Dateline, February 20, 2017. From the Ouija board that summoned the spirit of President William Henry Harrison:
Oh for crying out loud, America.
You HAD IT. I HAD IT. After all this time, after all these centuries, I thought you had finally elected a president atrocious enough to lose his job quicker than I lost mine. After 176 years, I truly thought I would no longer be the shortest-reigning president of all time, because Donald Trump would easily be impeached and fired within, like, a week. Maybe even less! Finally, I wouldn’t have this stupid 30-days albatross around my bony, rotted neck!
And YET … here we are, 30 days later, and Trump is STILL your president? There’s … no hope for me, is there? Barring some freak twist of fate like, oh, HOW I DIED, I’m never losing this damn record, am I? You really are a bunch of morons, America, you know that? I can’t believe I spent several weeks of my life leading your dumb asses.
This is Part One of my “I Can’t Clickhole” series, where I take headlines I wrote when attempting to get hired by Clickhole, and turn them into full articles. This will either convince you that Clickhole’s missing out, or they totally dodged a bullet. Hopefully the former.
Still think adventurism is dead? Still convinced that today’s youth would rather waste their days playing phone games and Playing with their Boxes at Station X, rather than hike the steepest trails or climb the tallest mountains? Well, have we got a faith-restoring tale for you, as 11-year-old Boy Scout Jacob Moonhouse just spent seven days and six nights not at a Hilton, but camping alone in the wilderness thanks to his entire troop leaving him behind! Talk about building character!
First off, Mr. Mad Scientist, thank you for calling off the dogs and allowing me into your top-secret foodporn lair. But was the billy club to the head, chloroform-laced burlap sack, and iron maiden full of tranquilizer darts really necessary?
Oh, of course it was! After all, nobody needs know where I do my work. They only must know that the work is done, and that it is oh-so-delicious and oh-so-shareable.
Well, that is certainly is. Though it is a little jarring to receive these constant, sometimes several-times-a-minute reminders that, no matter how many lunges and crunches and burpees and hot yoga we do, we are all so, so incredibly fat.
Good science is rarely comfortable, my fine, drugged-out friend.