Day 8 | Decameron2

GEORGE LISTENED TO HIS WIFE cycle through the five stages of grief, standing above his body. She had always been a quick old gal; that’s what he’d liked about her when they’d first met, just after the war. That had been why he’d approached her at the Irish-American dance hall, after all.

“May I have this dance?” he’d asked, extending a gallant hand.

She’d slapped him hard across the face, then thrown her glass of punch at him for good measure. He’d been head over heels ever since, and she’d tripped and fallen for him in succession shortly afterwards. Something about his ability to offer her a life out from under her mother’s thumb really seemed to do it for quick old Christine.

She’d been griping recently that their marriage had lost its sparkle. They were only having sex four times a week, he never asked after her twin sister, Bernice, things of that nature. His birthday was coming up, George figured why not give the old gal a little shock to her system, see if that didn’t jumpstart a thing or two? Easier than remembering to ask how Bernice’ carbuncles were doing semi-regularly.

Now his wife of sixty-six wonderful years was lighting a cigarette and wrapping up a call with Maxine, her best friend, telling her not to bring the cake. That was almost more than George could take; he loved cake, and he knew Maxine had a knack for making the funfetti in a seven-layer cake truly pop. He nearly popped his eyes open and ruined the surprise then and there.

Instead, he resisted. Waited until she left the room, until he heard the jangle of her car keys, promising an outing. Slithered out the front window–not bad for a man over the octogenarian milestone, he thought—and into the backseat of her charcoal Oldsmobile, a fiftieth wedding anniversary present.

George curled himself up into a little ball under the driver’s seat, hearing his old bones growl at him cantankerously. It was all for true love, he reminded himself.

Christine climbed in and started the engine, peeling out. She switched on the radio. Frank Sinatra was playing. Christine tapped the wheel with her long, silver fingernails, humming along tunelessly. George waited until she was doing seventy-five on the interstate before revealing himself.

“SURPRISE!”

Day by day, I’m falling more in love with you

And, day by day, my love seems to grow

Day by day—day by day—day by day—day by day—day by—

Anchor 2

Trick Shots (Part 2)

By Vivian Qiu

BUT MAYBE THE TRUE trick was how the husband had managed to convince the wife that this random beer-pong related trick shot competition he started purely because he was bored and kinda wanted to be with his frat bros was enough for her to stay with him after all these years and arguable habits. Really makes you think.

Anchor 3

The Form, Function, and Frequency of Harassment Within the 2019 Seventh Grade Class (Part 8)

By James Bean

RUMORS

In presenting the findings of this investigation we decided to identify “Rumors” as a separate category from “Verbal Harassment,” as rumors are often not spoken directly to a student’s face, and therefore less frequently indicate personal spite or erupt as a result of an argument. Rather, rumors are indicative of which topics and names are sticky and yet mobile, generating interest and currency in the circulation of knowledge through the seventh grade class, a circulation which utilizes a variety of in-person and on-campus, as well as technology-based and off-campus, circuits.

The following rumors have been accrued from voluntary student reports, overheard conversations, bathroom graffiti, Facebook posts, Instagram posts, SnapChat stories, tweets, published emails and text messages, Slack conversations, LinkedIn direct messages, and Lila Robinson’s diary entries. Rumors were only included in the analysis if they were found in at least three locations and were shared by at least two different students.

Gus Thompson is selling cocaine but it's actually just powdered smarties.
Daniel Kravitz is selling tabs of acid and it’s actually tabs of acid.
Emily Zhang is getting a nose job.
Aaliyah Smith is a secret lez.
Drew Mansfeld collects goose shit.
Amy Jackson had a wet dream that took place in a Kombucha distillery.
Lila Robinson gave Vinny Toscano a hand job under the bleachers.
Rachael Washington sent a picture of herself in her bra to Braden Saunders even though she’s dating Jake Flint.
Jake Flint cried in the Performing Arts Center’s Gender Blind Bathroom when he found out that Rachel Washington sent a naughty pic to Braden Saunders of all people.
Lila Robinson comes to school drunk every day.
Lila Robinson’s Creative Project is a new business where she sucks dick for money.
Drew Mansfeld pissed himself during his final exam in the class “Doctoral Practices in Urban France during the Bubonic Plague.”
Kendall Jones wears three bras to school and stuffs them with socks.
Michelle Chen wears a thong to school everyday “just in case.”
Mary Werner is the anonymous face behind SwordsAndShafts, an incredibly popular Fanfiction.net account that publishes widely read and admired Game of Thrones tentacle porn.
Liam Garland has a boner for Josh Graber.
Andrew Lake stuck his dick into a just-microwaved hot pocket from the student snack store and burnt off his foreskin.
Lila Robinson gave Maxwell Davis a hand job in the Upper School library.
Lila Robinson gave Maxwell Davis a blow job in the Upper School library.
Lila Robinson is having sex with the Intermediate School orchestra director, Alexander Bloom.

