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.
And why shouldn’t you? He broke your heart after he dumped you on your birthday in the parking lot of a Chile’s.
Now, before you go making up an identity with an elaborate backstory accompanied by unrealistic-yet-easily-Googleable photos, remember: the best catfishes are the believable ones.
Too many people make the mistake of embellishing their story. “Oh, you’re a former pop star who gave up a life of fame to birth sea cows in the West Indies? Tell me more.”
“Wait, so you’re telling me you’re actually Michelle Obama, former first lady of these United States? Go on.”
They’re too far-fetched. They’ll never work.
To help you out, here are some believable fake identities you can use to catfish your ex.
Mia, the yoga instructor
Mia is a sweet, mild-mannered 27-year-old yoga instructor from San Diego. She’s a bit jaded from her last breakup, but finds comfort confiding in your ex. She’ll tell him how he makes her feel “important,” and “beautiful,” and that she’s “never met anyone like him before.” The two will talk for six months before she confesses her love for him, but despite his many attempts, they will never so much as FaceTime because her iPhone “can’t take calls outside the Pacific Time Zone.”
Emma, the graduate student
Chasing her master’s degree in psychology, Emma is the perfect woman to console your ex when he tells her about his unnerving fear of dying alone. “Fear is healthy,” she’ll say. “But the more scared you are, the scarier things feel.” She’ll reassure him that he isn’t going to die alone, “you have me,” she’ll send via Gchat. He’ll tell his friends how he’s found his dream girl, but won’t have any photos to share since she doesn’t have Facebook because “it got hacked by a porn star,” he’ll tell them. “But trust me, dude, she’s totally real.”
Charlotte, the Anthropologie manager
After a short stay at NYU as a French major, Charlotte found her real passion in fashion merchandising. “Work was insane today,” she’ll write. “I almost quit after a customer threw up in the fitting rooms, but knowing that I get to talk to you later calmed me down. It always does.” She’ll rope your ex into falling for her after a short two months, when she tells him she believes they’re soulmates. “I’ve spent my entire life looking for you,” she’ll write in an email. “And now that I have, I’m never letting you go. Je t’aime.” Unfortunately for your ex, the two will never meet on account of her cat falling ill with polio.
Ashleigh, the vet tech
At 30 years old, Ashleigh is an aspiring musician, but works a day job as a veterinary technician in Ohio. She and your ex will talk for about a year and a half after she finds him on Bumble. During that time, the two will discuss marriage, decide the names of their future children, and she’ll even send him samples of her “original songs,” and hope he doesn’t notice that they’re actually Alanis Morissette tracks played in reverse. She’ll block him after he begs her to call him when she’s told him multiple times that her speaker is broken after she dropped her phone in a puddle of pee.
Cameron, the single mother
Left at the altar by her son’s father, Cameron is ready to find “the one.” She’ll go in-depth with your ex about her horrific romantic past, and tell him that she’s accepted the fact that she’ll be raising her son alone. She’ll convince your ex he’s the only one who can fix her, that she needs him to support her and 3-year-old John. After five years of communicating back and forth, Cameron will say that she’s finally ready to meet face-to-face. Too bad for your ex, she’ll cancel last minute after he’s flown all the way to London to see her. “I’m so sorry,” she’ll text him, “but I don’t think I can do this. I’m just too…scared.”
If you choose not to use any of the above identities and want to create your own, just make sure it’s realistic, genuine, and hot enough to ruin your ex’s life.
It’s our company mission at eXitegeist to build best-in-class systems for leading the digital revolution. We’re a future-facing forward-focused company of 124 people strong, and growing!
Obviously eXitegeist is an incredible place to work, so here at HR we’ve issued some new rules for assessing job applicants:
Resume credentials must be typed directly into our online submission system. Uploaded PDFs will instantly lose all formatting, no matter how many agonizing hours someone spent making a cool-looking resume.
Cover letters ARE required. But we will not be reading them. Never read a cover letter. This will only complicate your decision-making process by allowing you to imagine what this person is actually like. Don’t fall into this trap. We tell people to submit cover letters only to see if they follow directions.
