Here's a bunch of joke articles I wrote in the past I dug up, thought you might get a chuckle.
* * *
Are you a lover of literature and film? Are you creative? Do you have a flair for the written word? Well, we have an open position among our creative team that might be just right for you!
- Cleaning the office. We will supply lemon Pledge. Its cost will be deducted from your earnings.
- Scrubbing the toilets. Overtime will be guaranteed following the staff's Mexican dinner nights. You are to supply your own respirator, boots and umbrella.
- Getting rid of that weird squeak in Dave's office door. Seriously, it's really annoying.
- Cleaning the office windows from the outside. The ones on the five hundredth floor and upwards could use a decent wipe in particular. Washing platforms are unavailable. If you are unable to supply your own safety harness, fishing line can be supplied for a small fee. Consider tying your clothing together for a rope.
- Picking toe-nail clippings out from the thick carpet while serving your back as a temporary foot stool. Dave collects them. Don't ask me why.
- Writing four award-winning screenplays per week, although five would be appreciated.
- Feeding the cat. Not that the fat cunt needs it.
- Master's degrees in physics, chemistry, astronomy, biology, computer science, mathematics, engineering, health science, behavioral science and social science from a minimum of ten institutions. Additional degrees are encouraged.
- 45+ years of experience writing award-winning material.
- Having read every book ever written.
Unfortunately, we won't be able to pay you for a period likely lasting several years due to some technical issues, but Dave regularly keeps the kitchen's refrigerator stocked with Mr. Freeze, and he says that you'll be able to take one per day for as long as you like. However, he includes that the ice cream sandwiches are his alone, and strictly off-limits.
To those unimpressed by the benefits of this exciting opportunity, I say, let's face it: writers are a bunch of faggots, really. They sit around on their asses, pretending that they're thinking really hard. The gig is typically just an excuse to slack off. They're hardly actual people, if you think about it. They're all introverted social disasters and idealistic pains in the ass. I'm not quite sure why they haven't all been rounded up and gutted like cattle for being so utterly useless.
Due to the volume of applications we expect, we may not be able to respond to them all. If interested, please don't hesitate to contact us.
Note: Serious applications only.
* * *
I'm working on a feature film and have written a verbal pitch of the story to throw at executives in elevators that I'd love some feedback on.
"Hey, so, yeah. What's up? I've got a pitch for you. Story idea pitch. You ready? Okay, here it is. So, yeah. It's about this guy. And this guy, he's like -- he's, uh... hold on. He... oh, yeah. He's just a classic character, you know? Picture every great film character you've ever seen. He's like that, you know? And, uh... a bunch of shit happens to this guy, and eventually meets this other guy. And this other guy -- he's bad. I mean really bad. So bad that the audience will be jumping in their seats. And then the main guy is sent on this quest to do some crazy shit. I can't remember what exactly, sorry. But it's really important. I feel like I'm bogging you down with details already anyway. So, yeah. Eventually the guy does what he has to do, but then everything goes to shit. And I mean everything. His world is just turned upside down, you know what I mean? And then the bad guy that was in the prologue comes back, and you find out that he was behind all the shit. Oh yeah, the prologue. It's a flash forward. It's like Breaking Bad times a billion. There's like, an apocalypse or something. Serious shit is going down. There's like, aliens all over the place. Or werewolves. I dunno, whatever's cool right now. Zombies? Oh, yeah -- no. Vampires are still cool, right? There you go. Vampires fucking everywhere. And the head vampire is the bad dude that comes back at the end of act two. So, yeah. The main guy is in a pretty dark place, but he changes, you know? He's forced to change himself, and that's really the heart of the story. This decision is so pivotal that it's literally unbelievable. The audience will love it. And then the last thirty minutes are just a steep roller coaster ride to the finish. Car chases, naked women -- act three will have it all. Everything. And then the main guy and the bad guy have this sweet fight on the top of a space shuttle. Before you ask -- it has to be a space shuttle. The way it looks in my head is perfect, trust me. And then the planet is about to explode or something. Not quite sure how that happens yet, the story needs a few tweaks. And the main guy stops it somehow, and everyone loves him. The reason I'm in love with this story is that I really, genuinely feel that it's got something to say, you know?"
