Points in Case - Enlightening and Irreverent Comedy
It is an online comedy publication featuring enlightening and irreverent comedy articles daily. Our goal is to make you laugh; if that also means rubbing you the right way, the wrong way and a new way, our apologies, we thought you were a genie.
Bill— 5-year-old Johnny Casin was recently diagnosed with stage II brain cancer. He’s been receiving treatment from the local hospital, St. Edwards, but a major donor has threatened to pull their funding, which could result in Johnny losing his treatment. With enough signatures, we can convince this donor to continue to support Johnny. Every voice matters, and enough voices can change the world. Sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs.
11/30/18 — 7:58 PM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin’s birthday was yesterday. All he wished for was that people like you would help him survive. And Super Smash Brothers Ultimate. He’s been granted one of those wishes; can you grant him the second? (Just to be clear, the second wish is for you to sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs, not Super Smash Brothers Ultimate.)
12/9/18 — 9:25 PM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin wants to grow up to be president. And he’s got a pretty comprehensive tax reform plan, too. Also, a law to legally enforce ice cream for breakfast. If those sound like policies that interest you, then, please, sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs.
12/16/18 — 10:46 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin has some serious dirt on your ex-wife, Brittany. Did you ever noticed how she laughed extra hard at her personal trainer’s jokes? Yeah, well, let’s just say there’s a reason for that. And Johnny’s totally willing to spill the tea on it if you sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs.
12/19/18 — 2:33 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin got ahold of a copy of your high school yearbook. He’s also got 152.9k followers on Instagram. So, unless you want over 150,000 people to see you with mutton chops, right above the words “FAT DOUCHE” written in sharpie, please, sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs.
12/21/18 — 2:33 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin just told his nurse that, when he dies, he’s going to haunt everybody who didn’t sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs. That’s not directed at anybody specific, Bill, we just thought you might like to know.
12/23/18 — 12:01 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin has taken several hostages. For every day you don’t sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs, he will waste one of them. The clock’s ticking, Bill. Do the right thing.
12/24/18 — 12:27 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin just murdered a doctor in cold blood. The police have asked him what his demands are. He pulled the doctor’s beating heart out, looked straight into a local news camera, and said, in a monotone voice, “I need Bill Alesky to sign Alice Casin’s petition to get me the help I need. Also, Fortnite skins.” Do you know how much skill it takes to kill somebody in a hospital? Please, sign Alice Casin’s petition to get Johnny the help he needs, before he murders us all.
12/24/18 — 4:56 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin isn’t fucking around this time, Bill. You’ve got one hour. Helicopters are on their way.
12/24/18 — 5:52 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin is a block away. We suggest you hide. This isn’t going to end well for you.
12/24/18 — 5:56 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin just entered your property. We hope you remember the combination to that gun safe in the basement.
12/24/18 — 5:58 AM
Bill— 6-year-old Johnny Casin caught you lacking, didn’t he? You’ve got about four minutes until you die from blood loss. We encourage you to start crawling over to that computer, and, for the love of Christ, sign Alice Casin’s goddamn petition to get Johnny the help he needs.
Well, it looks like you’ve fallen right into my trap, like a fly into a spider’s web. Don’t even try to struggle against the ropes, I promise you will never escape Agent Paulson. For tonight is the night you die at my hand—the world’s deadliest assassin who is also a virgin by choice.
When I traveled to the top of Mount Stabkill to train and learn from the famous assassin Black Death, he insisted I remain abstinent. Black Death, my mentor, informed me that by never experiencing the pleasures of sex, I will be better at stabbing people to death. Don't ask Black Death, though, because he'll deny it. As is the assassin's code.
It’s all very mysterious, non-assassins wouldn’t understand it.
So far, the teachings of Black Death are true—I am better at stabbing people to death than anyone else in the assassin’s guild. The best by far. All those other guys have so much sex, it really slows their knife work down. Not only am I the best, but the others respect me so much for not having sex, that they gave me a medal for being the best stabber ever. I’m wearing it right now.
Don’t move close enough to see if its fake or not — trust me it is very real. And if someone ever gets close enough to me to see my stabbing medal, you better believe they’re going to get stabbed.
