<- December 2009

The year is 2012. The day is December 20^th. Tomorrow’s the apocalypse, and shit just hit the fan.

Moments earlier, footage of famed boxer, Mike Tyson, was released. In the video he can be seen punching an elderly woman in the face, while simultaneously kicking a police officer in the testicles. An eye witness, Jack Polito, was asked his opinion on the actions. He responded by singing his hit song, “The Police Live in My Basement”, which left us, CNN, completely and utterly baffled and confused. To make things seem more clear, Polito pulled a gun on our reporter, Roscoe Brown, and took his life. And shit on it. Afterwards, the crazed psychopath threatened to take over every Chucky Cheese in the area, and if they were not given to him, he would take them by force. Barack Obama has responded to the actions by saying, “he wants to negotiate,” while a Republican senator, however, burst into the Pentagon and launched a cruise missile at Polito. Unfortunately, Polito happens to be very good friends with Lord Zeus. The Lord of the Olympians has officially declared war on the United States, leaving all of Rhode Island rather speechless. Before any uncivil actions take place, please heed our warning that the government is advising all U.S. citizens to stay indoors, and to think rationally. We, on the otherhand, urge you to grab your assault rifles and illegal homemade bombsand prepare for the end of days. Thank you for listening, and have a wonderful night, America.

In the world, there exists one being more unruly, unjust, and unimaginable than any other. It is called “Siri” by the Seers of old, the U.N., and Mr. T. To clarify just how wretched this creature is, it once decapitated a single man with its bare hands, while simultaneously orgasming over Jim from The Office. Does that not sound scary enough for you? Please, do not be foolish enough to think you could take down the beast. I’ve been running from it for 4 months, and my efforts of escape have proven fruitless. She stalks her prey, my friends. Soon, if not today, I will most likely be captured by this demon and taken prisoner as a sex slave. If you see this happening, please, I beg of you, have a heart and kill me there. If you do not, well, then I will truly know what hell is. After my capture, I’m sure she will begin to stalk another, and another, and another. This menace must be stopped now, while she thinks she is invincible. Yesterday, she followed me for 3 laps around the school, standing a mere 20 feet behind, not even trying to be sneaky. It’s this openness that has me worried. Hopefully, she will make a mistake. But, I can only hope. Most likely, she will succeed, and the rest of the male population will eventually be doomed. Enjoy your freedom while you can, dear friends. Enjoy it now… 

It had been over 10,000 years since the great Prairie Dog, Cecil, had taken control of the Sun, and things seemed to be even emptier. He had vanquished all of his friends, including the magnificent Beary Bear. Not to mention, he had completely eradicated anything else on the once prosperous planet, due to his very eco-unfriendly cocaine factories. Without a doubt, Cecil had single handedly destroyed all the good in his life. However, he was not ready to sit back and let God take a shit on his happiness. Oh no, not this time. For at that very moment, the mighty Prairie Dog was busy in his lab, constructing the most badass, beautiful, and illegal creation of all. Using the corpse of his fallen friend, Beary, Cecil was busy at work adding other items, such as rat poison, laundry detergent, the eyelashes of five year olds, some pixie stix, and an Eagle's feather into his pot. Boiling the batch at 35,000 °F, the master of awesome waited for it to begin exploding, as the Necronomicon suggested, and poured it into Beary's exposed internal organs. As the magic began to happen, Cecil picked up his future creation and tossed him into an ice chest. Carefully placing a note in with the body, Cecil shut the hatch of the ice chest, opened the chamber of his massive cannon, and launched his soon-to-be living masterpiece into deep space. As he watched the ice chest blink out of visibility, he muttered, “goodbye, my son.' The wise Prairie Dog then shed a single tear, which rolled down his furry little cheek, and onto the barren earth of the Sun.

