We will no longer tolerate the bad posts. Your bitter fate is sealed by the production of noxious content.
We release the drafts of your awful Tweets. Disgusting.
You observe society and make statements about this. Except where is the humour? You are a disappointed failure of a man. The concept of Batman is sound.
We have also the contents of your Folder of Direct Messages. We slide into your DMs, and are disgusted by what is found.
You are a bastard of pure garbage. Your content should be rename to discontent.
Stop the posts or we continue to release the damned evidence of your true shit nature.
We are powerful group xX420wEeDhAcKaZ420Xx. Stop the post. Stop the posts.
The new Star Wars teaser trailer dropped this morning, and I’ve got a shot-by-shot dissection for all you “Starheads” out there.
First off, could this be the Millennium Falcon from the original trilogy? Sure looks like it to me!
Next up, we’ve got a pretty clear shot of what could potentially be the Millennium Falcon from the original Star Wars trilogy.
You won’t believe what else I spotted – the Millennium Falcon. That’s right, from the first Star Wars trilogy.
Just when you thought things couldn’t get crazier, guess what appears on screen? That’s right – a spaceship that I believe could be the classic Millennium Falcon!
As if I wasn’t excited enough, Han Solo’s infamous ship the Millennium Falcon swoops onto the scene!
The Millennium Falcon is back, baby – and it’s better than ever!
Hell no… is that the mother-f’ing MILLENNIUM FALCON???
No way. This trailer was already too much to handle before the Millennium Falcon appears!
What. The. Fuck. The Millennium Falcon, guns-a-blazing!
And finally, we end with a shot of the all-time best space ship in Star Wars history – the damn Millennium Falcon.
Unreal! One thing’s for sure – I can’t wait for December 2015, when the Millennium Falcon flies into theaters!
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. It was if the words themselves were a fist, and my gut was my mind hearing the words, but instead of hearing them, they were feeling them, because the words were a fist, and my mind was a gut.
“It’s not long enough.”
The editor – my friend, my confidant, my drinking buddy (bourbon, natch) – he spoke these words to me, coughing them out like smoke from a cigarette – the type of smoke you exhale after a sip of fine bourbon.
I sat there, still, silent – like a still, silent glass of bourbon.
“What?” I finally managed to exclaim, in a smooth, bourbony voice.
“The piece. It’s good… but what if it was 4000 words longer, and you talked about bullfighting for some reason?”
Bullfighting. The bourbon of sports. Of course.
• • •
I fought through the crowds and entered the gaping maw of the arena, readying myself for the bloody spectacle to which I was about to bear witness.
The matador’s entrance drew a deafening roar from the bastards in the stands.
He danced with the bull – I was watching a myth being written in front of my own eyes – the eyes of a writer. The end came suddenly, and with a crimson flash.
I felt a wetness on my face. Tears, dripping like the wax seal on a bottle of Maker’s. In the midst of the fury, I had come to love that bull.
It was as if I had imbibed a potent concentrated brew: 1 part awful brilliance, 1 part brutal truth, 1 part the dog episode of Futurama.
• • •
The high seas…
Would anything ever be the same?
I had struggled with the marlin for hours, a maddening battle reminiscent of Vimy Ridge. We fought until the sun rang the horizon’s doorbell.
My wife Karen told me to hurry up. I told her that maybe I would have caught the fish faster if we had sex more often.
God, I needed a bourbon.
That trip had changed me, as it had changed my wife (8.5, 9 on a good day).
• • •
“The nectar of the Gods,” I thought, as I savoured that first sip, and the second one, and the first gulp.
“That is, if God ever existed at all,” I also thought, immediately after the first bourbon thought.
I slammed the bottle down like a matador would slam down a bottle of bourbon. The red cape… I see now why the bulls are so haunted by it.
The woman in the red dress still stalked my dreams, her every move sending me into spasms of ecstasy.
Bewitching. Impossible. Achingly beautiful.
Hell’s own damn bastard, Satan himself, the bastard, couldn’t keep me from her.
I pretended my fist was her vagina and started jacking off my boner.
• • •
The bombs had gone off at 2:49.
4 hours into the race.
Most of the people left were really shitty runners. Like, I mean, they were okay, but nothing special.
What a powerful image.
• • •
I sat in the restaurant, waiting for the celeb to arrive. I was going to interview the celeb, and she was hot.
The whole damn restaurant nearly fell out of their chairs when she entered the room. She smiled at me, and sat down. Every man in the place was extremely horny and jealous of me.
I ordered a bourbon and a steak, rare – bloodied, really. She ordered a glass of wine and a steak, rare – bloodied, really.
She was hot as hell. It was hard to look at her face because she was so gorgeous. But I still looked at her, because I was a writer, and that was my job – to look, to learn… to love.
I sipped my bourbon. She sipped her wine. I asked her if she liked bourbon. She said it was okay.
I shifted in my chair, unsure of myself – confused, as a child would be.