Suffice to say, I am an expert in the art of the blade, stealth, precision, and also remaining chaste. I’m very good at not having sex. Though I promise you that the opportunity has reared its ugly head many times during my countless missions. Avoiding sex, for me, has been more difficult than assassinating the world’s most prominent and quantifiably evil yakuza boss. Everywhere I go it's like, “woah, stop trying to have sex with me, please.”
Don’t they know I’m the world’s greatest assassin? That I am true killing machine? Death incarnate?
No, they don’t. Because if they knew who I was I would have killed them already. That was a trick question. You failed, dumbass.
I only believe in one form of penetration and it's my knife driving a hole in your throat. I only believe in one form of protection and it's killing anyone who knows my true identity. I only believe in one pull-out method and it's pulling my knife out of a crooked sheikh after I stab him in the gut on his infamous pleasure barge.
Do I have any regrets? No. I feel like it’s been a pretty even trade. I imagine the satisfaction people derive from having sex with a beautiful man or woman is the same feeling I derive when I expertly throw a knife from across a crowded debutante ball, ricocheting the dagger off of various chandeliers, brass accoutrements, silver serving platters, and even the emperors headdress before it lands directly in the skull of the ambassador’s devilishly corrupted son.
To the best of my knowledge, this is what I think ejaculating feels like.
So now it should be clear to you why I have to be a virgin, and how it is a choice and not circumstantial: prepare to die! It will be a killing so swift and fluid, you would believe my hand has been blessed by Thanatos the Greek God of death himself!
What are you doing, what’s happening now?
Oh, oh no! You’ve broken free of your bonds and shot me! Agh, right in my stabbing hand! Agh! Through my heart!
In my last moments…
…my only regret…
…is that I that I have no regrets, killing people was great and so was abstinence.
Many a young man of means might find himself drifting, idling, suffering without purpose against the toils of domesticity. It is entirely natural, young fellow, to find that the world you have carved out for yourself is lacking in excitement. You might feel yourself bereft of intellectual companionship, thirsting for an escape from mundanity, perhaps smothered by the opposite sex. All fair and all natural! Allow me to extol the virtues of the Gentleman’s Club through an honest depiction of its common day.
I arrive at eleven o’clock. The Gentleman’s Club opens at ten but to arrive then would be social suicide. Gentlemen such as myself, though thrilled by the excitement proffered by the opportunities of the club, do not wish to seem too eager. Let the boys imagine what my ten o’clock to eleven o’clock entailed—perhaps a dazzling whirlwind romance, or an invention of some import—do not let them imagine I was sat at the club, waiting restlessly for my fellow Gentlemen to arrive.
Upon arrival at the Establishment d’Gentleman, I am handed a cigarette and a copy of the newspaper by the overfriendly concierge. I open the newspaper, put the cigarette in my mouth, and wait for the concierge to light it. If I were to look up at this point (again, social suicide) I would notice twenty or so men all doing exactly the same thing. This carries on until twelve, when Big Rick arrives.
A quick moment in which to describe my surroundings: Chateau Gentleman is a leathery affair. Almost everything you could possibly imagine could be embroidered with leather is so. Leather chairs, leather sofas, leather carpets, and a leather piano make up the scene. There is a brown aura that is almost impossible to exaggerate. It is a brown place and the people who frequent El Gentlemano are satisfied with its brownness.
The clock chimes for twelve and I dutifully fold my paper and place it on my table. Looking towards the door now, me and my fellows await Big Rick’s entrance. Without fail, Big Rick barges through the great oaken door and shouts, “Let’s get Gentle!” We respond in turn with a refined whooping. “Ra-ra-ra!” we chant. What happens next is anyone’s guess.
For instance, today, Big Rick sauntered up to the piano and began the tinkling a soulful tune. Trading glances and winks, I could tell the other Gentlemen recognized Big Rick’s dancing upon the ivory. It was Roses by OutKast, and within a few moments me and the Gentlemen were belting out, “CAROLINE!!” Afterwards, Big Rick played Song 2. It was a beautiful day at Maison Gentléman.