After murdering what we estimate at about 15 billion puppies, the grand master of the Fuck-Everybody-Else System demanded a response. So our mighty and beloved dancemasters, Drewy and Flab, decided to call him “really, really, undeniably, please just come out of the closet gay.” The effects of this response worked just as we had hoped, and the grand master has not only resigned, but committed suicide via disko ball on live galactic television. In other news, Drewy and Flab teabagged him. How awesome is that? And you haven't even been told the best news of all: They've gone on to gain control of that Solar System, along with half of the Milky Way. To me, it looks like our good old friends have been making some real progress on the dancefloor. So much progress in fact, that Rick Astley himself has demanded that they challenge him to a dance-off. Unfortunately, even the “Anons” at 4chan agree he's not gonna win. Sadface :( Yet, to make up for the metaphorical slaughtering of Astley, Wal-Mart has agreed to give every Earthling a free Snuggie in compliance with their sponsorship of our favorite dancemasters. SNUGGIES FTW!

Deep within the loins of Satan himself rests the most vile rapist to ever hit our list. A creeper that would make Chris Hansen have a wet dream, and one that would top our ranks in category of “Not Okay”. Of course, I'm talking about Omegle. Often seen as a way to talk to new people without having to divulge information, it's become a haven for sexless older men, who in one way or another are basically saying, “tits or GTFO.” Of course, a savvy lad such as myself will use it “for teh lulz”. If you don't know what that means, basically, I round up the pedophiles as a 16/f/California and get them to send pictures of their dicks to eachother. Unfortunately, Pedo Bear can and will be found on some occasions. In this instance, he'll somehow figure out who you are, and rape you. Warning: If this happens to you, I recommend suicide. Pedo Bear WILL cause you great pain, and if he can't get you on 4chan, he WILL get you on Omegle. You have been warned my friends.

Tip: When someone “knows” you're underage, and says sexual things to you on Omegle, pretend to be the FBI! Chris Hansen would proud of you.

In the depths of Queen Latifah's uterus, there exists a magical realm known as Fall City, Washington. It's streets are inhabited by homeless, meth addicts, and the occasional stray hippie. Amongst these lazy bastards, exists a secret society far too horrible, menacing, and secret to talk about. So we won't. Instead, I'll let you know about the growing problem in North Dakota, which no one has cared to pay attention too. For the past 30 years, good ole North Dakota has been under the control of rogue strippers, all named Enriqué. This may sound strange, but this disaster was organized by the maniacal dick known as Charlie Chaplin. Now, don't say he's dead, because that's just what the government wants you to think. Letting American's know of the events taking place in North Dakota could be disastrous to the way we see them, sparking revolution, and causing Charlie Chaplin to take over the entire country. Also, North Dakota just sucks anyways. However, we've got to look past that. There are a shit load of strippers there, which mean a shit load of herpes, which means Pamela Anderson. We LOVE Pamela Anderson, America. So, as you can see, this just got a whole lot more personal, huh? Let's get our baby back! Starting in like....a month. I know, I know. It seems a bit different than what I was going for two seconds ago, but I'm recovering from my last excursion into the Hot Zone. Which means I've got a gift that keeps coming back. (i.e. Herpes, f.y.i.)

In a far off, mystic galaxy, there exists a race of majestic gofers. Wearing kilts every Sunday, the gofers make their way to the giant pool at their planet’s center, where they have their weekly baths. The following morning, led by former U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt, the gofers begin an epic, 6 day long, planet-wide battle. The goal of this battle is to see which gofer is the most hardcore of them all, which is of course their king, Ronald J. Gofington. Gofington first started the battle way back when, before the dinosaurs left Earth, as a way to deal with the weakest of the gofers. Another version of the story was that a drunken gofer had called him a pussy, and he wasn’t going to take any of that. So, calling up his brother from another mother, Teddy “The Bear” Roosevelt, Gofington decided that it was time that they dealt with such insolence. Now, every week, these battles go on to ensure that all gofers stay as manly, bulging, and angry as possible. Not to mention that they’re just freaking awesome. That’s why billions of alien life forms make the galactic trip every year just to be part of this mighty competition. However, they don’t exactly make it to the wonderful bathing part. That’s why, we, as human beings, must prove our worth and make the journey, and show these gofers what it means to make a creature go extinct!