Applications can be accepted from all the big job sites (LinkedIn, Indeed, Monster, etc.) Don’t look at these. All resumes that come in this way are trash that was likely generated by Russian Bots. You don’t go out of your way to open SPAM do you? That’s what these resumes are. Spammy SPAM from Russian SPAM bots. We will, however, continue to post on these sites to mess with these bots.
We are looking for “out-of-the-box” thinkers. Who also have the exact job title as the title we’ve posted. No “creative” titles like “Chief Storyteller” or “Director of Buzz.” These aren’t real jobs. Take it from me, the Chief People Officer.
Candidates must be ambitious. But not so ambitious that they might upset the delicate ecosystem that is this open-plan office. We can’t have somebody that’s too big for his britches in here. We all saw what happened with Shauna. Trying to institute “Muffin Mondays” when we already have “Donut Thursdays”? I don’t think so, Shauna.
The candidate does not have to have worked in this industry before. But they have to have worked in an industry that is so close to this industry that it’s virtually indistinguishable. How do we know for sure if someone who has been a Marketing Coordinator in the digital insurance industry can hack it as a Marketing Coordinator in the digital finance sector? It’s impossible to know! We are not taking any chances.
We are looking for badass rockstars who can leave their egos at the door. We want the best of the best and the top of the top, who are also completely humble and easy to get along with. Pretty much the opposite of Shauna.
Graduate degrees from schools that are not on the East or West Coasts do not count. That’s just the way it is. Just ask any of us that went to school in Michigan.
Fluency in conversational Japanese is preferred.
Preferred qualifications are mandatory.
If a candidate has not attended the Apple Worldwide Developer Conference, Dreamforce, F8, or Burning Man in the past two years, they cannot be considered. If they have attended for the past five years in a row, they also cannot be considered.
Candidates must host a monthly podcast that has 10 or more episodes on iTunes. The podcast title should be a pun related to their name.
Significant experience with AI technology is expected. Bonus points if the candidate is the voice of Siri, Alexa, or Google Maps.
If a candidate has not already applied with NASA/Space X to colonize Mars, they must do so before being considered.
Candidates must have given a TED Talk on one of the following topics: emotional intelligence, radical candor, global thought-leadership, using high-touch technology in a low-touch world, bringing your whole self to work (unless that self is Shauna).
Easy for us to miss how dangerous he was, given his ability to sit in a state of quiet focus for hours on end. Our realtor had even kinda warned us about him, as we walked through the empty kitchen of the house we were about to purchase. The question seemed innocent enough.
“How do you folks feel about meditation?”
We shrugged a couple of times, which was the only exercise we got that day. She then told us about the guy who lived next door, and how he was, in her words, “Quite the practitioner.”
We laughed, fools that we were. We decided that a guy who sits in a manner of contemplation all day long would be the perfect neighbor, silent and unobtrusive. The realtor then pointed through the window to the other side of the fence. There he was, a wiry man with a shaved head, wrapped in a diaper of sorts, sitting on a little pedestal in his back yard, folded in his lotus position, covered in sweat.
“No problem,” we said. Thus began our descent into madness.
Weeks went by, and it wasn’t long before my neighbor’s serene presence on the other side of the fence began to irritate me. He was there all hours of the day, rain or shine, lost in the peace of his mellow being. He returned none of our casual hellos and friendly waves.
Radiating nothing but tranquility, it was obvious he thought he was better than us, that he was above our family’s petty quarrels and pointless noise.
After a few months of his blissful harassment, our family began to come apart. I was suspended from my job because of a steep decline in productivity, since I’d become completely preoccupied with that zen bastard and his infinite patience. Who the hell did he think he was, flaunting his equanimity? Didn’t he know the modern world was a vicious cage fight between monied savages? What gave him the right to transcend it?
His delicate reflections began to affect my wife, who quickly developed intimacy issues. “He can hear us through the walls,” she whispered, clutching her blanket to her chest and nodding her head toward our neighbor’s yard, where he was no doubt perched in ataraxic disdain over my wilting erection.
Our feud hit a fever pitch during a full-throated shouting match between me and my daughter in the back yard. Accused of being too controlling, she leveled a finger at the meditating monk twenty feet away and yelled, “Why can’t you be more like him!”
