
"No. Y'know, school of hard knocks."
"I know that school," I scoffed. "I plan to pledge a fraternity there."
"Need something to lighten the mood?" he asked.
"Not unless you're declining that job. I'd be happy to take your place as next in line."
"No chance. But here's a little joke..."
Murder was still illegal, so I just said, "I'm listening."
He pulled out a cracked mirror from his soiled coat's pocket and held in front of my face.
"That's me," I said, waving away his mirror.
"That's the joke. You're the joke. But it's a joke you'll never get." He paused, then said, "You can start laughing any time."
So, I did. Why? Why did I laugh? It was funny, that's why. Very funny. I was a big joke. I just had never gotten to the punchline yet.
"Thanks for the giggle," I said, but I had tears in my eyes.
"Know what? I'm gonna by you a drink. You could use one." He rose and offered his hand to help me up.
"Sure can," I said. "Why not," I said in resignation.
We both stood up and began to walk across the street toward the bar on the corner there.
A homeless guy and an imposter walk into a bar...