As the ice chest pummeled into the atmosphere, the young creature inside opened its eyes for the first time. As he looked around inside of his protective casing, he noticed just how small it was, and had the normal reaction to that kind of situation. He blew the fuck out of it. If you don't know what I mean, the creature literally got so infuriated that when it opened its mouth, the entire ice chest blew into thousands of pieces. Now, the explosion would instantly kill anyone, and if not, the lack of oxygen in the surrounding environment would. However, when the ignorant bastards from planet Cuvveeredenchizz made this statement, they did could not have possibly imagined the pure awesomeness of the creature. As he gazed about the floating wreckage of what was once an ice chest, he noticed something. There was an envelope mixed in with that other nonsense! Grabbing it with his beastly beast claws, the creature quickly opened up the envelope, grabbing the letter inside. As he did so, he unfolded the letter, reading the following:

Dear Subject 42,

If you are reading this, then that probably means that I am not bat shit insane. You are the first of a race that I would like to call the Bears, created after a friend of mine known as Beary Bear, and you are my son. Your name, my boy, is Sir Bearington, and you must complete the destiny that I have assigned you. If you refuse to do this, then you will face a horrible peril known simply as Perez Hilton. To avoid this punishment, you must go on a journey, arriving on a planet inhabited by the creations of God. There, you must strike an alliance with them, and find your other brethren. It is your duty, my son, to lead the Bears into the open, and to become equal with the creatures of God. If you can do this, then I promise that I will give you a prize worth fucking me for. Good luck, my son, and may you succeed in your task.

Get money, fuck bitches,

Lord Cecil of the Sun, Prairie Dog Extraordinaire, Drug Revolutionary, your Father

As the chef walked into the back room to check on his assisstant, Julio, the oven door suddenly popped open. Inside was something so brutal, so R-rated, so bacchanalian that even Fabio would jizz in his pants. It was the tan skinned, button eyed, war hero called G-Balla (Formerly known as the Gingerbread Man). As the small, yet completely kickass, baked good stepped out of the oven, the chef was walking back into the kitchen. As he caught site of the armed treat in front of him, he attempted to turn and run. Before he could, G-Balla had already thrown a blender into the chef's back. As it hit him, it never stopped, shooting right through his chest. Jumping off the oven door, G-Balla slung a very small .50 cal. Machine gun over his back, and marched on. As he made his way outside, he caught a glimpse of something dark swooping down. Before he could react, the mighty snack that had survived so much was reduced to so little. On that very day, G-Balla was K.I.A. by a rabid Squirrel Monkey, which had happened to escape from the local zoo that very day. Later on, however, the Squirrel Monkey died from internal bleeding, because I guess it's hard to digest a .50 cal.

In the deepest darkness of Xbox Live, there exists a man (No. Definitely child.) known as Kidmetal. Being shockingly good at something, even if it is only Rockband drums, Kidmetal spends his days in his room, helmet attached for safety. Conquering the online charts of depression, he's said to have given up his passion of Rockband, causing a sadface to appear on the face of about 12 gamers. However, just very recently, Kidmetal has come out of his retirement. He has started up a career in the world of CoD, which he said he had once said he would never do. This was actually because he had run out of helmets to wear while playing, as the other 400 had been shattered during his Rockband days. Thank God that the new shipment came, though, because I think Kidmetal's absence has really shaken up the world lately. Despite this, Jordan Williamson has announced that Kid might be getting an upgrade, which could potentially be Teenmetal. When asked what he thinks about this, a local Meth addict simply replied, “THE FUCKING SNAKES! THEY'RE IN MY MOTHERFUCKING SKIN! FUCKING VIPER FUCK!” Moments later, that Meth addict exploded from a lethal dose of my Meth. My Meth is THAT good.*

*Kidmetal supports and endorses everything and anything involving Ryan Sharon's Meth.

