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First came the tentacle rape.

It was the beginning in a long line of horrors that OMGJeremy has subjected me to in his articles since the very beginning in 2002. (OMGJeremy.com was the site that most of us used to write for.) But you know what they say: what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger. Well, I must be invincible by now. And not only have I seen a lot, but I’ve written about a lot too, articles that have been lost to time mostly, including a review of a site that teaches women how to rape their husbands. But in 2003, I found something that managed to combine all of those and more. It’s as if all my nightmares Go-Go-Power-Morphed into some unholy Megazord and returned to feed me my own ass.

“What is it?” you’re probably asking as you close the door and open a new browser window. Why It’s none other than Furcadia — an online game that let you take on the role of an animal and interact with others in a series of dream worlds. And not surprisingly in the least, it contains the three big staples of the internet diet: furries, cybersex, and MMORPGs.

furcadia

 

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Jesus fuck it’s summer already. Well it feels like it has been summer since March, and I’m not entirely sure that there should be a single date declaring that it is indeed Summer. I simply go by the tried and true method of knowing when it gets too hot to function normally, then it’s summer. I don’t care if it’s the middle of December, if the temperature gets high enough to make me lie on the ground and give up on life, then it’s fucking summer. This is where we’re at now, and I damn well barely made it from my car to my front door yesterday before I accepted my fate and just let the sun finish destroying my will to live, which basically means it’s time to never go outside again until Winter blows in around next February.

swelter

As you can tell, I’m not a big fan of summer, though I must admit that I do despise winter a tad bit more, just for the fact that I can walk around outside in my boxers in summertime without a hint of officers threatening to take me down. I suppose that works both ways though, as the rest of the city has no problem doing so as well, along with the random assault of naked babies in grocery stores. It’s just not very appetizing to be getting my three month supply of Ramen noodles, only to see naked baby wang come flying around the corner. You also have the thousands of people who have no air conditioning, thus spending every waking moment of the Summer sitting outside, listening to country music, and hollering.

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Before actually working at a party supply store, I was unaware that there are party supplies for EVERYTHING. I had previously been under the notion that people weren’t so stupid that they would need to run out and buy a giant bull skull to complete the look of their “Tex-Mex party,” which would just end up looking like a regular party except with a giant shitty foam bull skull hanging on the wall.

herein is torture and pain

While perusing the mind-numbing amount of overpriced shit for parties, I wandered upon a section, nay, an entire AISLE, just for celebrating old people’s birthdays and such. Well, let me rephrase that since it’s not entirely the truth: An entire aisle just for mocking old people’s further decline into a miserable old age and eventually to a depressing death that will most likely be filled with memories of the time their children bought them a fake jar of Viagra for their 60th birthday.

Some would call them “gag” gifts, and I suppose they are. Only I have never seen so many, and some so completely brutal, in one area before — all for simply being old. It’s as if to say “Congratulations on living for 3/4 of a century and accomplishing more than most of us ever will, now put this chicken suit on and DANCE YOU OLD SHIT.”

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Brutal fact of life: Gaming will never, ever be as cool as it was in the late 80s/early 90s. Why? Several factors contribute to it: 80s/90s hairstyles, general inability to see how much we would laugh at ourselves in the future, etc. But the biggest thing that made the time so awesome was that it was all so new. Sure, games had been around for over a decade at that point. But after the video game crash in ’84, the future of gaming was mostly relegated to being bulletpoint features on shitty home computers from Radioshack. Then came the NES, and everything exploded. Gaming, as it turned out, was the real deal. And it wasn’t going anywhere. Suddenly the entire subculture of video games went mainstream, and few people were ready for it — especially the people that quickly saw they could make a boatload of money from them.
GamePro

Magazines based solely on games literally sprung up over night. The two most prominent being Electronic Gaming Monthly, and Gamepro. Immediately out of the gate, Gamepro seemed to be the far more “color by the numbers” magazine created by people who had no clue what to do with a game magazine, and were just throwing stuff together in a way they thought would look cool to kids. Featuring blindingly bright layouts (I still can only see in shades of neon pink thanks to Gamepro), giant cartoony art, and a general mishmash of coverage more suited for an ADHD-addled chimp.

 

Gamepro quickly garnered a reputation as being that one kid who would always scream for attention on the playground, but no one would ever come close to him for fear that he would never leave you alone again. That didn’t stop Gamepro from making money though, since this was a time when you could put out anything game-related and kids would choke it down as fast as possible. Gamepro quickly saw that their aberration of a magazine was making gobs of money, so decided to take the next logical step and made a TV show.

