Masochism; A New Years Tradition

Above: Yup. It's yours truly

December 31, 20-- 11:00 pm

You're at the masquerade. It's eleven PM and the new year is just 60 minutes away. In your right hand is a tumbler of good bourbon that is assisting you in forgetting the past year. In your other hand is a noisemaker and the wadded lyrics of "auld lang syne", just in case you've forgotten them. You take a drink.

On the large overhead screen, furnished for everyone's enjoyment, Dick Clark's rocking New Years' eve is plugging away with the latest teen fad/sensation undulating in the foreground. Clark himself, held upright only through the help of thin wires, visibly shoves away his thoughts of illegal teen love and tells you what a good time he and the rest of the animated corpses in the audience are having. You take another drink from your tumbler.

You have no idea who the brunette with the feather boa is, only that she is giggling at everyone and constantly rubbing against you. The merlot in her hand has been filled at least five times in the last hour forcing you to remove her from your "get lucky" list. If she's even upright at midnight, you'll eat your boxer shorts and allegations of rape do little to start a new year off correctly. Another drink.

Your tumbler is now almost empty so, being proactive, you shake your pink wig in the direction of the buxom waitress as she passes. She gives you a harried glance but acknowledges you since you've already tipped her more than 30% the value of the bourbon. Unlike the brunette, the waitress is still on your "get lucky" list. God knows why, though. By midnight she'll be drop dead exhausted and will be likely to give less response than the unconscious brunette. Besides, she doesn't seem too attracted to your costume which consists of plastic bubble gum machine tops covering your breasts. Getting lucky is beginning to seem unlikely. Visiting with the ghost of masturbation to come, you finish your tumbler.

January 1st, 20-- 12:01 AM

The ball dropped. Again. The Brunette in the feather boa dropped also. As you predicted. Dick Clark should have dropped, but the wires held, so his waxen corpse is still babbling into the overhead screen. In the room you're in, 300 people are drunkenly singing "Auld Lang Syne", sloppily kissing one another, and making farting sounds with hand held noisemakers. This is the penultimate moment. What everyone has gathered together for. It's a whole new year filled with promise and hope. The people on the overhead in times square, the people at your masquerade, the people the world over, are making as if to embrace this new year. Meet it head on. Seize it. Reap it for rewards. Which of course is why the majority of them are drunk, dressed like peacocks, and desperately molesting people they hardly know. You set down your fourth empty tumbler and hail the frazzled but still attractive waitress. Fifteen minutes ago, you gave her a twenty dollar tip, hoping for the extra attention and the fading possibility of thank you sex. At this point, though, you'll just be happy with a fifth tumbler of bourbon.

On the ground beside you, the unconscious brunette's skirt has ridden up to her waist. Your erection presses uselessly against the overlarge metal chastity belt that you're wearing as part of your costume. The last bars of "Auld Lang Syne" are coming to a close around you and your fifth tumbler of bourbon arrives on time, the twenty having accomplished it's mission. For one fleeting moment you think, this may not be such a bad year after all. Then the man behind you dressed like Madonna vomits on your mostly bare back and brings you back to reality. At least your erection is gone. You take a drink.

January 1st, 20-- 1 AM

The masquerade is winding down now. Forty percent of the revelers are unconscious or catatonic. Twenty percent are off fornicating in some darkened corner. Twenty percent are still vacantly nodding at the dulcet tones of the undead Dick Clark. And the last twenty percent are either event staff or designated drivers who are marching around and allowing themselves a moment of superiority over their less disciplined compatriots. You still sit at your table, vacantly staring at the colorful centerpiece while wondering why you do this to yourself every year. Sexual desire long since washed from your system by the bourbon, you are now using the unconscious brunette as a footstool. You emptied what was left in your wallet into the apron of the buxom waitress as a drunken heartfelt thanks for the special attention. The gumballs in your "bra" give an impotent rattle, as if unaware that the celebration has all but ended. Too drunk to walk, you remain seated and pee out the side of your "chastity belt". The new year has now been officially embraced.

Knowing what state you'd be in, you took a taxi here. The prospect of even walking to the curb and hailing another fills you with a sense of the impossible. Hell. If the floor is good enough for the brunette, it's good enough for you too. So you slide forward and fall to the ground. Right into your own urine. But the apathy of good bourbon holds and you close your eyes on this most majestic of holiday nights. You feel the warmth of the snoring brunette beside you and begin to drift off. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she awakens beside you. And notices that her skirt has ridden up to her thigh. And that you're wearing a pink wig, a chastity belt, and nothing else. And that you smell like urine. Which is how you wind up with the rape charge.

Happy New Year!

Investigative Reports: A followup

by Cheddar

Ladies and gentleman, I, Cheddar, recently posted a startling email that began a chain of events that can only be described as earth shattering. I have all but confirmed that Stephen Hawking, Bill Gates, and Woody Allen are one in the same individual, running a triumvirate of power unequaled in any other facet of society. But, ladies and gentlemen, this discovery is merely the tip of the iceberg! It turns out that we, the general public, have been duped by other individuals playing multiple roles, and all for very different reasons. In each case, the magic number appears to be three; as in three different personas. Nevertheless, the cunning involved is monumental! I can confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the following individuals, whom I hereby dub "The Axis of Evil," are all pulling the wool over our eyes! Pay heed! Truly notice the similarities.



