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4.6.0-nightly.2026-03-16
my mom fucked a bat
Has GenAI sought tax-exempt 501(c)(3) status as a religious organization yet?
If I get bitten by a zombie, do not shoot me before I turn. I want to see what it’s like. Might be a whole new exciting chapter in my life.
How is the rate of fresh hells somehow accelerating?
Did someone fall asleep on the fresh-hell-generator lever?
“Hahaha, of course I’m not a witch,” I laugh, then sneeze and burst into a dozen bats.
Superman realizing he doesn’t have any pockets, shoving his cell phone into the waistband of his red external underwear, resigning to it just sticking out halfway.
You receive another email supposedly from yourself and roll your eyes while sending it to spam.
In an alternate universe, your counterpart frantically awaits your reply to their URGENT message.
“How’s the water today?” I ask.
She stares out to the horizon. “Feels like violence,” she says.
I nod. Even on the pier, I feel the anger seething inside me. The black sludge depths calling me. “Guess I’ll go for a dip,” I say.
She nods, still squinting into the distance.
Every molecule on Earth was born from supernovae explosion or neutron star collision remains—we're all just stellar shit.
💫 💩
Oh? We’re NOT the center of the universe, but our planetary gravitational pull is somehow conveniently 1G and our sun is 1 solar mass? Pretty big coincidence.
It’s a brave new world…or at least one you need to be pretty brave to keep trying to live in.
By 2030, The Hurricane Channel must engineer a previously unseen shade of deep magenta to represent the newly designated category 17 storm.
The dark purple-red induces nightmares, seizures, and “the terror-lust hornt up madness.”
Werner Herzog as a talking head on I Love The 80s, detailing Wilma Flintstone’s vacuous marriage set amid a rocky wasteland intended to mirror her sense of emotional isolation.
The power of his words bleeds into the next interview—Tabitha Soren sobs uncontrollably.
I look around the person ahead of me to find a long queue stretching into the distance. I turn back to the person behind me. “Do we even know what this line’s for?” I ask.
“I think they’re screening for alien DNA?” they say.
“… … Oh,” I reply, overly casually, then side-step towards the woods.
[first day in Hell]
"Today is brought to you by the letter…H"
[second day in Hell]
"Today is brought to you by the letter…H"
ME: my god
[post-apocalypse]
“Great to be here, folks. My name’s Tough and Stringy Meat. Who all’s from the Giant Wasteland? Anyone?”
[silence]
“How about the Vast Plains of Fire? I hear it’s warm there this time of year, haha.”
[long pause]
FROM THE BACK: Let’s eat him!
“Hahaha remember the name.”
We did it, guys. We made it to the dystopic future.