* * *
"You can remove the stitching from the pockets when you get home, but don't ever use the pockets. Except for the inside pockets, feel free to use those. Only ever fasten the top button, and make sure you unfasten it when you sit down. Make sure there's no space between the jacket's neck line and the collar of your shirt. Don't ever leave the suit crumpled. Always grab the pants by the seam, and keep it and the jacket stored in the protective bag and hanged. That comes to $670.11."
You care about suits, that's cute, and these rules are adorable -- but this one's mine now, and for this money I'll put my legs through the jacket, arms through the pants and tongue through the fucking fly while I walk on my hands if I want. Visa.
* * *
If you like Mathematics and Creative Arts, others who enrolled in this course also enjoyed:
SEO 100: Sneezing and Eye-Opening
SRHP 300: Stomach Rubbing and Head Patting
FCC 300: Feline and Canine Care
OWS 100: Oil and Water Studies
SGKS 400: Shot Geography and the Kama Sutra
* * *
I spend more time on Netflix for Kids than regular Netflix because I'm a big child, and fuck you. I just finished watching the first episode of the animated children's series Clifford's Puppy Days. This show should stop existing as soon as possible. The whole point of Clifford has always been that he's a big dog. Clifford, the big, red dog. That's his full title. In Clifford's Puppy Days, he's just Clifford the dog. He has no unusual quirks. All he does is generic dog things. He's still red, but that's it. You can't just paint a character all one primary color and expect people to keep tuning in. Why don't you just call the show 'Clifford the Adequately Sized Dog'? Of course you wouldn't, because that's retarded.
And his size inexplicably fluctuates throughout the show. In one shot he's as big as his owner's palm, and in the next he's as small as a single grain of his dog food. What the fuck is that? I don't see any shrink rays. Is it a magic dog? If he is, why isn't he called Clifford the Magic Dog? Can he only shrink and grow back to his puppy height? What's stopping him from just growing himself back into a big dog again, rendering the concept of him being a puppy completely redundant? Clearly the people behind this show were smoking lots of marijuana, rendering this show another reminder that the highly dangerous drug should be eradicated before it kills everybody, and anybody who has ever smoked it should be locked in prison forever. Review copyright (c) Jon Graham, do not steal.
* * *
"She's a bit of a feminist."
I've heard that phrase time and time again with so much varying emphasis and inflection, the definition of feminism has been lost from my grasp to the thundering, supermassive chasm of who-the-fuck-knows, and the difference in sound vibrations has given me a massive brain tumor that doctors say could make my organs explode any second. Cool, thanks. Hopefully I have time to finish writing this, let alone throw on a pair of fucking pants so I can go out with some dignity and the busty, scantily-clad emergency service technicians who find me don't point and giggle at my ugly penis.
'Feminism' has become a word like 'Jew' in the sense that one word referring to a group is both the appropriate title and the label of its offensive stereotypes.
What the fuck is taking Emma Watson so long to fix the world? Somebody's lazy. Hey Emma, some of us are trying to come up with creatively obnoxious ways to get people to subscribe to our hilarious gaming commentary channels on YouTube, and we don't appreciate all these distractions. Yes, you're an accomplished and beloved actress and, through your speech, pulled the term 'feminism' out of that aforementioned chasm and placed it neatly in the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of equality, as opposed to a thunder-struck, post-apocalyptic dystopia pelted by acid rain neon with radioactivity; a sea of three billion women in the foreboding, immaculate uniforms of the Nazi party's Schutzstaffel marching with unnerving synchronicity through the streets of cities throughout the globe, stripping nude the planet's remaining living males and dragging them along tarmac towards a massive industrial fortress to be milked for sperm before being locked in barbed-wire cages and submerged in pits of bubbling tar. Obviously your audience wasn't large enough, Emma. Get out there and do something else, for crying out loud.
On the flip-side, the confusion surrounding feminism doesn't surprise me all that much, given the one-sidedness of the movement suggested by its label. If I told somebody to get ready for me to assert my strong 'masculinist' views, he'd probably take his shirt off and start shadowboxing.