Another day, Big Rick was holding an American football. He squatted down, called “hut! hut! hut!” for what seemed an age, then charged down the aisle and slammed the ball into an icebox. Overcome by some trans-Atlantic influence, me and my comrades rushed over and poured the contents of a gigantic teapot over his head. Then we all started chanting “ra-ra-ra” until we were red in the face.
After Big Rick’s entertaining diversion, we oftentimes find ourselves in need of a respite, and we will retire to the Dimmer Chamber. The Dimmer Chamber is very like the main hall, but it is slightly different in a way I will never be able to put accurately into words. Sufficed to say it is somewhat less-lightier. Regardless, it is in the Dimmer Chamber that we discuss ideas with a broad and assured confidence that is befitting of a Gentleman.
An example: last week, Archie Svendercast began spilling the tea, and frankly, snatching wigs with an impassioned putdown of Pitt the Elder. He put him entirely on blast when he detailed a dream he had been privy to in which Pitt the Elder had been present during the Battle of Agincourt, and had acted caddishly and incontinently. Needless to say, the ensuing row had the Gentlemen at extreme ill ease, and a portrait of Pitt the Younger was torn down by a particularly illiterate Spencer Herebold.
By the time we are inclined to leave Eine Gentlemannhaus, the black smoke of Industry is dallying against the orange-peel sky. Occasionally, a tear is shed by one of the Gentlemen, though he knows he will see us on the morrow. We do not mock the crying man, because we all understand the motivation. It is sad to return to our wives, who will berate us for our smoky, ruffled clothes and our sweaty, splotted faces. It is sad too to return to our children, who, even if they are sons, are not yet Gentlemen. If we manage to eke out a moment away from our shrill creature, we will sit solemnly at our window, staring out beyond the London smog, and dreamily consider the day tomorrow.
Male house elves can get pregnant, just like seahorses.
Amortentia, the love potion that smells different for each person, smells like sulfur, Muggle blood, human suffering, and peach marmalade to Luna Lovegood.
Peter Pettigrew was an INCEL.
Tom Riddle was an extremely talented violinist.
Moaning Myrtle and Peeves actually killed one another in a passionate, Romeo-and-Juliet-style suicide pact. After they were ghosts for a while they both realized the whole thing was kind of silly and decided to just be friends.
Unicorn blood, while helpful in keeping the drinker alive, also works as a fantastic lubricant.
Bellatrix Lestrange was distantly related to Cho Chang. Like, they ran into one another at a family wedding once. Cho taught Bellatrix the Electric Slide at the reception.
All the bisexual students at Hogwarts were in their own separate, secret house called Smurgendurt. Their house colors were purple and invisible.
If Vernon Dursley were to encounter a boggart, it would morph into his wife, Petunia, with a septum piercing.
Nymphadora Tonks was a Capricorn with a Scorpio moon.
Penelope Clearwater would frequently visit the Room of Requirement, filling it entirely with bees. She never wanted to be a witch, she always dreamed of becoming a beekeeper instead.
Ginny Weasley got a tattoo of a lightning bolt on her lower back after losing a bet to Fred and George.
Fleur Delacour’s patronus is two Cornish pixies making out.
Hermione thought about pegging Ron once. The thought crossed her mind for about four seconds, but then she was like, “nah,” and read another book instead.
One of the flying keys protecting the sorcerer’s stone in the first book had a rampant affair with one of the golden eggs from the Triwizard Tournament in the fourth book, which eventually ended up being a huge magical-object love triangle with the Sorting Hat in the middle.
Hello, legal guardians of Steve Wozniak High School students,
As most of you probably don’t know, the Spring Prom powered by Intel is just around the corner. The theme for the dance is “Decades of Disruptors” and will feature an interactive Steve Jobs hologram and the chair that Bill Gates jumped over. Before the big night, we’d like to establish some ground rules:
Doors open at 8 PM sharp. Late attendance is only excusable to students participating in the Annual Amazon/Boeing Drone Competition.