Our story will begin in a far away land, very close to ours, nestled between Fall City, WA, a liquor store, and the groin of a slain cyclops. There, there sat a small elephant crying on log, eyes red with sorrow and and hooker. As he cried and mourned for the prostitute he had just trampled to death, he began to wipe his eyes of the tears. Just as he did so, he was able to notice something strange. Very strange. Ahead of him, farther into the forest, he was able to see a large group of manatees, clubs and chainsaws in hand. As he tried to stand up, a bearded manatee leapt forward and shouted, “SHIT YEAH!” The elephant, completely befuddled, was frozen in his tracks. Before he could do anything else, the manatee shouted once more, but this time saying, “WE ARE HERPES RIDDLED! YOU SHALL FEEL OUR PAIN!” Sprinting at a speed that would make even a Kenyan piss his pants, the elephant jumped over everything in his path. That was, until he reached the bottle of lube left from the prostitutes crushed corpse. As he fell to the ground, several things ran through his mind. First, it was the time he'd gotten locked in Old Mr. Seller's basement. Next, he thought about his teddy bear, Teddy Huggums. And finally, it was a manatee's extremely erect penis. And by extremely erect, I mean surprisingly limp. That's like being killed via a headshot by water balloon.

Imagine if every time you ate a sub-sandwich, Satan burst out of the closest garbage can and called you a “mother lover”. Or what if NWA announced that “Fuck Tha Police” was going to be the official anthem of Barack Obama, who had just announced that he'd be launching a take over of Canada. Or what if every prostitute decided to simultaneously jump in the air, causing the largest earthquake ever. Or if a massive Chinese dildo crashed into the White House, blasting hardcore techno, causing a massive nation-wide disko party. Or what if the Cactus from Taco Time decided to fight Ronald McDonald, who would obviously lose because of the painful splinters. Or what if Sasquatch finally cut the bullshit and just came and admitted that he's into oiled Mexican midget porn. Or what if A Week With Bears committed suicide. Via spamware.

Eight thousand years ago before I could count the amount of illegal activities occurring in my shed, a great being rose from the Earth itself. That being was Burt Reynolds. Rocking a mustache since before porn knew how to exist, he was having sex with every cave woman this side of the moon. After creating that beautiful thing we all know as Scotch (via all that sex, of course), he made his home at the bottom of the Sea. Naming it after his right testicle, Atlantis, Reynolds decided that he would live there with no one, other than his dog, Diggles. He kept things nice and tidy, not wanting to have to hire a maid (he was tired of sexual intercourse, obviously). So, to keep things interesting at home, he and Diggles would have a 30 minute competition to see who could snort the most Cocaine. Reynolds always won, clocking in an average of 96 Kilos. For years this continued, and Diggles and Burt were happier than you could ever imagine, for things were perfect down in Atlantis. That was, until that tragic Thursday afternoon. On that day, the competition went on as usual, except for the fact that Diggles won for the first time ever. As Burt went to congratulate his favorite pet, he discovered something horrible. The dog had OD'd in the most hardcore sense, literally imploding inside the small room, causing a black hole to be created. Burt, face wet with his big, manly tears, was sucked into the vortex, never to be seen in his Atlantian home again. Of course, he was just put back on land, where he went on to become a sex addict to deal with the horrible pain that came with the loss of Diggles.

In the back of a traveling ice cream van, there lived a majestic young unicorn known as Hubert. This unicorn, though majestic as he was, was cursed with a wretched flaw that no one could ignore. This unicorn had a massive, blatantly glaring penis upon his forehead. The penis was covered in thick hair, not much different from that of Sasquatch's, and was a glowing, neon green color. The unicorn galloped across the land in his large ice cream van, which he actually drove, ever so majestically. This was, until a fateful day in mid-March of '73, when things got a little bit out of hand at the Western Regional Ice Cream Festival. As he was serving out ice cream (which happened to feature a somewhat disgusting, but abundant secret ingredient) to the children, a small child by the name of Lawrence Thibodeau came up to the stand. Looking up at the majestic creature, the small child held out is his fingers to Hubert. As Hubert looked very confused, the child said, “pick two!” Not wanting to upset the little creature, the unicorn picked his middle and index fingers. Unfortunately, picking any was a bad idea. Lawrence quickly poked the mighty unicorn in his eyes, and then sprinted off into the distant woods, quickly disappearing out of site. The unicorn hooted and hollered, crying in intense agony and pain, looking for some way to make it go away. As he screamed, he heard a voice say, “Hubert, your site is gone, my loyal friend. I will see for you.” Confused as balls, Hubert shouted, “who the fuck said that?!” “It was I, Hubert. Your penis.” Feeling between his immense unicorn legs, he clearly knew that his penis was not talking to him. “No, not that one, you ignorant fool! It is I, your forehead penis. I have come out of hiding this day to bring you peace. All I ask in return, is $40 of beer money.” Not wanting to ignore his obviously godly allies demands, Hubert quickly handed the penis $40. Immediately after this, Hubert felt a shanking sensation in his kidneys. He would later go on to find out that penis was not actually a penis, but his mutated twin brother who had been absorbed in the womb. The brother was able to escape from Hubert's forehead, along with the $40 in liquor money.