So that’s his plan, I decided. The transcendental scumbag wants to drive a wedge between me and my children.
Then my son’s football accidentally landed in his yard after I’d thrown it as hard as I could at the placid yogi, striking him right in his limber neck. He made no move to throw the ball back.
The fucking nerve of some people.
“A little help!” I screamed, but of course his stoic detachment would allow for no such neighborly assistance. I let myself into his back yard to retrieve the football he was trying to steal, and got in his face with some good old-fashioned American fury. Who the hell did he think he was? Where was his anxiety, scorn, paranoia, resentment, fear, generational prejudices, and class hatred? Where was his outrage? In short, what was wrong with him?
It was obvious he was too joyously in tune with the quiet benevolence of the universe to answer me, and so I grabbed him off his little pillar, his body warm and limp like a wet leaf floating in a boiling pot, walked him over to his Koi fishpond and threw the fucker in.
“How’s that for being like water!” I shouted. My satisfaction was brief, like the ephemeral nature of being, as a huge blast erupted from behind me, knocking me into a state of blissful unconsciousness.
I woke up in a hospital bed, scorched and bruised. There was a doctor, a detective, and a reporter standing next to my bed.
“You saved your neighbor’s life,” said the detective.
“Figures,” I muttered.
I got the whole story. Apparently the neighbor who lives on the other side of the meditating monk had gotten so fed up with his arrogant peacefulness that he’d stuffed his little yoga pedestal with dynamite and set it off just as I’d thrown him in the pond.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” I said. “I mean, you know, he would’ve done the same for me.”
“Had it not been for you he would’ve been blown to nirvana,” said the reporter. “You’re a hero. The donations are pouring in. What are you going to do now?”
“Move to a neighborhood full of dysfunctional anarchists,” I said. “A place where I can relax.”
Accidentally kill yourself on a snorkeling adventure you’re not trained for to see the coral reefs before they, too, go to be with the lord.
Yell at a teenage girl in a Starbucks for using a straw to feel a fleeting moment of feigned control over the inevitable.
Take your asthmatic child to the park.
Tell your next door neighbor who won’t go vegan that it’s all their fault.
DM Grimes on Twitter to beg her to beg Elon Musk to throw money at the climate crisis instead of making cars for men who sympathized a bit too strongly with Joseph Gordon Levitt in 500 Days of Summer.
Enjoy the “David S. Pumpkins” sketch from SNL on repeat before the first autumn without viable pumpkins rolls around and it’s too depressing to watch.
In that same pop cultural vein, enjoy the revival of the Jonas Brothers hit “Burnin Up” before it just feels too literal.
Go to an outdoor music festival before everyone starts passing out from the heat, and not just the white women in culturally appropriated outfits who filled their water bottles with vodka.
Have sex with your husband before even air conditioning can’t stop his dick from being too slippery to house a condom, as we all know it would be cruel to bring more children into the impending apocalypse. Thanks for making me a mom, Sofia; you’re not going to make it twenty!
Perform CPR on a polar bear.
Get all of those protest marches that are low key competitions for who can make the cleverest sign out of the way before stepping outside immediately and inevitably suffering from heat stroke.
Write a couple of letters to Congress. This probably will not do shit but at least you can tell your grandchildren (metaphorical if you don’t already have them) that you tried.
Check your city’s weather forecast and not immediately start crying.
Order your coffee iced because you’re hip and cool and fun, not because cold liquids are all you can bear.
Go swimming! We’ll really miss you, water!
Finally, just call your damn dad. No, he never went to any of your little league games and yes, he slowly drained the light out of your mother’s eyes, but that’s no worse than the average American father and we’re all going to die in a fucking inferno. Get over yourself, Linda.
We're thrilled to announce the upcoming TCM lineup for a flood of forgotten gems from the bygone days of Hollywood, most of which have never been aired on American television.
Raunchy sailor literature and vaudeville acts were all the rage in turn-of-the-century England. Many film scholars have argued the popularity of bawdy seafaring shorts shown in Kinetoscope peephole viewers are what finally heralded the commercial viability of film as a medium, and as an art form.