Anchor 4

Knight in Shining Armor

By Joey Rupcich

IT WASN'T CHRISTINE'S FAULT the plant died. If it wanted to live, maybe it would’ve tried harder. She watered it, she put it in front of the window, what more did it want the selfish brat? She’d even splurge a little and water it with the LaCroix cans she had opened but let go stale before she finished them. That stupid little plant was living the high life, and it still choose to go gentle into that good night. Life as a human was way harder than life as a succulent, so maybe the stupid plant could’ve sucked it up and lived like the rest of us. Succulent? Yeah, it sure did suck.

Maybe if she didn’t say those exact words to Ted he would have forgiven her for Kevorkian-ing the succulent his grandmother gave him. But how could she not? That succulent suck joke was killer; it’s not her fault her boyfriend had absolutely no sense of humor.

“Or now ex-boyfriend, I guess,” Christine thought to herself as she sat down on the curb, the box containing all her belongings right beside her: her clothes, all the clothes she stole from the dorm laundry rooms before they kicked her out, her bong nicknamed ‘Bing Bong’ in memory of the character from Inside Out, her laptop which functioned almost exclusively as a porn machine, her vibrator which she had named in memory of the late Paul Walker, her Pitbull CDs, her commemorative beer stein from her first St. Frattrick’s Day rager, and of course her Fast and the Furious DVDs. She was devastated, not because she loved Ted, but because she loved that he was just accepted to UW-Sheboygan Med School and would be her guaranteed ticket to trophy wife status. Now, she’d have to find another rich man to trick into falling for her, or worse, find a job.

Christine shuddered at the thought of having to work a day in her life. Why did Ted have to kick her out just for killing his plant? She’d forgiven him when he said he hadn’t watched Rick and Morty, how was this any different?

“No, this is a good thing. I deserve someone better than Ted, a rich guy who won’t overact to stupid shit and who also isn’t afraid to spit in my mouth during sex! A real knight in shining armor.” Christine got up off the curb and pulled out her phone to check her bank account. From selling her feet pics online on her OnlyFans, Christine had saved up enough money that she could afford to stay in Sheboygan for about a week before she’d be broke and forced to go back home to her parents in Wausau. Christine shuddered at the thought of moving back to that middle of nowhere trash heap. She was gonna stay in Sheboygan or she was gonna die trying.

Christine didn’t have time to make some kind of big plan like Hobbs did when he drove that car out of a plane and then perfectly landed it on that highway in the middle of the police chase. She opened her box and pulled out a pair of broken heels. If she could reel in wimp-dicked Ted with these, she could reel in his replacement. Taking her box with her, Christine snuck into the Qdoba down the block and headed for the bathroom. She had to sneak since she’d been banned from ever returning there after she passed out in the bathroom and stayed there overnight. In her defense, she did nothing wrong; if they didn’t want people to sleep there, they wouldn’t have made the tiles so soft and clean. She changed into a black turtleneck, a beige pencil skirt, and tortoiseshell glasses, one of her many stolen outfits. To top it off, she pulled her hair back into a high pony, and put on her broken pair of black heels. Her disguise complete, she called an Uber and headed to the UW Sheboygan Library.

Most Friday nights Christine would be down at the Applebee’s having the time of her life as men would buy her drinks for pretending to listen to them for a couple of minutes. But this Friday night, she was on the hunt outside the library. She’d wait for a dorky looking guy with high earning potential to walk out, and she’d make her move. She’d start walking towards the library, and as she passed her prey she’d fall, suddenly exclaiming about how her heel had broken. The helpless sap would see her absolutely banging bod and stop to help her up, where she’d thank him with a cheesy line. Tonight she was thinking “Wow, I guess I can’t help falling for you.” He’d blush, she’d offer to buy him a drink as thanks, and about 30 mins later they’d be back at his place and she’d give him the best 30 seconds of his life, at which point she’d have him completely wrapped around her finger.

She’d been pulling this con ever since she dropped out last year, and it had nabbed Christine some perfect pay piggies, including sweater vest Ted. And right on cue the perfect looking virgin mega nerd walked out of the library. Christine could tell by the anime shirt and unironic choice to wear a hat that he was gonna be a computer programmer and make Google 2 or something. She adjusted her breasts, double checked she had nothing in her teeth, and was about to start walking over when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss. Can I see your student ID?”