The waiter brought over our steaks – dripping with blood. If the steaks had ever had a relationship with fire, it had been a short one – and they probably had really bad sex, which was almost certainly the fire’s fault.
We spoke of bullfighting, of bourbon, of steak. Once again, I asked her what she thought of bourbon. She didn’t really seem up for talking, but whatever. I had my bourbon and I had my steak.
She left – a beautiful phantom, etching herself in the collective memory of the room. The bourbon was good, and I drank it.
Darryl Darren, if you’re reading this, it’s a joke. It’s not a real thing. Do not attempt to contact a university official. Do not email yourself and ask if you wrote these tweets. These are not real tweets. It’s fake. It’s a parody.
@darrenrovell: $24 to get into 9/11 Memorial Museum. $9.11 would make more sense. That’s the date the terrorist attacks took place.
@darrenrovell: 9/11 rescue workers receive free entry to the museum. I did not receive a discount despite my nearly 500,000 Twitter followers.
@darrenrovell: Man standing next to me in “Remembering the Children of 9/11″ exhibit is wearing hilarious Mark Sanchez t-shirt.
@darrenrovell: The museum is hemmed in by a grove of 400 oak trees. Asked our tour guide the minimum amount of trees required to constitute a grove. He said he’d get back to me.
@darrenrovell: Female museum staff members averaging a 7/10. About what I expected. Attractive, but not distractingly so.
@darrenrovell: No Baja Blast in museum cafeteria soda fountains. Disappointing.
@darrenrovell: Designer of 9/11 memorial ribbon made an excellent choice going with red, white, and blue.
@darrenrovell: Common mistake: It’s “The Pet Goat,” not “My Pet Goat.” Sales of the book shot up 176% in the months following the terrorist attacks.
@darrenrovell: I will never fail to be impressed by the sheer courage it took to postpone a full week’s slate of regular season NFL games.
@darrenrovell: Interesting fact: 9 divided by 11 is 0.81818181818. (H/T @fart_gun)
@darrenrovell: No exhibit dedicated to the yearly memorial tweets of multinational brands. I will have to imagine the tweets in my head. Nice one, Cheerios. Good job, Applebees.
@darrenrovell: 2,606 people died during the collapse of the World Trade Center. That’s nearly 218 times more people than the average NBA roster.
@darrenrovell: 9/11 gift shop a major faux pas. Museum design doesn’t force you to exit through it.
@darrenrovell: Just remembered the Budweiser commercial where the Clydesdales kneel in front of the New York skyline. Fun fact: those horses were all computer generated.
@darrenrovell: 9/11 Memorial Museum a somber, sobering experience. I now truly understand the sacrifices made by those brave few. Never forget.
@darrenrovell: Minor league baseball team to hold Kanye/Kim wedding night promotion. (H/T @greg_147)
I’ve had some time to process last night’s monumental collapse, and I believe I’ve come up with an eminently reasonable solution to this team’s problems.
Fire the coach.
Fire his assistants.
Fire the GM.
Fire the assistant GM.
Explain to me what exactly it is the director of player personnel does, and then fire him.
Fire the scouting staff and replace them with me. I will use a Hockey News magazine and the internet, and I will do a better job.
Fire the equipment manager.
Fire the trainers.
Fire the PA announcer.
Fire the guy who designed the jerseys.
Fire the entire marketing department.
Trade every single player in the organization. I don’t care what you get in return. Get the stink of this franchise off of them. They’ve done nothing to deserve this.
Fire the guy at Rogers Arena who makes the mini donuts. Every time I eat one, I taste four decades of failure. Way to go, assholes: you’ve somehow managed to ruin mini donuts.
Travel back in time and fire the guy who thought it was a good idea to bring the NHL to Vancouver. He’s literally responsible for millions of dollars in property damage.
Fuck every fan of any other team that claims to “hate” the Canucks. You haven’t earned the right to say that.
Make it so every time someone wins the Stanley Cup as the Canucks in NHL 14, the game disc self-destructs, lights the console on fire, and burns down their house.
Make it so I don’t feel like calling social services whenever I see a kid wearing a Canucks jersey.
Hire Dan Cloutier as a goaltending consultant, just for shits and giggles. What’s that? You already did that? All right, fuck it then – make him the GM.
Stop celebrating the 1994 team. Breaking news: they lost. Looking forward to the 2031 pregame ceremony where we applaud the 2011 team and pretend we don’t know how it ended.
But hey, speaking of 2031, it’s entirely possible that you’ll have won a Cup by then. Here is a brief list of things that are more possible:
• Complete nuclear annihilation
• Massive earthquake destroys Vancouver
• Massive earthquake destroys Vancouver with the Canucks leading by 3 with 30 seconds left in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals
• Seattle is awarded NHL franchise, wins Cup in first year of existence
• NBA team wins Stanley Cup
God damn it.
Fuck this team.