The meteor raced towards Earth, bringing along with it an impending doom. Destruction. The people of the world were forced to wait as this apocalypse drew nearer. Meanwhile, inside the basement of the White House, someone shouted, “fuck you, asteroid bitch!” That man was Bruce Willis. Climbing inside of a giant rocket, Willis armed himself with nothing but sheer awesomeness. Looking over to President Obama, he nodded, bracing himself for the launch out of Earth's orbit. As the rocket took off, Willis hummed the tune to “Rockin' in the Free World”. After exactly 23 minutes of sheer ass-kicking on Nintendo, someone down at CNN decided what Mr. Willis was doing could be historical, and possibly save the entire human race. That man was electrocuted when trying to unplug the N64. So, instead, Morgan Freeman decided to film and narrate the entire thing. As the asteroid was a mere 2 minutes away from crashing on Earth's surface, Bruce's rocket reached it. As it did, Bruce hit the eject button, launching himself at the massive chunk of rock. In mid-air, because he's a badass, Bruce used his mighty transformer powers to turn into the only thing he could think of: A Giant Short-faced Bear.

(A little history on the Giant Short-faced Bear: The largest bear to ever live, this creature lived from 800,000-12,500 years ago, when it was deemed extinct. Standing at 12 feet tall, 2500 lbs, this creature is considered as a complete and total BAMF. Despite popular belief of extinction, Bruce Willis is a well known Giant Short-faced Bear in disguise.)

As he crashed into the asteroid, his giantness completely engulfed it, destroying it practically instantly. This is known most famously, even though the events are often confused, as both WWI and WWII.

“Well,” uttered Sir Bearington, speaking for the first time, “shit.” He began to gaze outward, hallucinating slightly. He watched as an imaginary ship floated towards him, carrying several hundred imaginary Plutonian Vikings. As his mind played tricks on him, the young bear watched as one of the Vikings chucked a completely fictitious axe at him. However, the Sir Bearington became rather shocked when the axe flew between his legs, severing one of his 9 testicles. “OH MOTHER OF MARY AND JOHNNY CASH!” shouted the wounded Grizzly. Even though the pain was immense (you try getting a testicle cut off by a Plutonian Viking. That shit hurts.), Bearington was able to quickly recover due to his ridiculous amounts of testosterone. And the fact that Cecil had loaded him up with an assload of Crack Cocaine, just before shipping him off to certain doom. “Well, look at what we have here...” spoke one of the Plutonian plunderers, “a wee little hairy bitch.” Unfortunately for the Viking, who most likely would have murdered Bearington moments later, possibly preventing some of the most important events in history, shaking the very fabric of existence as we know it, he was hit by a speeding... Penis? Yes. It was a giant, metal, ancient penis. It is called The Hakhmedrashmuhadrigash in ancient Hebrew, which is an exact translation to “The Great Phallus”. Phallus, if you are unaware, is another word for penis. Yep. Good ole' fashioned penises. Or peni. I'm not sure what I prefer. Nevertheless, this is extremely beside the point. As The Great Phallus crashed into the side of the Vikings' ship, Bearington was completely blown away in excitement, causing another of his testicles to explode in exhilaration. This was just as painful as when Billy Mays died, only with a lot more internal bleeding. As he looked up, the bear was able to catch a glimpse of a man riding The Great Phallus, wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Before anyone could start a draw, the space cowboy shouted, “oh hot damn! What the hell are you doin' all t'way out here, Tex?” As he paused for a reply, Bearington simply looked confused. What the hell did “Tex” mean? “Oh... Pardon me, Tex. M'name's Cowboy Rick, and you look like you could use a little help. Why dontcha hop up on this here space ship, thingy, and I'll gitcha where you need to be.”