In regards to the interactive exhibit, students are not to ask the Steve Jobs hologram any questions pertaining to how much he actually did at Apple as opposed to the engineers.
Students must arrive with a date. If they arrive alone, their grade in “Social Development and Building Personal Relationships” will be deducted by ten points.
Only Woz High School students are permitted to attend. Students from neighboring schools such as The Larry Page Charter School, M. Zuckerberg Academy for Pretend Philanthropy, and The Ellen Pao School for Girls and Some Boys Contingent on Ego will not be admitted to the dance.
Students are not permitted to use this time to hash out their start-ups. Such work is reserved for “Incubation Day” every Tuesday and Thursday.
Students are not allowed to enter the VR and AR labs, Peruvian pop-up cafeteria, Tesla Backpack charging stations, or SoulCycle locker rooms.
None of the following devices will be permitted upon entrance to the event:
X-Ray Vision Tinted Eyewear
If these devices or any similar kind are discovered they will be confiscated and donated to ungentrified neighborhoods.
In accordance with Title 26 USC Sec. 4183(b), firearms are not only permitted but extremely encouraged for large gatherings of children such as our Spring Prom powered by Intel. Due to budget cuts, teachers will not be armed, so we expect your children to arrive locked and loaded.
Student(s) seen “table topping” the cyborg teaching staff will be promptly removed and subsequently punished. Cyborgs have emotions too, and they don’t appreciate tumbling over and falling flat on their half-robot/half-human asses.
We’d like to remind parents that although our government doesn’t recognize cyborgs as sentient beings, the staff at Woz High School does and will continue to support cyborgs in any cases of discrimination.
The Cyborg Teachers Union issued several apologies for the one instance of cyborg malfunction at Woz that led to the removal by execution of our former Vice Principal, Mrs. Palaez. The Palaez family received a hefty settlement along with a brand new iPad. We hope we can move past this isolated incident and collectively fight for equal rights for cyborgs.
“J. Kenji López-Alt, a chef, writer and part owner of a beer hall in California, took to Twitter… ‘It hasn’t happened yet, but if you come to my restaurant wearing a MAGA cap, you aren’t getting served, same as if you come in wearing a swastika, white hood, or any other symbol of intolerance and hate,' he wrote.
His Twitter account has been inundated by angry responses from the pro-Trump crowd on Twitter, some of whom threatened to boycott the business and López-Alt’s cookbooks.”
— “How a star chef’s angry MAGA-hat tweet triggered a storm of misleading news,” The Washington Post, Feb. 2, 2019
Rick’s Cafe Americain in Casablanca has no respect for Nazi officers in uniform! Tonight, my men and I were subjected to the cruelest act of bullying the world has ever seen, simply because we were singing songs of the Fatherland. O Mein Gott, I can barely type this, my hands are shaking so badly!
Here is how it all went down. Today began calmly. We went about our peacekeeping duties, intimidating the low-lifes of Casablanca in hope that they might give up any fugitive French Resistance leaders stranded in their midst without letters of transit. After work, we decided to unwind at the famous Rick’s Cafe Americain. We chose Rick’s because it has good reviews on Yelp, and it’s not like there are any other respectable—how does one say?—“gin-joints” in the area. So off we went, just a group of innocent Nazi officers in our magnificent Nazi regalia, excited to sample the local libations.
The place was lively when we entered. The piano player (I believe his name is Sam) was on the bandstand and a number of debauched women decorated the gleaming bar. Mr. Rick himself cut a neat, if insolent, figure in his white dinner jacket, cigarette dangling from his lips. A hush fell over the room as we were escorted to our table, but we’re used to that; people often find it hard to contain their awe in the presence of the Master Race.
Anyhoo, the men and I settled down to some serious stein-hoisting. (I cannot lie—Rick’s selection of brews on tap will blow your mind.) Our spirits were high as we drank to the health of our dear Fuehrer. Noticing the piano player had gone on break, I motioned to my talented aide-de-camp, Gunther, that he should take a turn on the ivories. I thought we might have a jolly sing-song with our fellow patrons. Oh, what fun! The men and I were in full throat, and we had just swung into a lusty “Die Wacht am Rhein” when the trouble began.