 

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Habbo Hotel has been around since practically the beginning of the internet as we know it. Several of us have been held in its thrall, and maybe still go back to it from time to time. Maybe we are going to it today, in the present year of 2017. At any rate, it seems like a good idea to get the boot in the door and write a first article introducing our readers to the concept, as though you don’t all secretly keep accounts there, yourselves. I have been discussing it with everyone’s favorite Southern Man, Mr. Billy Holiday (my frequent cohort at the hotel a few years ago and actually he might have been on there far more than I actually was). We have realized that there were so many happenings over so many years that there are a few articles within us about this place, this should-be-totally-defunct place. But what is it?

you can never leave

 

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Chances are you are like me and you take a lot of modern conveniences for granted. There isn’t really anything wrong with that, I guess. I mean, here in 2016 [Editor’s note: remember to change the date when we are low on content and re-post this in a year or two] we just assume such things as sanitary products, electronics, and other assorted things are our God-given and rightful property. We feel a great sense of entitlement, and therefore have really stopped appreciating these simple pleasures that keep our world up and running smoothly. It’s just hard for someone who has grown up with such things to understand…

Until you have to do without.

suffering

My friends, I had to do without recently. I didn’t have to part ways with my cell phone, or microwavable food items, or anything like that. If that was the case I’d JUST DIE! No, I had to do without something that plays a rather large role in our lives. I had to do without a goddamn shitter: the unsung hero of household items. That’s right, I had to use the toilet without having a toilet to use. You might have trouble wrapping your head around this, because really, the toilet is always there. It’s like a good, dedicated friend. You can always find comfort in its consistency. Cold, white, incredibly heavy but blissfully unaware of just how big it is, and usually full of shit. Now that I think about it, it really is just like a lot of friends I’ve had (and you have probably had as well).

But imagine briefly, that when you need that friend the most, they are nowhere to be found! That when you reach out and expect that helping hand you’ve grown so accustomed to grasping you and pulling you to safety… it doesn’t happen. Of course, I am completely to blame for the incident I am writing about. Looking back I can clearly see where I went wrong.

 

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Times are hard these days. There is no doubting this statement – they really are as hard as you think. Many of you reading this unintentionally exhaustive article in idle moments between job hunting or unemployment checks may feel discouraged to the point of melodrama. There are no good jobs. There aren’t even that many LOUSY jobs, for that matter. Getting a bit desperate to rake in a little spending cash to feed your mouth, family, addictions, or bills, you may begin to consider the ultimate in desperate sources of income: Prostitution.

amandollissa

Street Whoring is an ancient profession, dating back to caveman days, when cavewomen would wear short, sheer smilodon pelts and entice the cavemenfolk into sexual congress in exchange for brontosaurus steaks or pretty rock bracelets. Not much has changed since those glorious days, except that there are more options for the average woman or man in these modern times, and possibly more STDs to be passed around, as viruses had not been invented back then.

There are a variety of kinds of whore these days, ranging from the lowly crackwhore to the lowly camwhore to the haughty housewife. One could say that any of you working a job you do not care to perform are prostituting yourselves in another sense. Don’t worry. Nobody judges you for it, because at the end of the day, perhaps we are ALL whores, at least metaphorically. And in some places, there are legal prostitutes who have willingly joined that workforce because they love what they do, and can make a lot of money doing it. That is as good as any other job, as far as I am concerned – maybe even better in some cases! But I am actually trying to dissuade you from being the commonly accepted form of whore, here. This paragraph was probably unnecessary, but I am not in the habit of deleting anything.

 

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amanda wood masterpiece

Human babies are not pretty things. Ever. They dribble, goo, spit up, stink outrageously, and make ear-shattering screech-noises at all hours of the day. Their heads are enormous for their body sizes, and they don’t appear to have teeth or anything. They can’t even form words! Instead, they make nonsense gurgle sounds which, quite frankly, terrify me. Some babies don’t have any hair, and some unfortunate babies have far too much hair. Exceptionally ugly babies already have a unibrow. I have seen a few of them, mostly in photographs. I avoid babies as much as humanly possible, and yet, even I have been faced with the question, “Awww, isn’t he or she just the cutest thing?” Of course, it is not.

