Greetings from Doomsday: Malagueña

Good morning and welcome to the end.

You wake up to a trail of garlic cloves running down your staircase and no one will cop to putting it there. You’re filled with an ineffable sense of dread. You don’t know if the garlic was put in place to keep the vampires out or to ensure that you were kept in. Then you wake up and realize it was a dream and that monsters don’t exist in the form of bloodsucking ghouls.

The vampires in your life are emotional vampires, they’re the relatives who guilt you into donating to a charity that routinely misleads donors about how much of their charitable contributions actually go to those in need. These vampires are self-serving, passive-aggressive vampires, the kind of ghouls that Skype to say that you look like you need more color and that you should get some sun.

The vampires are everywhere these days, boys and girls. They’re the frothy-mouthed shit-heels who refuse to wear face masks and insist that COVID-19 is a “libtard hoax.” They do not fear the Morning Star like their ancestors and they aren’t modest enough to take the form of a bat. These revenants are shameless, myopic carnivores who feed on fear and demand special treatment.

You see them standing in line at the Post Office, openly ignoring signage that tells them to keep six feet between themselves and their fellow humans. They’re the old, hunched savages whose grills are slick with a film of sweat and stupidity and whose hands are perpetually restless. When they’re not hustling their balls they’re flailing ever closer to your comfort zone, hacking and coughing and assuring you that they’re not sick … but they’ve been sick their whole lives. Ignorance is a disease and it’s bred right into these blood simple morons.

The good news is, you’ve got the power of Horror on your side. Vampires cannot enter your home if they haven’t been invited. They can brag, bitch and bully their way into a big box store, but the manager won’t let them have more than their fair share of toilet paper. They can act as entitled as they want, but persistence repels them like a crucifix to the solar plexus.

“I’m sorry, sir, but these are the rules. There is a limit of one per customer.”

“I’ve been shopping at this shithole since you was swimming around in your daddy’s balls! I don’t need to take your shit!”

“Sir, there’s no need to be rude. I’m just following company policy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They slink away like the wounded hellhounds they are, barking obscenities at themselves as they waddle back to their shitty American-made automobiles and concentrate their fear-based hatred in other directions.

Vampires cannot enter if uninvited.

Outside they’re holding black delivery drivers hostage in gated communities for doing their jobs. The King Vampire is dreaming up conspiracy theories and encouraging the public to mainline household cleaners.

Inside you’re making music with friends from other countries. Outside the party line is blaming China. Inside you’re learning how to knit face masks for the homeless. Outside they’re beating black men about the skull and waving their batons at bystanders. Inside you’re taking an online course in misconduct law.

Even horror movies have happy endings sometimes.

Outside they’re going without masks and cutting each other off in traffic. In here we’re smoking on some Boost 20:1, riding high and drinking in the mellifluous licks of Jose Feliciano. Inside is good for now, inside here was always good. Hold your partner close because your dance card is clear and it’s time to boogie on the home front.

Greetings from Doomsday: “The Raving, Flailing Wingnut”

It’s a damp, dreary morning in the bloated intestine of post-Gatsby Long Island and I’m motoring down Wellwood Avenue, past boarded-up storefronts, bound for The Botanist, New York’s finest medical marijuana dispensary. CSNY’s “Teach Your Children” is spewing from my tired car radio and I’m smelling things I haven’t smelled in years.

The air is no longer choked. The stale fart stench of Swindlehurst factories has been replaced by a fresh scent, an earthy aroma that is inviting, until I ponder its meaning. If you’ve ever spent time in the wilderness you recognize the fragrance at once—the grass is screaming and the trees are being flayed for fretwork in one of Suffolk County’s many lumberyards. Essential businesses and all of that.

I only have one mask and four gloves to spare on this trip, so I’ll have to make it count. I take the Huntington off-ramp and gun it down Broadhollow Road into Sweet Hollow Country.

This is where the urban legends live, where a whorish teenage specter named Bloody Mary is said to appear when you shine your light on her grave. It’s where the gates once read, “Life, How Short.” It’s the home of Mount Misery and curious sightings of Men in Black.