As if on cue, the house band picked up their instruments and started playing “La Marseillaise.” I turned and saw the dangerous Resistance leader Victor Laszlo singing so loudly as to drown us out. Ah, I thought, if it’s a sing-off he wants, it’s a sing-off he shall have! But instead of abiding by the rules of the sing-off, he continued to sing right over us! Worse, all the patrons jumped to attention, even the debauched women, to bellow their French anthem louder and louder until the roof rattled. It was as if they were deliberately trying to defy us! Even the Vichy lapdog, Captain Renault, said he was shocked, SHOCKED, at the contempt those patrons showed for their conquerors. My little group was greatly outnumbered and I feared for our lives. Signaling for my men to stop singing, I ordered Renault to shut the place down.
Ach du lieber Himmel, what a terrifying experience! So much for the tolerant left. And what was Rick’s answer to the bigoted lynch mob mentality of his savage clientele? He banned us, the injured party, from ever wearing the Nazi uniform again at his watering hole—the uniform “symbolizes hate,” he says. Hate? Nazis? Pah! Has any group of people ever suffered such blatant persecution?
Gunther believes that we should march upon Rick’s Cafe to avenge this outrageous insult to the glory of the Fatherland, but I have ordered the men to stand down. I believe that the ignominy of an unfavorable Yelp review will do far more damage to Rick’s business than flaming torches ever could. Therefore, I, Major Strasser of the Third Reich, am giving Rick’s Cafe Americain just one-half-star, for the vast beer menu; try the Camel’s Kiss IPA—you’ll lose your shit, it’s that good. I advise anyone who cares about freedom of speech to stop frequenting this failing establishment and think on it no more. As our dear Fuehrer exemplifies, a Nazi always takes the high road in a dispute, so I am walking away from any further engagement with Mr. Rick Blaine. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he got death threats over this.
Shopping at the Mall: Man, I can't even begin to tell you all the good times I had hanging out the mall when I was a kid. But now the mall is abandoned and I have no clue why. When I go there to shop or hang out, I end up sitting outside the locked doors for three or four days and then leaving. I've tried banging on the doors, just in case someone accidentally locked them as a prank, but no one ever comes to open them.
Learning To Drive: Receiving your driver's license is such a defining moment for teenagers. More than anything, it symbolizes the autonomy that comes with being an adult. So, to re-learn the rules of the road, I started running up and down the freeway to catch a glimpse of how other people drive. To get an even closer look, I would occasionally lob a camera into the open window of a passing car with a note requesting that they mail the camera back to me with a picture of what the hell they're doing in there. Just not as fun as it was when I was a kid.
Having My First Kiss: Ah, first love. It reminds me of feeling butterflies in my stomach and fireworks in my heart. Trying to relive that as an adult is difficult, especially when you've already had your first kiss. In order to experience that again, I had to erase my first kiss. I meticulously tracked down any records, files, paperwork, or indications that my first kiss, Julie Wexler, ever walked the Earth. After months and months of sleepless nights, I successfully erased her from existence, at least in the government's eyes. Even still, I don't feel the same way I did when I was a kid looking into Julie Wexler's eyes. I also don't remember her being so angry all the time.
Skateboarding: I have to admit, when I was a teenager, some said I was a bit of a rebel, others that I was a latchkey kid. And I've never felt more in control, more freedom than when I was a kid riding my skateboard. But now, as a freelancer, I don't have medical insurance. When I tried to get back on the board last year, I messed up a trick and accidentally swallowed my whole skateboard. It took about twenty minutes to make its way down my throat, but it got down there. I basically went bankrupt from all the medical bills. It just takes one, simple mistake. Could happen to anyone, really.
Experimenting With Drugs: A quintessential part of any teenage rebellion is experimenting with drugs. Unfortunately, as a teen, nobody ever invited me to experiment with drugs. So I never knew what drugs were cool and which ones were lame. I went and asked the hospital what drugs I should experiment with and if they could sell them to me, sliding nickel after quarter to the woman behind the desk like a sly person. After I was banned from the hospital, (which is unfortunate because I'm currently passing yet another skateboard after trying a kickflip), I found some old drugs in the dumpster out back and injected them into my body. It was okay. But now I'm going through second puberty.
