Monthly Archives: May 2013

Events Planned for the One Year Anniversary of Mark Hill’s Word Repository

“A Year of Reposits” video retrospective narrated by Sir David Attenborough.

Gloating speech taunting the rival websites I drove out of business.

Commenter of the Year Award presented.

Posting of the climatic final chapter of The Terrific Trips and Terrifying Travails of Timmy the Timid Turtle.

Ritual sacrifice to Hermes.

Launch of major redesign intended to shift the focus of the site to my erotic Everybody Loves Raymond fanfiction.


Future Scandals of the Obama Administration

Sandalgate – President Obama is spotted wearing socks with sandals. The birther conspiracy is reignited as conservative commentators cite this fashion faux pas as proof of Obama’s lack of respect for American culture and customs.

Gategate – President Obama accidentally closes a White House gate on John Boehner’s foot. Pundits argue that this is a subconscious example of his unwillingness to work with Republicans. Budget negotiations are delayed for six weeks as the GOP protests.

Bogate – Bo Obama refuses to shake hands with Benjamin Netanyahu during a diplomatic visit. Republicans question the President’s commitment to Israel, while conservative talk show hosts claim that this is further evidence that Obama’s loyalties lie with the Islamic world. Commentary on Free Republic states that “the Antichrist obozo trained his devil dog well.”

Dronegate – A drone attack in tribal Pakistan kills 27 children. Conservatives defend Obama and his “bold leadership in the War on Terror.”

Buy My Goddamn Rice, You Stupid Cocks

Alright, fuckers, listen up. Uncle Ben here, and I am sick of your stupid goddamn bullshit. Word on the street is that you’re not buying my rice the way you used to. Well, fuck you. For years I played the nice old man, the friendly southern gentleman who brought you delicious long grains. You liked me, I liked you, you bought rice, I made scratch, everything was just fan-fucking-tastic. But apparently that’s not good enough for you whiny little bitches anymore, so I guess it’s time for some real talk.

Let me just straight up ask what the matter with you dickbags is. Huh? You don’t have time for my rice anymore because you’re too busy stuffing your fat fucking faces with fast food? You want to have a fucking heart attack before you turn 40? My rice has got nutrients, or some shit like that. You dumb cunts won’t get any of that crap in your McDonald’s burgers. What are you, retarded?

Or maybe you’re just bored of my rice. Is that it? Well boo-fucking-hoo. I’m bored of Aunt Jemima, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop screwing her brains out. Listen to me, you stupid bastards—rice has been a staple of civilisation for thousands of fucking years. Empires have risen and fallen on this shit. You don’t get to just come along and say you’re done with it. What kind of arrogant pricks do you think you are? Fuck you.

And don’t even fucking suggest that you’re buying another brand. I know you dipshits are so fucking dumb that you’ll fall for anything a commercial says, but if I find out you fuckers are buying Rice-A-Roni behind my back I’m going to come to your house and beat you to death with my big black cock. Go ahead, lock your doors. I’ll fuck them off their goddamn hinges with my hate boner.

And nobody better fucking tell me that I’m not keeping in touch with the modern consumer. Why do you think I made those stupid as shit “ready before you are” commercials, with bitches bouncing around in their fucking bras? I sell rice, I’m not a goddamn pornographer. But I knew you fucking Neanderthals can’t focus on anything that doesn’t have a nice pair of titties, so I stopped with the wholesome family ads and gave you fucking softcore porn. And what do I get as thanks from you perverts? Nothing. Fucking nothing. “Thanks for the free boners, we’ll stick them in our Chef Boyardee!”  Well fuck Chef Boyardee, and fuck you, too.

I’ve had it up to here with you cocksuckers. But Uncle Ben’s got bills to pay, so I’m going to throw you a bone you pieces of shit don’t deserve. It is my tremendous fucking pleasure to announce a brand new product featuring every idiotic feature you moronic douchebags could possibly want. You want fast? Every bag of Uncle Ben’s Insta-Rice for Assholes comes with a stick of thermite that will cook your rice quicker than you can disappoint your lover. That’s for you lazy fucks who think food made with a microwave is haute fucking cuisine. You want modern taste? There’s so much butter and salt in Insta-Rice for Assholes I’m not even legally allowed to call it rice. But I’m going to anyway, because what the fuck’s the government going to do about it? I’m Uncle Fucking Ben.