Today, I will not be pulled over by some mythical ghost cop who’s missing the back of his skull. I will not see any teenage whores hanging from an overpass or meet an enigmatic gypsy dressed in crimson.

As “Teach Your Children” is replaced by Marilyn Manson’s “Deep Six,” I zip past what remains of the Walmart entrance, now a heavily barricaded, steel-enforced complex cloistered with cars and caravans of people in surgical masks and handkerchiefs. Some of them are zigzagging between mini-vans with shopping carts overflowing with paper towels and charcoal briquettes, their body language as screwed as their eyes.

I think of the lyrics still lingering from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s classic tune and I wonder what these people will tell their children when they recount this bugfuck period in our history. Will they mention the woman who sunk her teeth into an elderly man before kicking the dick out of him for 24 rolls of toilet paper? or the man who murdered a dude for the same?

Probably they’ll omit the fact that every American could have had a roll of shit paper just based on what Walmart sold to a select number of people in one 5-day period.

No doubt there are a lot of details we won’t bother to rehash, if for no other reason than they demonstrate something we aren’t ready to admit.

It’s a bizarre world, and we are bizarre people.

It’s been almost 50 days since Governor Cuomo signed the PAUSE Act in New York State and guys in big rigs still pull up to 7-Elevens without masks or gloves, smirking at their masked counterparts as they hustle their balls and sidle up to the counter to buy lottery tickets and cans of Skoal.

Some persist in believing that 5G is responsible for the novel coronavirus … despite living more than 200 miles from a 5G tower. Many insist that this is all a “libtard” hoax to control the masses while other people are robbed of closure when a loved one succumbs to the illness and they are forbidden from attending funeral services. The victims of this thing are dumped into the ground like snitches in ditches, denied a proper burial. And this isn’t even the weirdest shit we’ve seen.

A 32-year old mother of two drinks splooge smoothies containing her boyfriend’s jizz because she thinks it is fortifying her immune system against COVID-19. Aaaaand this just in: Coronavirus traces have been found in the spunk of survivors who were “severely infected.” This does not bode well for Baby Batter Betty of Aylesbury.

A strange bacterium is killing so many olive trees across Italy, Greece and Spain that Southern Europe might lose more than $20 billion.

Call me funny, but if I can’t get a decent pasta dish in the future because of an olive oil shortage, I may just end up like that lady in the Walmart parking lot, nipping at the ankles of some septuagenarian and beating the balls off a stranger for some Aglio e Olio.

The thought of it is enough to get my pressure up, which is hardly uncommon for an overweight 37-year old drunk with a serious pasta addiction. But you’re at risk too, buddy. That’s right!

No, the kids aren’t okay. Toddlers all across the country are covered in welts and hideous rashes from this thing and the millennials are not impervious. Otherwise healthy thirty-somethings are stroking out, surely from the stress of quarantine as much as the virus itself. Happy Hypoxics (dig that adorable nickname!) who should be gasping or “seizing” are strutting around like they just pounded a six pack of Monster Energy drinks.

If COVID Toe doesn’t get you then you may just drop like a sack of fruit while coping with price gouging. And who could blame you, really? It’s not just Generation Wuss that’s incapable of withstanding these batshit times.

Roy Horn of Siegfried & Roy has croaked. The dude who got ate by a giant tiger and survived has succumbed to ‘Rona. Stick that in your skeptic’s spliff and smoke it! Even the Architect of Rock and Roll, Little Richard, has sung, “Goodnight, Irene.”

As the great wicks are snuffed out and the hand sanitizer dries up, we’re left to do all that we can. Hunker down. It’s easier said than done, to be sure. You’ve seen the memes. “Can you blink quieter, you fucking cunt?”

We’re all of us losing our shit. And where there is shit there needs to be shit paper.

It’s like a stranger had a key, came inside of my mind

And moved all my things around.”

Ah, Marilyn. How right you are. Invasive thoughts burrow into one’s skull like tapeworms into soft tissue. If mortality isn’t on your mind right now then you probably don’t have one.