Now, I am the first to admit that I am not an expert on human infants. But I know enough to allow me to get along with my friends, relatives, or acquaintances who have decided not to terminate certain pregnancies. Lunatics though they may be, it is not my place to alienate them beyond my wildest dreams. Instead, probably because I’m a coward who doesn’t want anyone to be angry with me, I use my cunning skills of tact and deception to fool them. And when those techniques are also used in combination with the deft use of the subject change, a situation first thought to be a hopeless trainwreck will instead turn into a delightful conversation about how nice the kitchen would look if it were a lively peach color, or how we would benefit as a society if we all stopped drinking carbonated soda pops for several years, or even the possible ramifications one would experience from having made a robot that could think, act, and love just like a human. Or at least think, act, and love just like a human dog.

It is easy to see why new parents find cute in their own baby or, in the unholy event of twins or more, babies. If the baby or babies did not weave some sort of evil magical spell over their caregivers, the adults would smother them with a pillow by Day Two of the never-ending screaming, messing, eating, and screaming. Even if the parents outlasted my two day estimation, there would come a day when they would realize that that baby hadn’t stopped screaming, eating, and eliminating their foulness since birth, and it would not stop for many years yet. Eugh. I refuse to dwell any more on the horror of childbirth and human infancy, as it is making me feel too queasy. It isn’t really the new parents’ fault for shoving their baby in your face and asking you to validate whether or not it is cute. It reassures them and keeps them from some sort of soul-sucking depression and subsequent jail time. And I hear the fellas down at the state prison aren’t too friendly with baby killers. You don’t want your friends in jail, they are already paying for their birth decision enough with the actual baby itself. That is why I am here to help you out by giving you ten easy ways to avoid telling those unfortunate souls how ugly and horrible their baby actually is.

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The desire to communicate with the spirit world is not a new fad in our society. Indeed, since the very first caveman crawled from the sea, humans have been trying to find that there is more to life than running away from carnosaurs, angry herbasaurs, larger cavemen, and various stampedes. How depressed would they have been if they couldn’t believe in a spirit world, intangible to them, and yearning to share spirit secrets with the living? Cavemen begat shamans who could commune with these spirits by drinking poisonous plant mixtures and chanting a lot. Through the persuasions of these “spirits” or DEMONS, PERHAPS?!, societies were built, machines were invented, and scientific reasoning began to rule us all. I believe this is what they SHOULD teach in Sunday Schools across America, if they don’t already.

You know what ELSE is taught in Sunday Schools? That Ouija Boards are BAD. MAYBE. Do they teach that? I have actually never been to a Sunday School.

watch out its scary

But what IS a Ouija Board? It is a game, of course, made by Parker Brothers. You basically have a board with letters, numbers, and some words on it, a planchette (which is a pointing device), and two or more friends trying to put their fingers on the planchette and decide what it will spell out, while pretending that it is a spirit force doing the directing. The word “Ouija” is owned by Parker Brothers and is entirely made up. It is French and German for “yes.” A yesboard. The idea and use of “talking boards,” as they are commonly known, has been going on for a thousand years or more, but “ouija” has become like “kleenex” or “coke” these days, and I am sure the Parker Bros are happy about this, as any company would be.

 

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In the United States, as soon as winter gives way to spring, the birds start singing, the flowers begin to bloom, and every town, village, and city finds itself littered with price-tagged used belongings of its citizens who are in the throes of “Spring Cleaning Madness.” After the spring rush, the yard sales continue for various reasons: moving, destitution, punishment, masochism, and so on. Families are torn apart as they decide what items no longer hold any value, sentimental or otherwise, and then they come back together as they brave the onslaught of bargain hunting strangers who like to snoop and swindle. The yard sale is sometimes a garage sale, and sometimes it is a rummage sale. Some towns organize one big event for everyone to participate in because they prefer the chaos to be concentrated and overwhelming.

I should probably be less enthusiastic about this, but I really enjoy a good yard sale. A lot. I’m not exactly sure why, though. Perhaps it stems from the lurid fascination of rummaging through strange people’s twenty year-old collection of dust-encrusted junk that no one on Earth would ever want to purchase outside of such an event. And while virtually everything in yard sales is total and absolute shit, I simply cannot get enough of it. Besides, I honestly don’t know where you could ever have the chance to purchase used dentures for 10 cents anywhere else but a yard sale.

Because of this rabid fascination of mine, I have decided to help any of you out there who may be interested in festooning your lawn with all of your worthless junk. So let us enjoy a brief excursion into the world of American yard selling tactics in an effort to make our future yard selling efforts − no matter how few they may be − all that much better.

yardsale

 

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