The Four Stages of Love

Sometimes it is hard to experience the reality of eldrich abomination in our lives. Romantic relationships, properly understood and properly practiced, are a highly effective means by which to invite interdimensional terror into our hearts.  It is written in The Book of the Keeper of the Secrets: “There are four stages of love, none more none less, permitted by the Nameless Mist, which shalt not be named. Any being that claims differently is lower than the Worm that Gnaws in the Night.” The Four Stages of Love are symbolically depicted in the portraits below.

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Stage One: Crimson

The first stage, Crimson Love is an intensely erotic, yet supportive, style of love. The lovers are not permitted to look directly at one another, especially in the eyes, nor are they allowed to touch each other in any fashion other than leaning or standing back-to-back. Speech is only allowed in dire emergencies. Only wholesome, unassuming clothing can be worn by the couple. The female must grimace in an unattractive fashion that makes her look like Julianne Moore’s much older sister. The male must never think of perky, youthful breasts, as this will cause his desire for his betrothed to falter. However, he is permitted to hide smoked sausage within the waist area of his tucked shirt. The lovers must hold their forearms tightly to ward off the corrupting influence of the Mother of Pus.

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Stage Two: Mojave

In Stage Two, Mojave, the lovers grow closer. They can now touch shoulder-to-crook-of-the-elbow. The male may gaze up the female’s ear or jawline, but they must always be oriented face-to-back. The sharing of the Breath of Gol-goroth is not permitted. The couple can sometimes change clothes, as the seasonal rites dictate. The female may take on the appearance of a horrid crone, despite claiming adamantly to be 23 years old. The male may resort to protest behaviors such as making love to the mayonnaise jar, as long as he does so behind the back of his consort. Both must pose uncomfortably at all times, to remember the suffering of Ulthar.

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Stage Three: Daydream

In the Daydream Stage of Love, the male may rest his hand on the flank of the female, but only if it is ritually paralyzed with the Blood of Vulthoom. The lovers may assume the Putrid Handshake pose in order to allow intimacy to fester and to disguise stigmata wounds from curious bystanders. The female may wear jewelry that honors Yog-Sothoth, the All-in-One. The male may brandish the Timepiece of Dead Kings. At this point, the lovers should be wary of lurking slime molds and should avoid man-made shelters.

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Stage Four: Ironstone

In the final stage of love, Ironstone, the creeping horror of true love escalates to berserker levels. The lovers are finally able to utilize the Soul-gaze of Summanus. They may face each other at angles of no less than 45 degrees. They may no longer hold worldly occupations, but may accept alms from most animal spirits (except ferrets and badgers).

Once the Rites of the Black Lord of Whirling Vortices have been performed, the female bears Cxaxukluth, the Androgynous Offspring of Azathoth, to term in her chest cavity. The male may, during the gestation period, wear padding beneath his jeans to ward off The Dick-punches of Ngirrth’lu. Once Cxaxukluth claws his way out of the female’s rotted chest-womb and unleashes ultimate destruction upon the world, the male may finally lay with the female, using her-still warm chest-womb opening as a velvety sheath for his phallus. As he spills his seed in her, he will be taken to the Far Realm by Atlach-Nacha, the Spider God. The prophecy is now fulfilled.

Creepiest Leaders of the Job Creators Alliance

Listen up, scumfucks! Those poor, misunderstood, downtrodden One-Percenters finally have a voice, The Job Creators Alliance, and they are going to fill our gaping maws with hot, sticky knowledge about what really drives the economy! Awesome(?)

Instead of listening to them, let’s judge them based on who has the creepiest head shots. You done got treated, rich assholes!

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The Wonders of the Modern Puppy Industry

Somebody release these Jews, er, dogs!

As with the printing, music, and information industries, the march of innovation has made the puppy industry more efficient, humane, and adorable. The term “puppy mill” has garnered many negative connotations in recent years. It may cause you to think of a breeding farm where dogs are confined in tiny cages stacked on top of one another like the world’s saddest game of Hollywood Squares, bred with whatever animal happens to be handy until they are dried up husks by the age of three, allowed only to watch basic cable (no Dog Whisperer!), and shipped to stores in packing crates marked “Punch Me: defenseless animal inside” with nothing but their own feces for padding. Thanks to science and our unsung hero the profit motive, that’s the puppy mill of yesteryear.

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The Korn Files: I Want To Believe

May or may not be Jonathan Davis. Note watermark.

Holy shit. Fuck. Guys. Guys?

Remember the band Korn? Christ! How embarrassing — me neither. We totally forgot about it!

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New Kids Nitro!