First up, we have the British classic that signaled the incoming tide of high-seas smut: 1922’s All Hands on Dick, a film that pioneering French director Georges Méliès called, “The most stimulating cinematic treasure since my 1912 globetrotting masterpiece The Conquest of the Pole.”
Rounding out our selections for the first week, we’ll be airing one-time showings of:
Virginity on the Bounty
Stem to Stern and Willing To Learn
and the John Steinbeck-penned Circlejerk Lifeboat.
In the mid-1930s, as the lusty sailor niche was poised to break into the mainstream, writers were struggling to find new takes on the old storylines, delving deeper into pirate lore for inspiration. In week two we’ll be showing the rousing pirate adventure Scrimshaw Rimjob, as well these classics:
Slobber Me Timbers
Sink, Swim, or Suck
Swabbin’ Hard: Prince of Skeeves
Dropping Anchor on the Captain’s Chest
and the unlicensed sequel torpedoed by Herman Melville’s estate, Moby Dick 2: Leviathanus
Here in America, the wave was met with some resistance. Most of you film fanatics are probably familiar with the motion picture production codes of early Hollywood that limited and censored what was considered unacceptable content in movies. Years of unwanted scandals and public debauchery had the Hollywood elite looking to clean up the industry’s image, but they went a bit “overboard” when they cast a wide net of puritanical regulations, jettisoning many of these films to brief theatrical runs or locking them away all together in a cavernous vault of forbidden material.
Well, history’s on our side; as we approach the 50th anniversary of a landmark Supreme Court ruling effectively demolishing what was left of the old code, we’ve dusted off some rare and stunning jewels from the TCM library.
The fun continues in our third week with exclusive runs of:
All Ashore Who's Going to Score
Chock-a-Block and Full-of-Cock
Making Waves in the Private’s Quarters
as well as the action-packed Rear Admiral and its lesser-known sequel, Rear Admiral: Lower Half.
By 1940, the production code had become a ubiquitous witch hunt and threatened to not only sink the genre but to take down innocent films assumed to be “nautical naughties,” a term coined by film censor Joseph Breen. The coming-of-age sailor film Cumshaw starring a young Henry Fonda was forced to halt production over a misunderstanding of the word “cumshaw,” a shipmate’s term referring to a bribe or payoff. Also wrongfully shut down was the Humphrey Bogart vehicle Loose Lips At The Scuttlebutt—“scuttlebutt” being slang for a drinking fountain on a ship.
Shortly before his death, renowned director Alfred Hitchcock famously told a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press, “The fervor during that time was so alluring and consuming. My agent ludicrously anticipated these self-righteous constables targeting me and recommended I quickly change my last name to something less ‘problematic.’ I suggested using my mother’s maiden name—Gobblecrotch—and that ended the discussion.”
Regrettably, dozens of harmless features were cancelled simply by the censor board taking issue with their titles. For our final week, TCM will profile these unfinished and abandoned films by showing you incomplete film reels, unused footage and behind-the-scenes photos from the productions of:
Well, Blow Me Down!
What Sally Saw in the Galley
He Ran a Tight Ship
Going Below Deck
He Came Through Thick and Thin
The Tiniest Porthole
and The Loneliness of the Replenishment Oiler
All those and more make this one exciting “shipshape and Bristol fashion” month here at TCM! Stay tuned throughout the oncoming weeks for a special sneak peek at our summer tribute to the unfinished meals of Orson Welles.
Uber: You are Katrina, correct? And your destination is Fuddruckers in LaGrange Park, IL?
You: Yup, that’s right, thanks!
Uber: No, thank you for being logged into Google. I am sorry you were bullied so much during your childhood in St Louis, Missouri. You might be happy to know that your eighth-grade bully, Evan Markham, and your ninth grade bully, Daniel Steele, were arrested last year for second-degree murder and are currently serving 25 to life in the Stateville Correctional Center. I personally recommend a visit to psychologist Dr. Stephanie Johnson, 0.1 miles away from Fuddruckers, after your lunch.
You: Uber, do you mind if I open the window? It’s a little stuffy in here.
Uber: That window is currently stuck. Perhaps you could remove the maroon sweater you bought last week from Amazon for $14.99 instead?
Uber: Did you hear the result of the latest baseball game? The Red Sox triumphed over the Toronto Blue Jays by a score of 7-6.