If these photographs aren't representative of the "Axis of Evil," I don't know what is. Now, separately, these photos may spark recognition in you. The first person pictured hosted "The View" for a while. The second was on a long running show with John Goodman. The third hacked off a stranded writer's foot in a famous movie. But what you did NOT know, until looking at these photographs, is that they are all the same person! I do not know what "it's" real name is. I do not know what "it" does in "it's" spare time. But I do have an as yet unconfirmed reason for this tableau. It is speculated among underground theorists that playing the role of three persons allows this individual the ability to harass Tom Selleck in triplicate! All without his knowledge!



Now here are "three" sinister looking individuals. Or is it? Look again! Notice the flaring nostrils. The gleaming pate. The painted mouth! It's the same person....or robot! That's right! The almost leader of the free world and Nobel sympathy prize winner and the shrewd but satanic owner of the New York Yankees are actually just synthetic flesh over metal endoskeleton! Kind of like the terminator, only boring! With no gun! And a lot of hot air! Why, you ask? Well, that goes back to Hawking/Gates/Allen. This robot was created using Hawking's know-how and Gates's technology to run for president. It could be an excellent monotone and room killing bore, so all that was needed was the cash flow that a run at the White House required. Hence came the "Steinbrenner" programming. This persona single-handedly financed Gore's White House run with still enough money left over to sign Alex Rodriguez. A brilliant robot indeed. Hawking/Gates/Allen's greatest attempt to grab control of the country and, more importantly, control of the nuclear "button" failed only because he underestimated the complete stupidity of Floridians. The laugh is on you "Axis of Evil"! Ha!



"Whoa!" You say. "Wait a second, Cheddar!" you say. "This can't be right!" You say. Many have known for a while that pictures one and three are synonyms, true. But the guy from "Barney Miller?" Abe?

Allow me to defend my research here. Abe Vigoda was long known as a "personable guy." Liked by everyone he came in contact with. Influenced all those around him positively. Had the charisma of a thousand Alexander the Greats. Sound familiar? That's right bible thumpers! The Anti-Christ! Take heed.

Take Bin Laden and shave his beard mentally. What do you see? That's right! The middle picture! The information has been there for you people all along. You've just needed a true diligent investigative reporter like yours truly to start linking the facts and making sense of the chaos. And before you dismiss picture number three as just a visual gag and not a real "third persona," ask yourself: Why haven't we found Osama Vigoda yet? Hmm?" It's hard to assassinate "someone" who can morph themselves into a shiny turd at will! I mean who'd think to shoot a floater? Eh?

Okay ladies and gentleman. For me, the investigation continues. I have more evidence at my fingertips that we have been duped by even more individuals than what's listed here, but my vow is that I will leave no stone unturned in my search for truth! And you the reader WILL know all that I know! Have a happy Holiday!

Rome, Circa 25 B.C.

Bonus and Meniscus at the Vomitorium, Part I

by Guinness

"Hail, Bonus!" shouted Meniscus from across the forum. "Where you beheaded?"

"It's Sunday, you fool, and as customary, I intend to conjoin with Ignoramus at the vomitorium to gorge myself until filled to the gullet, purge, and repeat until my esophogus is squeaky clean."

"Oh, but of course! My cousin Virus is visiting from the rivalous region of Gaul, and would enjoy an orgy of food and drink...may he attend?"

"Virus? Never heard of him and do not care to have my purge ogled by strange Gauls."
"Oh, it is but my regret. What thoughts have you of the young fellow, Stimulus Terminus?"

"Ah, yes, indeed, bring that one along. I could use a bit of purging at the other end, provided either Ramses, Trojan or Magnum are packing the sheepskins, that is." Bonus dismissed Meniscus with a brusque wave of his heavily braceleted arm.

"Very good, we shall see you at XII sharp then!" called Meniscus after the retreating toga.

The vomitorium teamed with sweating, curly-haired men, some togas hanging off the shoulder, mouths greasy with game juices, wine, grapes and figs. In the center, a stone edged circular recepticle received the exodous of anal and gastric passages. Heaven on Earth, the epitome of man's societal modernization! As Meniscus entered, he spotted Hippopotamus gorging himself with a roasted leg of mutton, Status keeping tabs on the victual levels, Census counting heads, Sinus sneezing vomit from his nasal passages, Hiatus passed out under the fruit table, and his good friend Meniscus with Stimulus Terminus. Fabulous, he thought, and strode to the beverage table... "A shot of tetanus, make it a double."

As Bonus swallowed his beverage, a rucous arose amidst the patrons. Projectilus Vomitus was hurling colorful streams of fruit juiced pork back in a glorious five foot arc which landed dead center into the recepticle. A slightly built toga'd figure underneath the arc screeched "ROJECTILEPAY OMITVAY!" in a female voice. Every good citizen of Rome knew women weren't allowed in the vomitorium.