Earlier in the week, I had to make a run to 7-Eleven for disposable masks and coffee. On my way I passed a middle-aged woman in a soiled sweatsuit. She was flailing along Montauk Highway, cursing at someone who wasn’t there.

But of course, I thought.

Now I am the one cursing at all the Sunday drivers flooding the roads on this overcast morning as I make my way to The Botanist with the last of some Rainforest Clarity in my system. If it weren’t for clarity we’d all be setting fires by now, but as a wise cynic once told me, “Why burn when the whole world’s in ashes?”

That was in a different time, a simpler one. It was somewhere after the Y2K panic and before the Iraq War. The sage who spewed it was a crackhead and a known felon, but he was also a gentleman. By that, I mean he shared his drugs and his aphorisms if you were willing to sit through them. And if he spit when he talked, he was courteous enough to keep a wide berth.

The same cannot be said of the denizens of 2020. The Year of the Rat has brought us the Toilet Bowl Challenge, public spit attacks and unbridled gluttony. A man drove to 11 different Wendy’s locations twice in one day when he heard about their free 4-piece chicken nuggets. This tri-state excursion netted him 88 free nugs.

This story was presented in the mindlessly good-humored fashion typical of mainstream news. How quirky and quaint, right? And maybe it sounds pretty silly on the surface…until you think on it for a minute.

The post I came across included a photo of Skweezy Jibbs—the man’s all-too-appropriate Twitter handle—as well as his Tweet which reads, “Times is [sic] tough so when I heard Wendy’s was [sic] givin’ out free 4 piece nuggs today I knew I had to hustle. I hit every damn Wendy’s twice within 17 miles across 2 states. It took 5 hours but now we eatin’ free 4 [sic] a week.”

One look at the gristled face of this gnarly liquid shit, and the man panties draped about his bristly throat, perfectly illustrates the primitive avarice that our gut bug of a president has inspired if not outright encouraged.

This is ‘Merica and it’s great! It belongs to me and I gets mines and if you take everything for yourself and leave nothing in the cookie jar for the next dumb sumbitch? Well, that’s called winning, Loser!

I seem to have digressed somewhere along the way, perhaps as a result of contemplating this man’s photo which will almost certainly be the one used for campaign purposes when he runs for office in the future. I mean, nothing says American Resourcefulness like a neckbeard wearing a pair of dirty drawers as a face mask.

It isn’t hard to imagine this mugshot of a default pic becoming the face of American Politics or, at the very least, the cover shot on a textbook. This face is Amerika.

It’s the same grill as that demented, flailing woman in the soiled sweatsuit. I ponder this as I scurry out of The Botanist with my indica vape cartridges and lock myself in the relative safety of my ’99 Nissan Altima. And as I load the chamber of my brand-new Ccell ® Palm with revolutionary ceramic heating elements and aluminum alloy housing (Made in China, it’s worth mentioning), I alight on the greatest horror that I’ve faced today.

We are all that slobbering, raving lunatic you see marching along the street, flailing and cursing to themselves.

How can we help it?

Our loved ones have mastered the Art of Irritation while strangers have abandoned fundamental social cues, and it’s the first time in most of our lives where we’ve had to decide whether that extra wipe is worth the cost of running out of hand soap.

What’s worse, we’ve all but lost the industry that we rely on to distract us as reality looses a wet one on our chests. There are only so many stories to binge and only so many times you can hear about 90 Day Fiance: The Other Way before your brain turns to parfait and your tongue flops out.

As streaming services have shit the bed and gullible fools have fallen off cliffs in celebration of illusory freedom, Israel has been carefully coming up with a COVID antibody that will undoubtedly result in another Thousand Year War with Palestine. A cabal of obscenely moneyed Plutocrats will surely buy the rights to their development like that filthy rich dick weevil who owned the lost Wu-Tang album.

As we wait, more black lives are taken by the sort of individuals who always turn national crises into a real world sequel to The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street. In Georgia, a 25-year old man named Ahmaud Arbery was fatally shot by a father and son who tag-teamed his ass with a handgun and a shotgun … for jogging.

Many see this all as our status quo. Another pair of jingoistic hilljacks running down an unarmed black kid. Business as usual.