Oh, New Kids Nitro. You were almost the greatest movie ever. Almost.
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“Bonkers”: The Cartoon that Made Me Into the Swaggering Wonderfuck I Am Today

Sometimes I look back on my life and wonder what forces have shaped me into the galavanting ball of electric spunk I am today. Why do I cream my jeans every time I look in the mirror? Why does my blood boil with the vigor of a billion murdergasms? Why do I transform into a wily trickster whenever I am around fat, depressed people? Well, today I realized that I owe it all and more to the 1990′s Disney cartoon show “Bonkers.”

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Parking Lot Samurai Bro-Off!

Let’s say you’re leaving the gym. You’re feeling a little faint from the 5:30 BootyPump class. Not from actually participating, but from holding your breath to keep your erection under control while staring at the young women pumping those tight booties. You get into your car. You check your phone. You text Ma that you’ll pay her back as soon as you can, but five points above the vig is ridiculous.

You look up and see a guy in the parking stall across from you sitting in his black Lincoln Continental. “Rodriguez” is written across the top of his windshield in a vaguely Medieval font. You can’t see for sure, but it’s safe to assume there is an airbrushed Virgin Mary on that car, somewhere.

Rodriguez is looking at you, expressionless. His lights are on. Clearly he is waiting for you to leave so he doesn’t have to back out. And you can’t have that! That would be a tiny concession of your manhood, and you don’t have much left to spare. And now you’re waiting for him to leave so you don’t have to back out. You’ve just unwittingly entered into a classic PARKING LOT SAMURAI BRO-OFF!

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The Best Way to Die

A lot of people out there think they know the best way to die. Guess what, scumfucks? You don’t!

“Durrrr, I wanna die fuckin’!” Shut your snaggletoothed mouth, you inbred pellet of possum shit!

“Ooooh, I want to die in my sleep!” Have you even thought about this at all? You really want to make the most important journey of your life in an unconscious state? How are you going you going to cheat God by accepting Jesus into your heart at the last possible moment?

“Waaaah, I want to die with dignity.” Listen, Gandhi, your dignity wont mean much when your remains are being shat out by a honey badger.

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Pregorgeous Porn

The life of a professional blogger is much like the life of a public school teacher in that we get to spend all day avoiding the children we are legally responsible for, and looking at porn and Craigslist sex ads on our government issued laptops. Zuckerburn! One of the most enjoyable aspects of the Craigslist Casual Encounters section, aside from the many dick pics, pussy pics, and gunt deguerreotypes, are the neologisms coined by real, honest individuals who are definitely not scammers. These real people are totally not eight year old street urchin hackers living in some bombed-out, William-Gibson-esque, post-technocalyptic, fifth world country, making a few measly Ultrabamacredits a day by posing as hot 18 year old American girls from small Midwestern towns who are having a super hard time finding guys to fuck them for some reason. Of course not.

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Sucker Punch

I'm in the movie the least out of all of us, but wouldn't it be cool if you all sacrificed yourselves for me, even though I'm totally against this escape plan? No? It would be stupid?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one. So this old guy kills his hot (I think?) young (perhaps?) wife (??) for the money in her will (pretty sure that’s why). But he gets super pissed because he didn’t check first to see if he was actually in the will (oopsie daisy!) and she gave all that money to her daughters instead. Zuckerpunch!(TM)
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And then this fat old bitch almost rapes his dead wife’s older daughter (almost rape is the worst kind of rape), but then decides not to rape her. Instead, he locks the older daughter up and lets her watch him death-rape her younger sister through a keyhole. Sidebar: Clearly this old bastard experimented extensively to find the perfect death-rape position with respect to the person watching through the aforementioned keyhole. But anyway — holy shit —  the older daughter climbs out the window down a spout of some sort and gets a gun!
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But she doesn’t kill this old ballsack-smelling motherfucker because … she shoots a lightbulb instead of his giant, fat old body (she hates those lightbulbs!). And that act of cold-blooded lightbulb murder results in her being locked up in some asylum. I guess. And that benefits the old guy … probably.  Oh, and the younger sister died somehow. Maybe it was from disappointment over not being death-raped?
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OK, we’ve  finally covered the first 2 minutes of Sucker Punch. Get ready for a fucking stupid ride.

Non-nude “Strip” Clubs

Just the other day, you were wondering, “What should I think about non-nude strip clubs?” Like the vast majority of your thoughts, it was instantly drowned in a tsunami of paranoid delusions of grandeur (which are the worst delusions of all). But don’t worry too much about it: I’m about to tell you what you should think about non-nude strip clubs.

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Mac and Me: Disgusting, Retarded Aliens — You Know, For Kids!

Mac and Me is the E.T. ripoff that came six years too late. It should have been one of those terrible straight-to-video movies that the video store clerks used put right next to the new release you actually wanted to see, but was rented out: e.g. Transformers and its even dumber cousin Transmorphers. Mac and Me is a piece of shit movie, no question, but it’s a massively entertaining piece of shit. At the very least it’s worth exploring as a case study that demonstrates what happens when corporations become too involved in the arts. It’s also worth watching in order to mock it mercilessly.

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