"Ceasar! er SEIZE HER!" the crowd clamored.

end of part I.

Numbsains Eyewitless NewsFlinch

MAN DONATES ORGAN TO SAVE WIFE'S LIFE
Mrs. Drelda Flapwitz of Cratchet N.J. lay helpless in critical condition last Tuesday when a 500 pound Hammond B3 organ fell on her while she was attempting to dust it. Mr. Flapwitz, a parapalegic, knew the fire department would not come out to save her again as she was repeatedly warned not to clean the instrument unassisted. "I did the only thing I could, I called the Salvation Army and told them I wanted to donate my organ. They got here lickety split, hauled it away and saved my wife's life."

STRONGER PLACEBOS DO LESS THAN EVER
Drugee Methlab Pharmaceuticals, the world's leader in placebos, has found a new way to manufacture placebos of increased potency by distilling them to a much more concentrated tincture. "This is certain to be very useful in medical and psychological research where placebos are widely used. The ineffectiveness is enhanced tenfold by a special process of concentrating placebonic atoms making these super-placebos far more inert than ordinary ones." These new miracle placebos are indicated in cases where the patient is already extremely gullible and therefore resistant to conventional placebos. They may also prove useful in veterinary research where the subject has absolutely no clue what's going on to begin with.

STUDY SHOWS STUDIES SHOW LESS AND LESS
As researchers accumulate more and more information, each new piece of data is thrown into the pile, so to speak. As the pile settles and the new data gets mixed into the old, the reliability of each new fact decreases. It is now believed that at some point in the future, all information will be rendered completely useless by the sheer mass of all the information that will have accumulated. However, this fact is also quickly becoming diluted, so no one is particularly worried.

NEW EVIDENCE SUPPORTING OLD THEORIES WRONG
Recent discovered evidence has been found to be largely ineffective in proving old theories which are still backed up much more easily with the same old evidence. "The age old theories we've accepted as true for years, just don't hold up very well when we use the new information that's coming in to try to corroborate it. That new info is fine for explaining new theories, but somehow it just falls short when it comes to proving what we already know. We don't need all this current crap coming in and making us look stupid. Just let sleeping dogs lie," said John Boreman, Chairman of FAQAT, Foundation Against Questioning Accepted Theories.

DEATH MAY CURE LIFE
It is inevitable, incurable and lethal! Millions die from it every year. Very little is known about the tragic phenomenon of death, yet it continues to claim victims regularly. There are certain minority factions that believe death is not the merciless bloodthirsty killer it's touted to be. A spokesperson for Viva La Muerte, Mort U. Warey states in his new book, Living with Death: "There is really very little evidence that death has anything to do with the millions of lives that are lost each year. We believe that death plays a small part in this but there are plenty of other possibilities that no one ever considers. To us, life is the true killer and death is the only cure for it. From my point of view, death is the living end."

RANDOM ATTACK FAILS
A group of militant American terrorists attempted a random attack on enemy forces but the chaos was averted when things unexpectedly organized themselves. "When a random act of violence falls into a regular pattern, it loses its effectiveness. Even the fact that I, one of the terrorists, am giving this interview, bodes very badly for our cause."

FEAR ITSELF MAY NOT BE ALL WE HAVE TO FEAR
New findings indicate that the old saying "all we have to fear is fear itself" may not be true and in fact this finding may be a very real and valid fear. One whose discoverers regret having found.

SportsBARF
The Commissioner of all Sports has deemed the game of basketball "not fun anymore" and has banned it from being played altogether. "The players were getting too tall and it just wasn't interesting to watch or play so I just said "Get rid of it." I can do that because I'm the Commissioner of All Sports which means if I don't like something, it's outta here.

The Commissioner of all Sports also stated that football is becoming too rough and injuries are the most entertaining thing about it, so it will now be called "Hurtball" and fans can expect media coverage to focus more on the wounds, trauma and suffering and less on the game itself. "Don't ask why, just trust me," the Commissioner said with an arrogant look on his face.

"I Guess baseball can stay as it is," said the Commissioner of all Sports, who has really been on a rampage lately but shows a little sanity here. "Oh except it has to be played by midgets in tutus and they have to all be Jewish," that damned Commissioner added, just to be a jerk. I'm sorry, this guy is screwing up everything, he's got to go!

The Commissioner of All Sports was mysteriously killed last night in a freak accident that no one knows anything about.

SPECIAL REPORT: BRITNEY SPEARS IS JUST AS STUPID AS EVER BUT HAS PROVEN USEFUL IN GETTING PEOPLE TO LOOK AT BLOGS. SAME WITH PARIS HILTON AND THE TERMS "SEX," "FREE PORN," "LIVE NUDE GIRLS" ETC. WE APOLOGIZE IF YOU WERE TRICKED INTO READING THIS BLOG BUT IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. THERE ARE OTHER THINGS IN LIFE WORTH DOING BESIDES FEEDING YOUR LIBIDO AND UNTIL WE FIND THEM, MIGHT AS WELL READ GOLDMIND'S UNWIND!

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