Going Through Puberty: Probably the hardest part about being a teenager is all of the changes that are going on in your body being on full public display. It resulted in some of the most confusing years of my life, but it was also incredibly rewarding to grow into a full-fledged adult! Now that I'm going through a chemically induced second puberty as an adult, I'm tormented by hair growing where it shouldn't (on elbows, all over tongue), an aggressive growth spurt followed by an even more aggressive shrinking spurt, and worst of all, my voice cracking!
Hanging Out In The Basement Of My Childhood Home: This one actually went okay. The new owners of my parent's house were very accommodating and hospitable.
As the ruler of this great nation through sacred birthright, I am entitled by blood and status to a great many luxuries. I speak of unimaginably decadent privileges, off-limits or even unheard of to all but the most elite, such as I, the latest first-born male in a line of rulers that hath ruled for millennia uninterrupted, save an 11-year period in the 1600s. The monarchy was restored and this “lord protector” was summarily beheaded, a fate that awaits thee if thou do not procure for me, your king and better, this tantalizing and elusive item which I desire, nay, require.
A bed? Ha! I am a king, and sleep each night upon a very large bed, which is far larger than needed to support my frame. It is large because I am a king, and I deserve a great deal of space, which is a luxury unto itself. So it is that I enjoy this “king-size” bed.
Behold, now, my velvety robes of purple, this crown upon mine head, and this throne upon which I hit. Also, this scepter. Can you not see, commoner, that I am royalty? I dine at feasts just for me! At any time, I may call for my pipe, my bowl, and my fiddlers three. But I am not in the mood for a large meal, or to smoke a fine blend of tobacco created just for me by the royal tobacconist.
Alas: I require a candy bar of great size!
For my every fancy must be met without delay, I command that you bring unto me, your kind, a large and fanciful portion of a mass-manufactured chocolate product. It must be the same chocolate that is produced and peddled in its smaller, regular, non-king sized portion, only twice as large.
The only confectionary that is suitable for me, as such, is a “king size” container of candy.
Bring me this lauded treat, a single package that contains an astounding four Cups of Peanut Butter, rather than the customary two. If the peddler has not this in his wares, obtain instead a shimmering bag of gold that holds four Twix bars, far more than the two with which non-kings have no choice but to find satisfying.
Fetch now this bar of chocolate that would easily serve two or three of my adoring subjects, but which I will eat entirely by mine own self, as is my right and desire as a king to do so!
They are usually located on a rack near the checkout at the local market, on the lower shelf. They must be placed there for king size candies have a limited audience necessarily, and commoners must avert their gaze from these candy bars reserved for members of the royal family.
A parcel of four Joys of Almond is also acceptable.
Now we come upon the question of cost. I, a king, would pay a ransom for this confectionary, but I have heard tell that the price of this king-size candy is that of a regular candy plus an additional 79 cents. A sizable sum, yes, yet this is of no great matter to I, a king, as I enjoy untold wealth. Also, the price is less than if one were to purchase two regular-size candy bars, whose contents equal that of a single king-size candy. We shall save money for our coffers! It is this wisdom that makes me a good and fair king who is reverentially spoken of across the land.
Now go, thee, go!
Ah, you have returned! Present to me, your king, this king size result of your noble mission. Place it in my hands so that I may see and feel this king size candy. What’s this? The words written upon its outermost protective layer promises that the contents contain eight fingers of Kit-Kat! Could this be true? Eight? Goodness. Even a man of kingly appetites cannot and should not consume this much chocolate in one sitting.
My official king’s decree is this: I shall eat half now, and save the other half for a later date, perhaps tomorrow. As per the suggested number of servings of “two” as hath been foretold on the packaging.
Servant! Take the packaging that which is empty and fold it over the remaining Kit-Kat fingers inside so as to limit the exposure their exposure to the air. When you have completed this task, place this crudely but sufficiently wrapped package into the butter compartment of the royal refrigerator.