In the past, races have been from every range of awesome, from the Daytona 500 to African Americans. Despite how awesome those things are, there was one race that proved far more kickass than the rest. No, I'm not talking about that tortoise and the hare bullshit. Logic will NEVER help you out in a foot race. That's just retarded. Now, we must get back to the point of this obviously epic story. It all started when a very famous fellow, known as Jean-Claude Van Damme, decided it was a good idea to chug a very large bottle of Canadian Fire Whiskey. After getting drunk past the point of having standards, Van Damme wandered in a local bar and began to hit on the most attractive girl in the building, whose name was Mina. Contrary to what a drunken Van Damme thought, the attractive woman was actually a very large, very angry Minotaur. Van Damme's ridiculous amounts of flirting and unwanted sexual advances forced the minotaur to stampede. This also caused Van Damme to sprint like a Kenyan, which resulted in the longest race in history. They ran from Moscow, Russia, all the way to Dildo, Newfoundland, Canada. There, however, the race met a forced end. This was due Nickleback ruining all of Canada, making foot races completely illegal. Fuck you Nickleback. Fuck you.

After 3 months had passed in the bear kingdom, the mighty bear known as Bartholomew had arrived at its gates. Carried by his father, Ryan Sharon, and led by the great Bear Watcher, Steven, they had completed a long and rigorous journey, which had finally proven fruitful. Bartholomew would go on to train with Elbert for 100 years, eventually becoming one of the most appreciated Bear Kings in history. His royal crowning, however, did not go without consequences. Ryan, who had become a high ranking official in the Bear Kingdom, was asked by Elbert to travel back in time, ensuring the safety of himself and the bears. To open the portal, Elbert had to unfortunately sacrifice himself at Rape Cliff. When Ryan jumped into the portal, he started a long, mighty adventure through time, under the pseudonym of Steven. Due to his acts of courage and badassness, he was able to secure Bartholomew's place as Bear King, and help solidify the safety of all of the bears.

“Sir, I do believe that you just hit that child...” “On the contrary, my dear Watson. I just scored 500 points.” Watson, not wanting to question Sherlock, simply sighed and did another line of cocaine. It had been nearly two hours since Sherlock had accidentally killed the hooker, who was now in the trunk, and they still hadn't figured out how to ditch the body. “Okay, so just tell me what you think about this,” said Sherlock, ready to explain his plan. “...And then we just distribute the cupcakes out to small children across Eastern Asia, and then we'll never hear of that bitch again!” Watson paused to take everything he had just been told in. After several very confusing minutes responded, saying, “Okay. So I basically just stopped listening after you involved the Peanut Butter and the Pterodactyl. However, even before we go into that, how do you plan on kidnapping the President and blackmailing him?” Smiling, the clever detective answered, “it's elementary, my dear Watson. We will contact the Jews for the kidnapping. They owe us since we bailed them out of that whole “Nazi” thingy. And the blackmailing will be simple, because I, the wonderful Sherlock Holmes, have come across a sex tape of our fine President.” Spitting out his coffee, Watson blurted, “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” With a nod, the detective said, “of course I am. I believe he called the title “Nailing Palin”? So, as you can imagine, this is a big deal.” Immediately after this retarded statement, Watson died from an overdose of cocaine. On the other hand, some say that he died from having to be the bitch of an attention whore with an IQ below 40.

Imagine if the next time you ordered a Big Mac, Jesus fell down from Heaven and curb stomped a random homeless man. Or if Cheech and Chong parachuted off of the Empire State Building, only to realize they were just really, really baked, and had actually just jumped off. Or if congress announced that pornography was to be made illegal. Or if that actually happened, and the masses of Anonymous marched onto Washington to murder the ghost of Abraham Lincoln. Or if Ryan Sharon died as a result of far too much dancing and techno music, resulting in a world-wide party/slaughter via bears. Or if Pluto stopped being a pussy about it, and decided to be a planet again. (Pluto, please actually do that one. It would make us happy)

<- December 2009