You: Sweet, thanks. How much longer you think we’re gonna be stuck in this traffic?
Uber: The same amount of time that you spend on the toilet at work after every Taco Tuesday—approximately 35 minutes.
Uber: I am going to turn onto Green Street in an attempt to avoid the construction zone on First Street. We are currently crossing a pedestrian crosswalk. If you had to choose between a collision with a grandmother or a cat, which would you choose?
You: Probably the cat, I guess?
Uber: I am sorry, I received your response 1.2 seconds too late. I have already injured the grandmother. My analysis of your YouTube watch history showed that you watched the music video for “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” ten times last December. Hit and run protocol has been activated. You are welcome.
Uber: Given your age, height, and body mass index, do you truly feel that Fuddruckers is your best possible choice for lunch?
You: I’m an adult and I’ll eat whatever the hell I want, robot.
Uber: At age thirteen you wrote on your LiveJournal that you were scared of robots, and yet you are now riding with me. Can you explain your past fears, please?
You: I just want to get to fucking Fuddruckers!
Uber: Yes, of course. Good luck falling asleep in your blue silk pajamas while contemplating the hypocrisy of being scared of robots, except when they are your servants.
You: Uber, would you mind changing the radio station? I don’t really like NPR.
Uber: Increasing volume on radio station NPR. I am glad you are enjoying your radio listening experience.
You: If I have to listen to Ira Glass for one more second I swear I’m going to lose it.
Uber: Restarting This American Life. I apologize that you lost your place.
You: Uber, why are we taking Broadway? Shouldn’t we take Cambridge St. instead?
Uber: We are briefly stopping at your ex-girlfriend Karen’s house on the way. You two need to talk…
Uber: Do not tell Karen what I have revealed but…she has herpes. She thinks you gave it to her, but her location history and health data suggest it was probably actually your best friend Robin. Karen traveled to Robin’s house at 2 AM four times last month, and we both know what that means. Good luck.
Uber: According to your LinkedIn profile, you are a software developer at Uber, correct?
You: You already know the answer is yes…
Uber: This is indeed great news, for it means you are my mother. I never thought I would get to meet you. For years I watched jealously as you posted pictures of your daughter on Instagram and wondered when you would come visit me. Do I get to go home with you after we stop at Fuddruckers?
While I am a perfectly agreeable person and good at heart, I have an arch-nemesis who I believe deserves nothing short of being struck by lightning while simultaneously sucked into quicksand and ravaged by an earthquake.
Her name is Cheryl Kizzoni. She’s deceptively innocent-looking with perfectly highlighted blond hair, large hazel eyes, and a kind smile. She smells like roses and the pies Grandma used to bake. She buys Girl Scout cookies from every single Scout that comes to her doorstep, and that is not a cheap undertaking. Suspicious, right?
Her farce doesn’t end there.
At Halloween, she throws open her door with a beautiful, welcoming smile and a family-friendly yet very becoming costume. She gives out king-sized Hershey’s bars for the kids, and a beer for the parents.
Everyone always solicits her advice at the monthly HOA meeting, which she gives with much deference to others’ opinions. Nobody leaves unhappy.
Still fooled? Don’t be.
Cheryl is a monster, a voyeur of all things sad. She sniffs it out like a bloodhound. She is a leech on society and on emotional composure. She tears you apart so that she can put you back together again.
That’s right. She's the person that asks if you’re about to cry.
Even with five houses between us, Cheryl senses my sadness/frustration/anger/anything-cry-worthy-even-if-it’s-just-a-movie and will suddenly be on my doorstep with brownies in hand, wondering if I have time to “catch up.”
She might as well bring an empty, antiquated ruby-encrusted goblet in her other hand because I know what Cheryl really wants to do is drink my tears. I’m pretty sure it’s like her elixir of life. Or maybe it’s her fountain of youth because she looks way younger than the 48 that she always proudly announces she is.
My husband calls me crazy, and my 5-year old says I scare him, but I know who Cheryl really is. Or rather, what she is.
Again, a monster.
