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.
Oh Targeted Ads, You Know Me Too Well
I’m starting to feel like Facebook’s targeted ads know me better than the most intimate lover; better, perhaps, than God Himself. How else can you explain this?
Not only do I actually have a bucket list of 365 things to do in my hometown before I die, but number one on that list is indeed to get a sex change, wear a bikini, stand at the edge of a pool, and force a chimp (or an orangutan!) in a life-jacket to touch my pussy. And I have never shown this list to anyone, which means that Facebook’s algorithms somehow intuited it. I kind of like knowing that, unlike God, Facebook is out there in the ether, looking out for me so it can try to sell me bullshit. It means we’re one step closer to the Singularity.
What to Watch in Your Sanctuary of Desolation: Avatar, not Avatar
The true stars of Avatar
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Allow me to let you in on a secret. The corporate fascists who run those mega-military-industrial-narco-capitalist-complexes known as movie theaters want to control your every action. Once you step through their doors, they OWN you, man! Last time I tried to “catch a flick,” some 16-year-old dictator’s irrational problem with the slab of barbecue ribs I had under my coat almost escalated to a shootout between me and the cops. Almost. Thankfully, I calmed everyone down by promising to follow Dear Leader for all of my days, and I was allowed inside to see Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel. Just as I hoped and prayed, those little talking rodents were indeed cute as fuck, but I vowed never to prostrate before that Temple of Peonage again, unless some sort of James Cameron extravaganza was involved.
There is an actual person named Gugu Mbatha-Raw! And she’s hot!
This morning a seemingly pointless, non-news item set me off on an inspiring, soon-to-be-televised emotional journey from “Who gives a fuck?” to “Holy FUCK!” You see, a lame-looking TV show created by overrated hack J.J. Abrams called Undercovers was cancelled. I accidentally clicked the link for this sure-to-be-stupid article but came across that rare bit of factual knowledge that is more precious than tears on Turkish Delight: the show’s lead actress is named Gugu Mbatha-Raw! “Is this the most ridiculous name of all time?” I wondered.
It’s a Nice Day for a Firebug Wedding
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Remember that TV show Dragonfly? Ah the thrilling space adventures of the charismatic, raffish Captain ALF and his rag-tag crew of misfits! Remember how it was, all things considered, just a pretty good show, but it got cancelled and that inflamed the nerd rage of you and hundreds of thousands of other nerds, and then you fought so hard for Butterfly that your intense commitment to it inflated the show’s worth until it became the Greatest Show Ever? But it was still really just an above average, mostly entertaining, show?
It’s Hard Out There for a Star Child
By the Entity Formerly Known as Dave Bowman
I survived a murder attempt by an artificially intelligent computer. I was the first man to travel to Jupiter, and then the first man to make contact with a race of alien super-beings. With their help, I died to my human past and was reborn as the next step in man’s evolution. I spent incomprehensible eternities in the cold emptiness of space. I learned the secrets of the universe. And there I was, the future of mankind, coming back to Earth, heralding a glorious second Renaissance. Everything was coming up Space-baby!
WTTW Classy Fucking Fiction Corner: A Bleak Letter from a Used Chair
It all started innocently enough. My origins are humble, I won’t lie. I didn’t spawn from one of those haughty places, like The Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware. My first family (a newly married couple with a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood) purchased me at Sam’s Club in 1999.
Anyway, they were a nice couple, Jackie and Ryan. They were hopelessly in love, and they ogled me for a long time before they both sat on me, gingerly, agreeing that I would in fact be a great addition to their humble apartment. One look at my tags, my price, and they were fucking sold. Sam Walton, if I could give you a high five, you know, man, if I could, and you weren’t dead, I would, you splendid bastard.
WTTW Classy Fucking Fiction Corner: Bank
She’s probably German; one of those old nationalities that, a long time ago, required a uniform of aprons and saggy tits. She wears the uniform every day from 8 a.m. until 9 p.m., when she finally drapes a quilted square over her head and closes her eyes, only to wake up at 8 a.m. to repeat household duties.
We’ll call her Mae Von Krause, though her name is ultimately unimportant as we have (or she has) defined Mae’s purposes in life already. She cooks for her equally nondescript husband Frank Von Krause, who obviously spends most his time in a green chair he named “Fuddie” ages ago.
WTTW Classy Fucking Fiction Corner: The Gawkers
The GawkersJack Vadgeblaster, Space Doctor
I'm a doctor AND an author!
Author’s Preface: I penned this kickass story in response to The Baron’s bitching about how no one writes optimistic science fiction anymore. Eat your heart out, Alastair Hackreynolds!
Jack burst through the membrane that led to the love chamber. He deactivated his skinsuit and already his octopenises were unfurling in anticipation.
“I’ve got gleebing on my mind and NOTHING is gonna stand in my way!” He declared, throwing back his head to emphasize his nano-sculpted jawline. The ancient, classical pop song “Smell Yo Dick” was being piped directly into Jack’s auditory nerve. Classy joint, he thought.