I see it as the latest in a series of events which confirm what some of us have long suspected—the earth would be better off without humans.

As I drove home with some fresh Rainforest Clarity and that earthy aroma smacked me in the face once again, I remembered that the grass is screaming and I smiled.

“Maybe the earth is finally getting ready to spit us out.”

Esto perpetua.

Predictions for the week ahead: Walmart employees will get hip to the book section in their store and learn how to fire their own boss. More Amazon executives will resign. A rise in temperatures and a consequent rise in alcohol poisonings, hand sanitizer poisonings and poisonous insects will occur.

Allergy sufferers will go to their physicians’ offices with the sniffles and be told to jerk off in cups. One hundred Coronababies will be conceived while at least fifty existing children will be traded for two-ply.

Monday will see the President declaring a luxury tax on Charmin and a ban on press photographers. The CDC’s top ground personnel will be fired and replaced by former members of America First Action and HFZ Capital Group.

The Lincoln Project will finds its signage vandalized to read The Lincoln Log Losers Club in gold spray paint. Jimmy Fallon will receive Trump’s nomination for the next Mark Twain Award on the same day that he’s caught strangling his youngest daughter to death on the Tonight Show – Home Edition.

Business as usual.

Scooby-Doo! Return to Zombie Island—Movie Review

by Zakary McGaha

2019 has been, and will continue to be, a pretty good year for horror movies. Like always, installments in already-established franchises are stealing most of the conversation, but there have been some notable new releases as well. So much so that it’s difficult to stay on top of things.

Today’s review, however, is about a sequel in a franchise that will never die; a franchise that adult horror fans the world over love, despite it being for kids; a franchise that has won the hearts of countless generations past and countless generations to come: Scooby-Doo! My love for this franchise is intense. My childhood bedroom was decked out with Scooby bed sheets, Scooby curtains…and I even had a pair of Scooby-Doo underwear.

This franchise, it seems, is never NOT doing well for itself. There have been so many separate animated TV series, standalone animated films, related-to-each-other-but-still-standalone animated films, live-action/star-studded films, low-budget/made-for-tv live-action films, made-for-tv-animated films…oh shit, I just had a nosebleed. Anyway, there’s been a lot of stuff, and I haven’t even mentioned the gist of everything!

There really isn’t an overarching timeline for Scooby-Doo, though there are some links that run through certain things. I think of the franchise as a multiverse in which certain parallels stay the same, and some don’t. For instance: different shows and movies that can’t possibly exist in the same universe make references to the same Mystery Inc. cases. Another example: one purported prequel, as well as its sequel, supposedly take place before the live-action movie, yet, technology and culture-wise, clearly take place after. Yeah, go figure.

I find all these things fascinating. The Scoob-tific universe is a fun one to get lost in. If you ask different people which show or movie is their favorite, you’re likely to get different answers. In fact, I’ve found the standard response you’d expect of, “The original; duh,” doesn’t apply here. There are simply too many great incarnations/timelines, and, given that the franchise is so old, people of different generations likely grew up watching different incarnations.

I was born in 1998, and, consequently, have always been partial to the first string of four direct-to-video animated movies that started in 1998 with Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island. Of course, there have been WAAAAAY more than four direct-to-video animated Scoob movies, but the first four that kicked the trend off were direct sequels to one another in the sense that they were made by the same animation studio with the same voice-cast/art direction/etc.

The movies that would follow would change as the franchise as a whole changed…as in, their art styles began mimicking whichever new tv-show was running on the networks…which, in turn, left the first four movies…Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island, Scooby-Doo and the Witch’s Ghost, Scoooby-Doo and the Alien Invaders, and Scooby-Doo and the Cyber Chase…alone on their own, proverbial island. (NOTE: despite being the first direct-to-video animated Scoob, movie, Zombie Island was pre-dated by three made-for-tv animated movies in the 80s and another one in the 90s).

Despite these four, original direct-to-video animated movies being on their own island, references to them are made throughout many other movies (and maybe even one of the shows, if my memory serves). My sentiments of absolutely adoring these four movies and putting them on a pedestal above the other incarnations are echoed quite frequently. The main thing people like about them is that, in contrast with most other Scoob stories, the monsters and whatnot in these movies were real. Plus, the animation was striking.