You want an easy meal plan? A bag of Insta-Rice will feed a family of four for a fucking week. That’s about three days for you, you fat fuck. You want tacky advertising? Every bag includes a collectable “Ladies of the Rice” card that will keep you warm through the lonely nights you’ll spend shovelling this shit down your big fucking food hole. Jesus, you people make me sick. But fuck it, my dick’s hard just thinking about how much of this crap you’re going to buy.

So there you go. Uncle Ben’s back, bitches, and you better pick up what he’s putting down. Because if I hear from my accountants that you assholes are disappointing me again, I ain’t going to play nice no more. I am a goddamn American icon, and I will burn your fucking homes to the ground and salt the fucking Earth beneath them before I let you dipshits stop buying my rice. Now get your fat asses to the grocery store. Tell ‘em Ben sent you. They’ll know what to do.

An Open Letter to the 27th Person to Talk to Me About the Weather Today

Dear [redacted],

Yes, it is weird that we’re getting snow at this time of year. I couldn’t agree more. Yes, I too was hoping to enjoy some warm weather this weekend. I’m sorry to hear about what the frost will do to the garden you just planted. I’m sorry your hiking plans are shot. I’m sorry for everything.

But can I ask you something? Do you honestly believe that you’re the first person today to point out to me how crazy the weather is? I realise that small talk is repetitive by its very nature, and that there are only so many topics one can safely discuss with a casual acquaintance. But in the past 24 hours more people have told me that they can’t believe our city’s weather than people have told me they love me in my entire life. I assume your experience is similar. So how could you, at the late hour at which we spoke, believe that you were the first person to share this thought with me? How could you think that until that moment I was ignorant as to the state of the weather, that I would be more likely to perform a rain dance for the gods than check a weather report? Don’t be disingenuous. You are wiser than that.

Aren’t you sick of it, too? Aren’t you tired of making the same banal observations, faking the same shock at late snow coming to a city that always gets late snow, a city you’ve lived in for your entire life? Don’t you want to just scream at the thought of having to agree that yes, you too are tired of the cold? When we talk about the weather it’s as though we are two amnesiacs teaching each other about the world we live in. But it is a charade, and you know that as well as I. Our act fools no man, lest of all ourselves. To pretend otherwise is to deny reality, to deny reason. It is an affront to our intelligence, our humanity.

Wouldn’t you rather talk about something else? Anything else? Wouldn’t you like to tell me about your hopes and dreams, your goals in life? Tell me why you think the latest popular movie is overrated. Share your thoughts on the designated hitter rule. Give your opinion of Albert Camus and Samuel Beckett, of Kim Kardashian and Kayne West. Speak to me of your greatest fears, the terrors that cause you to wake in the dead of night in a cold sweat. Or speak of the little doubts that gnaw away at your soul, keeping you awake in the early hours, wondering if your life has all gone terribly wrong.

We can do more than talk small, you and I. We can converse! We can turn the elevator into a parlour, the bus stop into a salon. We can take one of the many drudgeries of our daily lives and elevate it to a higher plane, transform it into a chance to broaden our minds and enrich our lives. We can learn, about each other and ourselves. We can live!

Let us never discuss the weather again, my friend. Until a hurricane comes to our door or the very ground itself shakes, let us not offer comment on the triviality that we both know the weather is. Let us discuss the subjects we want, let us say what we want, and damn the society that frowns on our breach of small talk etiquette. Let us tear down the rules that hold our tongues, and build anew a greater law!

Because if I hear one more person tell me that they can’t believe it’s going to snow tomorrow, “but that’s just our weird Canadian weather for you!” I will coldcock them right in the fucking face. I don’t want that person to be you, friend.