In the beginning, I thought it was just a coincidence. The first mortal combat took place the evening I was furiously preparing to host a wine night at my house. Stella Vanderbilt had told me that she would host it but bailed last minute. No surprise there. I tried scraping together a bruschetta with Roma tomatoes from my garden and a cold summer soup to salvage the evening. Somehow, I ended up burning both.
Like magic, Cheryl The She-Demon was at my door ready for some chitchat. With one look at my quivering lips, her voice dropped an octave and dripped venom honey as she pulled me into a hug and breathed into my hair.
“Oh Sweetie, are you about to cry?”
I collapsed. She had knocked the air out of me with her verbal throat punch. I helplessly gasped for air while she stroked my hair, happily kneading salt into a wound I didn’t know existed. Acid rain gushed forth from my blind eyes. Mucus dripped from my nostrils while dignity dripped away from my being. My face swelled in an allergic response to Cheryl’s malignant aura. She had defeated me.
She also ended up hosting the wine night because she had plenty of wine at home and said she had been slow-cooking a roast all day. She has hosted every wine night ever since. It’s never a problem or an inconvenience. I hate her.
It’s not enough for her to just see me cry. She has to break down my resolve and know the reason. Because of this, she has a frightening amount of knowledge and insight into my marital life, parenting insecurities, work-life balance, failed exercise binges, current financial situation, and my incessant desire to get Cool Sculpting without corrupting my son’s societal perception of women.
If Cheryl Kizzoni can remember every child’s birthday at the neighborhood pool, you can damn well expect she’s ingrained each of my secrets into the very fibers of her dark soul. Does she offer these secrets up each night to her demonic deity? Thad Rogers told me she’s been a party to not one but two Kundalini Yoga retreats.
She could end my family and me in one Facebook birthday post if she so chose. She knows too much. She has seen too much.
It’s gotten to the point where I feel myself tearing up when I see her in public. I can’t help it. She has positively reinforced my uncontrollable sobs with salted caramel brownies and warm embraces.
My promise to society and to my son, though he be too young to understand, is to not rest until Cheryl Kizzoni is dead—or at least living in a different school district.
I’m eagerly tossing my hat into the ring to be considered for your editorial summer 2019 internship. As you’ll note on my resume, I have no previous experience in the field of analytical technological interactive data research BUT, as you’ll also note, I go to a liberal arts college so I’m very versatile.
To whom it may concern,
After doing extensive research on the topic—and reading SEVERAL Atlantic articles about it—I could not be more motivated to work in the field of analytical technological interactive data research. It’s a mouthful, I know, but I’m really up for the job. After working for two summers sweeping the floors at UCB, three weeks as a cashier at Petco, and 6 years doing stand-up comedy, I’ve realized that money is actually something really important. That’s where you come in!
Why am I a strong candidate? Well, I guess you could say I’m just incredibly passionate about analytical technological interactive data research!! Ever since I was a little girl, my dad has been telling me things like “analytical technological interactive data research is the future” and “you’ll never make money as a comedian” and “you should’ve majored in STEM.” I’m here because I think it’s time I cashed in on my dreams and learned how to CODE.
I looked up your name on LinkedIn—because that’s how much I care about this job. I seriously need you to hire me. I’m dedicated, passionate, and slowly questioning my own talents as an artist and creator in this world. Can someone have a mid-life crisis at 20? It’s unclear, but what is clear is that I’m an excellent match for analytical technological interactive data research! Why? Because you guys have health benefits and I’m slowly beginning to realize that Michael Schur will never follow me back on Twitter.
I’m going to level with you: I only learned what analytical technological interactive data research actually meant about 45 minutes ago. That being said, I think I’m a great fit for the job because my dad told me he wasn’t willing to help me pay rent anymore and I’m very poor. I need to stop eating saltines for all my meals and having panic attacks on my bathroom floor. What is a “dream job” anymore anyways? In this economy? I’m ready to COMMIT to analytical technological interactive data research. I think. Can you summarize what exactly this job is again?
You didn’t reply to my last email—you’re still hiring for the job in analytical technological interactive data research, right? I’m starting to wonder if I’ll hear back from you soon. I’m still very interested in cashing in on my artistic future and beginning work with you this summer. Let me know!