These movies were realistic, bad-ass, and, strangely, sort of gritty and emotional. Overall, though, they were creative and fun, and didn’t follow the simple formula to a tee; their stories played around way more, while still staying recognizable.

With the current trend in horror franchises being sequels that ignore other sequels, and, instead, act as “the real” sequels to the original films, it seemed inevitable that Scooby and the gang would drop what they were doing and return to Zombie Island.

Fuck the current trend in horror franchises.

Scooby-Doo! Return to Zombie Island may be the most pointless sequel I’ve ever seen. It’s surprising that it doesn’t even try to add onto the narrative set forth in the original.

Spoilers ahead, so if you haven’t seen these films and are interested, I suggest you go watch them…

Anyway, the original Zombie Island is notorious for its all-out, awesome ending. Not only were there real-life zombies and pirate-ghosts on Moonscar Island…there were also werecats. Naturally, Scooby and the gang managed to barely escape the werecats, which in turn brought about the furry fiends’ expiration considering that they couldn’t steal the gang’s souls before the moonlight ran out or something. The death of the werecats resulted in the freeing of the zombies’ souls, because the zombies only served as a warning to hapless people wandering onto the island.

The ending didn’t leave a single thing unexplained. Every “i” was dotted and every “t” was crossed.

Flash-forward twenty-one years, as well as several shows and tons of movies…most of which took place in their own universes…and we find that, for some reason, fucking Velma doesn’t think the business on Moonscar Island is finished. Something “doesn’t sit right with her” or whatever…and she even blogged about it. Yeah, I know: desperate.

The gang doesn’t wind back up on the island because of Velma’s uneasiness, however. They wind up there because Shaggy won vacation-tickets off a television show; said vacation destination happens to be Moonscar Island, which has been turned into a resort. Yeah, I know: desperate.

From there, stupidity and bad humor ensues. It turns out the whole thing is an elaborate setup because some nutty movie-director read Velma’s blog and thought it’d be a good idea to film a “real-life” movie, wherein actors dressed up as zombies terrorize the Mystery Inc. gang. Yeah, I know: desperate.

And that’s not all: there are also more werecats! However, these werecats aren’t real. They’re just copycats…heh-heh…who apparently also read her blog, and they’re conveniently looking for the pirate treasure during the time Mystery Inc. is there. Yeah, I know: desperate.

The one thing I feared going into the movie was that, since the “case” was being reopened, it was going to turn out that the supernatural aspects of the first Zombie Island had been fake all along. Luckily, that didn’t happen, and that’s about the only positive thing I can say for the movie.

In addition to the copycat boogies running around the resort, there is an actual werecat running around trying to get at the gang, but this aspect is never explained. In fact, you’re supposed to believe said werecat was one of the fake ones, even though it looked 100% different and performed inhuman feats, such as ripping the top off a car.

The big reveal at the end happens when they remove the masks of the fake werecats and realize that the other one…again, the one that looked 100% different and performed inhuman feats of aggression…had been real all along. Yeah, I know: desperate.

My main gripe about all this is that NOTHING NEW HAPPENS. I would’ve been fine if we learned something more about the werecats. I would’ve been more than fine if it turned out there were other werecats who had been planning revenge all these years. Instead, we got several fake werecats and fake zombies, which was, I guess, supposed to make us think that the supernatural aspects of the original had been fake as well, but then we get reassured that what we already knew was right all along because there’s another, real werecat still alive. Like…the overall plot ends up exactly where it was before (except for one new werecat that doesn’t do much)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In a nutshell, Scooby-Doo! Return to Zombie Island isn’t a sequel. Instead, it’s another movie that happens to take place in the same setting. Scoob and the gang go back to the island of the original movie, do some stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with the original movie’s plot, find out there’s another werecat at the very end, and then leave.

It’d be like if they made a movie called Tommy Jarvis: Return to Crystal Lake, wherein Tommy returns to Crystal Lake, gets tickled by a bunch of rodeo clowns, and then sees Jason in his rearview mirror as he’s driving back home whilst laughing due to said clown-tickling.