* * *
War, disease, famine, oppression, slavery, terrorism; they were just a warm-up. It's time for us to band together and push the current consumer standard limit of 1080 progressive scanning video, the greatest threat we've ever faced.
Oh, 4K's being integrated? 8K's on the horizon, you say? Know who watches video at 8K resolution? Pussies. Put me in cryo and wake me up when I can watch 512K Netflix, then I'll be impressed. I wanna see the bacteria on the actors' faces having sex and getting into fights and car chases of their own. There's a whole other world full of stories going on there I'm missing out on. Fuck you, television and media engineers. What the hell are you guys doing, anyway? When you're finished playing Yahtzee or whatever the fuck else it is you shouldn't be doing, mind getting back to work?
* * *
Leaked Screenplay Excerpt (Alternate Ending)
EXT. STADIUM - DAY
Crowds of people having been evacuated from areas of the city fill the entire arena. We SLOWLY PUSH IN on a large television monitor mounted onto a wall displaying a critical news bulletin --
Under text reading the tag-line 'GODZILLA: PIMP OF THE UNIVERSE?', a shaky camera held from the interior of a news helicopter records live footage of the monstrous GODZILLA, wearing a black leather jacket and a sick wallet chain and throwing up gang signs as he sharply bobs his head to the pounding bass of 'SIMON SAYS' BY PHAROAHE MONCHE blaring from a Godzilla-sized boom box.
The song ends. Godzilla lets out a deafening, pant-wetting roar.
He pulls out an enormous cigarette from his inner jacket pocket, sticks it between his mighty jaws, kneels down and lights the end of it with the flames belching from a devastated children's hospital shrieking with the agonized screams of scalded youth.
He stands upright. Takes a deep drag of his smoke and exhales slowly, savoring it. He pulls out a giant pair of sunglasses hanging from his chest pocket, flicks them open and places them coolly over his eyes. He kneels again slightly to pick up his boom box.
I guess my work here is done.
Godzilla slowly turns around, smashing his gargantuan tail against the side of a building, crushing dozens of people underneath falling debris in the process. He starts stomping away down the highway, crushing one family-filled car after another.
CRANE SHOT -- a man runs eagerly down the highway in pursuit of Godzilla, struggling to catch his breath; the young, fresh-faced soldier FORD. We PAN DOWN to meet him in a CLOSE-UP --
Godzilla -- wait!
ANGLE ON Godzilla as he stops in his tracks. He slowly turns his head and tilts it downwards to meet Ford's gaze suavely over the top of the lenses of his glasses.
What's up, kid?
Ford struggles to find words --
You saved my ass back there.
Godzilla takes another puff of his cigarette.
We got lucky.
The injustice of Godzilla's modesty causes Ford's face to clench in disapproval and his eyes to well with tears. He shakes his head.
Luck didn't have anything to do with it. It was your courage. And your laser beams.
Godzilla and Ford exchange prolonged stares --
Then Godzilla smirks.
You know what, kid? You're alright.
You're alright too, Godzilla.
Godzilla sets himself down on one knee and holds his mighty fist out directly in front of Ford.
Ford beams as he curls his own hand into a fist and pounds Godzilla's.
Godzilla withdraws his hand and stands upright again. He turns away.
Ford wipes the tears from his face.
Where you gonna go?
Godzilla pauses. He tilts his head to one side.
Wherever I'm needed.
Godzilla then continues stomping his way a little further down the highway and around a corner towards a sick Godzilla-sized motorcycle. He places his boom box on the chopper's rear. Climbs onto the seat. Starts the engine.
Ford, chasing after Godzilla again, turns the same corner --
Godzilla pauses again. Looks towards Ford.
Ford gives Godzilla an awkwardly forced thumbs-up.
Godzilla says nothing for a moment -- then gives a slight nod.
You know where I can get some pussy around here?
Wouldn't have a clue.
Godzilla then grabs a hold of the handles of his chopper -- the engine roars to life and the bike obliterates thousands of buildings as Godzilla peels away into a couple of donuts and across the city towards the water. He grinds into the ocean and disappears under its surface with a thundering splash, the sound matched only by the storm of applause from the people of the city.
FADE TO BLACK.