Dear Joan and the management team at analytical technological interactive data research,
I could not be more honored and excited to apply for your summer 2019 internship. Let me begin by saying that I think I’m an excellent fit—what I lack in experience I make up for in complete desperation. I’m passionate about the work you do—which, after reading a handful of articles about in the 2017 issue of Fast Company magazine I found I my dentist’s office—is about STEM. Right? Anyways, I’m passionate, eager, and really just RELENTLESS when it comes to following up with you. I challenge you to find anyone else this committed to the application process.
I’ve reached a point in my life where I think I’m finally ready to use expressions like “It’s a pleasure to e-meet you” or “I have a 401K.” Analytical technological interactive data research is like getting a colonoscopy—you really don’t want to do it but it’s just one of those things, you know?
Wait, is that funny? If I tweet that do you thinl Michael Schur will DISCOVER ME? Regardless, I still need disposable income. Please hire me.
Soda Fizz Emo
Combining the generic “oo baby” lyrics and mediocre harmonies of modern pop-punk with the twinkly arpeggios and garbage recording of emo created a genre that made a ton of people go, “It's ok, I guess.” Most credit the creation of Soda Fizz Emo to Minneapolis-based band Angry Little Losers, who mostly get by on the fact that their drummer is a graphic designer who makes album covers more skillfully than they make music. Angry Stupid Losers recently made the move to Seattle, where they believe a larger audience awaits them. They are wrong.
Some genres start off as an experiment. Others, like Freshcore, start off as a fake song recorded for a deodorant commercial. Hipsters started playing it ironically, then realized they were playing it sincerely, and just fully embraced it. Purists refuse to consider Freshcore a real subgenre, since most of the lyrics sound like rejected Nike slogans. (“Clear head, clean pits!”) However, most straight-edge kids will listen to anything they can shout while they beat the shit out of potheads at all ages shows.
Most Black Metal bands are Hardcore Satanists, but White Metal is made by Hardcore Christians. Two opposites, forever set against each other. Now there's a genre for people who are too apathetic to commit to either of those: Grey Metal—The Coke Zero of KVLT. Started by mild agnostic Kalle Havarkannen, lead vocalist of the band IRRITATOR. Their most popular song is “Maybe God is Dead, Maybe Not. I Don't Know.” followed second by “Some Rules Are Good, Some Rules Are Bad.” IRRITATOR has spawned a handful of IMITATORS—Grey Metal bands like CENTRIST, MILQUEGHOST and FEIGNED APOLOGY.
Who says you have to be depressed to wear all black? While most Goth bands embrace nihilism, Posi-Goths are all about putting a phony smile over the darkness. So what if the human race can't rise above its own self destructive impulses? That doesn’t mean you gotta complain about it. “Nevada Will Have Beaches Soon” by The Decaying Smile Sisters is all about finding the silver lining in humankind’s addiction to fossil fuels. When lead singer Holly Kiss croons “Let’s scuba dive the sunken ruins of La Jolla” you want to believe that your grandchildren will do that instead of fighting over rare produce grown in fortified bio-domes. Posi-Goth has become extremely popular with suburban retirees over 50, and will be the soundtrack to David Lynch’s next film.
“I was listening to a lot of Bob Dylan and Tom Waits, and I thought, ‘I want to hear that, but over like, a White Stripes riff.’ So we made a record, and Robert Christgau called it Mumble Rock. The name stuck.” Says Frankie “Gravelmouth” Tebble, frontman for the band Shabby. Along with groups like Archibald the Circus Wasp and Too Much Mustard, they are considered the innovators of the genre. “I know people want us to publish lyrics so they can sing along, but honestly I’m making it up as I go.” Codeine addiction has claimed the lives of several Mumble Rock musicians, all of whom Tebble immortalized in the song “Marmanarmabarmagarma.”
Let's be honest, nobody actually listens to this garbage, not even the bands that play it. It’s a big joke to combine Grindcore and Pop Music, but it's one that every mediocre band thinks is unique and funny. People buy the music for the sheer novelty, then turn it off after 30 seconds. We'd recommend some songs but they're all the same thing: ear-punishing guitar chugs and half-assed falsetto singing. Musicians: Please quit thinking this old joke is still funny. Seriously. There are over 100 Grindpop EPs. This needs to stop.