This movie was fucking pointless. It also had Elvira in it. Yeah, I know: desperate.

2/5 stars.

How to Satisfy Readers

by Trebor Elliverf

In recent weeks, the Motorist has received an alarming number of letters from our readers, each of them outlining a different grievance they had with our content. In one such missive, a 63-year old single mother named Beverly S. laments the use of vulgarity in our articles.

Beverly writes, “I visited your webpage because my son had it open on his MaxiPad and I was frankly appalled by what I saw. The staggering number of typos and run-on sentences was bad enough, but your use of words like the C word and the F word threw me for a loop.

“I simply cannot understand why you young people insist on cussing when you could be making a point about the state of the world.”

As firm believers that the Cunt is, indeed, always right, we are always quick as Fuck to respond to such a letter. Understanding Beverly’s gripe made it clear that we needed to nudge her in the right direction. So we sent her son an email which pointed her to a piece that we hope makes the kind of point about the state of the world that she was hoping we would.

We have yet to hear back from Bev, but others have sounded a similar clarion call about our recent content with one reader writing in to chastise us for “making light of a school shooting” by running our prom post about Nikolas Cruz.

When we politely explained to said reader that the piece in question was making fun of school shooters and not school shootings we received a death threat in response. It was then that we fully grasped how serious this person was about murder, which is why we tried to keep him satisfied by sending him a coupon code good towards a brand-spanking new bump stock.

Sadly, this reader was still not satisfied…at least his additional threats of bodily harm suggested as much. This kind of outpouring of disappointment troubles us as we pride ourselves on giving the readers what they want.

With that in mind, we have implemented a new protocol that should keep everyone happy, regardless of their personal tastes, sense of humor (or lack thereof) or political beliefs. We call this protocol the Placate Readers, Idiots, Cunts and Killers system or PRICK, for short.

This is how we plan to satisfy our reads. This is how the PRICK works:


Treat everyone like a child. For those of us who didn’t come from broken homes, childhood was a time of warmth, compassion, understanding and support. Our mothers kept us nestled in their bosom, cradling us gently as we nursed their lactating nipples. Our fathers brought home the bacon, chewed it up into a fine paste and spat it into our mouths so that we would never have to bear the burden of learning how to chew.

Our readers demand the same and they damn sure should get it! That’s why we will be installing a filtration app on our homepage with facial recognition technology. In this way, all readers can enjoy the site without scarring their eyes and sensibilities by perusing something that was too harsh for them. No longer will their soft heads be racked with spasms of anger at something they do not agree with. Instead, the Motorist will be a safe space for hive minds of all stripes.


Most human beings are stubbornly resistant to change, we like things to remain the same. Change suggests disorder or disruption which puts many of us on edge. It is safe to say that Change would be a trigger word, were it not for the simple fact that it was used in Barack Obama’s campaign slogan in 2008.

As anyone with access to a television or computer can tell you, change seems to be a constant. The 24-hour news cycle illustrates this more than anything else. No doubt, some of our readers have been gobsmacked when we alluded to things like AI technology or Transpeople. These individuals don’t want to live in a time where the robots and the he-shes are gonna take over and plot world domination.

To remedy this problem we have alighted on the idea of fundamental renewal. In order to sustain Silent Motorist Media for one and all, we will routinely plagiarize ourselves around every corner. This is something we have already begun to do by introducing follow-up installments to previous articles.

For now on, if you see something new on this site then you will know that we have been hacked by gender fluid humanoid hovercraft machines with lizard eyes. If that appears to be the case, we urge you to STOP READING and AVOID THIS WEBSITE AT ALL COSTS!! The future of the bloodline is in your hands.


You may be thinking that our masthead is a mere coincidence, that our staff is just a sausage fest because nobody else wanted the job. How foolish of you to think that this wasn’t a calculated maneuver on our part. Here at the Motorist, we value isolationism and gender separatism because we understand it to be the only way to insulate ourselves and our readers from the cruel brutes at the gates.

You know who I’m talking about, the Other people. They. The ones that would have us all turn the frogs gay and make ourselves retarded by brushing our teeth with fluoridated toothpaste. These are the same mongrel scourges who would have you read something that you didn’t entirely align yourself with already.

Make no mistake, the Motorist has no place for women or children or queers or blacks or Chinese or half-breeds or little people or Menonites. If they don’t believe what you believe, then they don’t believe what we believe…because we believe whatever you believe. Believe me!

In an effort to ensure that we remain insulated from fringe perspectives and dangerous outlaw dogma, we have decided to build a complex firewall around this website designed to keep the savages at bay. If the Enemy attempts to gain purchase to this website and poison your precious mind with impure thoughts, they will be immediately redirected to Info Wars and/or Netflix’s Fuller House.


There is no better way to keep your mind from being muddied than to constantly clean things up. To this end, we are planning to spend $4.5 trillion in government grants on a dedicated team of fixers who will regularly scrub this site free of any troubling material.

As former-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once famously said, “I am extraordinarily patient, provided you peasants clean my cunt at once! And if I cannot see my reflection in its lips it is off with your heads!”

Yes, cleanliness is next to godliness, which is why God is a woman and Ariana Grande looks like she was dipped in wax at a doll factory. The cleaner you are, the better person you are.


Don’t look at me that way! You must realize by now that killing is the only thing we all have in common. Killing animals, killing the environment, killing ourselves at back-breaking jobs, killing time until our inevitable demise. Killing is what it’s all about.

I don’t care if you’re a vegan or Ted fucking Nugent, we’ve all got blood on our hands and some of us like it. The texture, the taste, the sense of it clinging to our skin and our olfactory nerves. If we can do one thing to keep all of our readers happy, it’s killing for your enjoyment.

This is our commitment to write at least one hatchet piece about someone you thoroughly revile every single week for the rest of all time. If we don’t keep up our end of the bargain, we will happily kill ourselves.

Should this protocol fail, we know other ways to satisfy you as well. They don’t call me the Raspberry Goatee for nothing. ; )

Like and share this post or we’ll kill your dog and poke your dad.

5 Facts That Prove We Are Living in a Dystopian Society

By Bob Freville

As fans of the dark and depraved, we’ve all devoured dystopian novels and movies with the same gusto that a coprophile affords 2 Girls, 1 Cup. But like the fated Neo of The Matrix, it’s time we drop the proverbial red pill and take the blinders off.

We are living in a dystopia.

As if the wild popularity of Logan Paul, Apple watches and Fortnite wasn’t evidence enough, a deep dive into our cultural mud puddle reveals all too many clues that the planet Earth is irreparably fucked.

In the age of government-sanctioned white nationalism, the “vaping” craze and the very acceptable practice of plugging into VR units, there’s no point in carrying on about this at length. The bad guys have already won and we are subjugated.

With that in mind, here is a succinct list of the hard proof of our societal putrefaction. Read it and weep, plebes!


1. The One Percent

If you’re a hardcore horror fan, you’ve probably seen or heard of Brian Yuzna’s Society. Arriving in 1992, this cult body horror flick may be laughably dated in terms of the fashion, hair styles and poor acting of its main cast, but the seemingly ancillary characters, namely the wealthy parents, are a perfect reflection of the so-called upper crust that dominates our world.

The protagonist’s “butthead” father is the archetypal filthy rich villain and the family’s elite circle of friends are representative of the ultra-exclusive club of greedy, murderous monsters that pull the strings behind the scenes. If ever you doubted that the powers that be do NOT have your best interests in mind, pop this one in your ole-fangled VCR and give it a spin.


Tell me you can’t picture a remake in which Mitt Romney and Donald Trump “shunt” each other.

2. Big Brother is Watching You…and You’re Watching It


While Yuzna’s Society is among the best dystopian movies, Orwell’s classic novel 1984 is, perhaps, the best example of the dystopian novel. What is truly perturbing about it is just how accurately Eric Blair nee George Orwell predicted our current state of affairs.

Written in 1949, this landmark story focuses on a future world in which the working class are kept under constant surveillance by a totalitarian police state.

Sound familiar?

Of course it does! There are approximately 30 million surveillance cameras currently deployed in the United States alone. They’re watching you when you’re at ATM machines, in line at convenience stores, waiting for public transit or just minding your own business on a park bench.


They’re watching you!

But you don’t care because you’re too busy watching someone else. For the last 20 years, Americans have been tuning in to the appropriately-titled Big Brother on CBS. This highly-rated reality show serves as a cruel sociological study that almost rivals the Stanford Prison Experiment in terms of sheer brutality.

Big Brother centers around the constant surveillance of “willing participants” who agree to be locked in a house together and perpetually monitored as they slowly unravel like so many onions.

Viewers delight in watching these people fall apart in their confined space which is free of any external stimuli save for the rare appearance of a talking robot who makes fun of their most embarrassing idiosyncrasies.

And while you are watching them, the Fourteen Eyes are watching you. Smile for the cameras.


3. We’re a bunch of morons

Most of us labor under the delusion that we’re pretty smart, but the facts are not in our favor. If you’ve ever watched Mike Judge’s painfully hilarious Idiocracy, in which a cryogenically frozen military man wakes up in a distant future where everyone is illiterate and savage, you probably thought, “That could never happen.”

You were half right; it couldn’t happen because it already has. In the flick, the idiots of the world lounge around watching inventive shows like Ow, my Balls when they’re not eating at Buttfuckers (a play on Fudruckers) or poisoning their crops by watering them with a Gatorade-style energy drink.

Tell me that’s far off from the current climate where a sawed-off B-list comedian hosts an obstacle course designed to pummel the shit out of desperate contestants, the president talks about grabbing a lady’s pubis and middle schoolers pound Monster cans while zipping around on combustible hoverboards.


If that doesn’t illustrate our idiocy enough, consider this: The intelligence quotient is plummeting and I bet you didn’t even know that’s what IQ stood for, did ya, you stupid shit! Fresh science has proven that our reliance on technology, our lackluster school system and our shit diets have turned us into what Hunter S. Thompson used to call the “New Dumb.”

4. We’ll put anything in our mouths


The 1979 thriller Soylent Green presented a harrowing portrait of a future wherein the congested and starving underclass are forced to eat an opaque meal substitute called Soylent Green. The citizens of New York mindlessly gobble it up without a thought until Charleton Heston of all people discovers the truth and screams, “Soylent Green is people! It’s PEOPLE!!!”

If you’re thinking that this is the stuff of silly science fiction, I urge you to visit your local 7-Eleven and take a look at their coolers. There you will likely find bottles labeled Soylent; it’s a meal replacement that has been widely embraced by health-conscious individuals who drink the chalky muck to watch their weight and ensure that they get enough protein.


The (blood) simple fact that someone would eat or drink a product bearing the Soylent name proves that we are unequivocally and without redemption a species of thoughtless, mouth-breathing bipeds.

Even more appallingly, Soylent was introduced after the company behind it successfully raised $1.5 million via crowdfunding. That means you actually paid for this to be possible, you prat!


5. A Nation of Junkies

Aldous Huxley’s seminal work of speculative fiction, the ironically-titled Brave New World, foresaw a day and age in which people would be bred to live a perpetually anesthetized life as vain, drug-dependent sex slaves with a dearth of human emotion.

Think of the face-lifts of Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, then take a look at the world of modern cosmetic surgery. Is there a difference?

Vanity aside, there is no denying the statistics of drug addiction and prostitution in the U.S. We are a nation of pain patch sucking, dope shooting, pill popping, beer swilling, hamburger gobbling mutants who would rather develop scales and enable our bodies to eat themselves than pass up that next high.


The world of sex trafficking is one that’s very much fueled by our national drug abuse epidemic. Opioids have long been a primary form of “bait” for the human trafficker and more teens are swallowed up by the rapacious maw of these synthetic drugs every year.

When someone tells you that slavery ended in the 1800s, look them dead in the eye, whip out some krokodil and give them a hot shot, Jack. How else are you gonna make a dope woke? Good luck, my friends. We’re all gonna need it.

Like and share this post or we’ll steal your drugs.