“Why excuse me, whatever do you mean? I’m clearly a student in my sophomore year here at this institution, you can tell by the fact that I’m wearing a bra and matching socks!” Christine used as many fancy college words as she could remember, but the security officer stood there resolute.

“Sorry ma’am, but ever since that guy got caught jerking it at the campus theatre we had to crack down on security.”

Christine felt her heart beating faster than the bpm to Pitbull’s classic, “Fireball.” Technically this was supposed to be her sophomore year, but since when she dropped out she called the whole deans’ office a bunch of “ass clowns with nothing better to do than sit around and smell each other's farts” she doubted her ID would still be valid.

“Why, indubitably, just give me perchance a second to find it...” In an instant she bolted, her fight, flight, or fuck responses kicking in. The guard probably would’ve let her go because she was blonde and white, but she couldn’t risk getting blacklisted from the hunting grounds. With every step she regretted not taking Ted up on his offer to start running. If she did, maybe she wouldn’t have tripped and rolled down the large hill the library sat on.

When finally she had stopped rolling, she found herself on the patio of a student apartment. Christine saw herself in the reflection of the glass sliding door, and started bawling. Her hair was a messy nightmare, and her outfit was stained and ripped everywhere. The physical pain of rolling down a hill that size was minor, but the emotional pain of seeing how far she’d fallen was unbearable. She wept and wept and wept on that stranger’s patio, weeping for her trophy wife future that would never come to pass. She’d have to work some awful job like being the secretary at a used car lot, or worse, go home and face the shame of returning to her parents a failure. Christine wept and wept and wept until suddenly she heard the sound of a screen door sliding open.

“Yoooooo, I’m really fucking high right now, but like, are you for real? Do you like, need help? You look so sad and like I hate it when a certified slam piece like you is sad. I try to make girls' pussies wet, not their eyes, you feel me?”

Christine lifted her head and locked eyes with the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He was standing there, wearing nothing but a crusty dirty towel wrapped around his waist, holding a bong in one hand while he extended the other to help her up. Christine wiped away her tears and grabbed his hand, getting up from the ground.

“You know, I don’t believe in God, but this is one hell of a miracle.”

“Wait, you’re a miracle? Of course you are, with a fucking tight bod like that you’ve gotta be like the dopest angel God ever made. I know this is forward and you, like, just crashed into my back patio a minute ago, but wanna get high and watch The F8 of the Furious with me? My name’s Paul by the way, but you can call me Tex.”

For the first time in what years Christine smiled and started laughing. Nobody’s perfect, but she may have just found her knight in shining armor.

Anchor 6

Rec Letter

By Jack Becker

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN,

My name is Prof. Evelyn Davies, and I have been asked by one of your applicants this year to write a letter of recommendation that may bolster their candidacy for your illustrious program.

You may find yourself confused by the remainder of this missive if I do not disclose something right here at the beginning: in these paragraphs, I will address the qualifications of three students of mine jointly, each one applying to a different fellowship or program of study at three separate universities, and I will send a copy of this exact same letter to each one of your offices. I am doing this because I cannot adequately describe my experience with one of these students without touching on how their hellish qualities are emboldened and exacerbated by the other two. You see, Josh Michaels, Aaron Tevitts, and Ian McCallister are all close friends who have formed a unit of absolute fuckery in my psychology seminar, “The Self: What We Know, What We Cannot Know, and What We Dare Never Discover.” I would be doing myself and you a disservice by addressing each one of them in separate letters.

Let me start with Mr. Josh Michaels. You ever pick up a carton of cream from a shelf in your refrigerator and know that it’s soured even before you’ve opened it? That’s what it was like when I saw Josh sitting in the room on my first day of class. I could tell from the pizza-induced pimples on that smug motherfucker’s face that he’d be a nightmare. And I was right: when I asked students to say their favorite movies as an ice-breaker, Josh offered Virgin Prison Gang-Bang 18.3: Big and Uncut as his answer.

This elicited a peal of laughter from Mr. Aaron Tevitts, whom I then surmised would be a piece of shit, as well. I’m not a middle-school teacher, I do not hand out assigned seating for a college seminar comprised of entirely seniors, so there was practically nothing I could do to keep the two shit heads from sitting next to each other every week. Each class session, they would whisper obscenities to each other—often including derogatory statements about my or their female classmates’ appearances as well as our, and I quote, “fuckability”— comments that they must have assumed I couldn’t hear from across the room. Little do they know I get my ears deep-cleaned every first Thursday of the month. As a result, my hearing capabilities puts those of bats or other echo-locators to shame. I’ve heard every goddamn word they’ve said, most of which I have the decency not to include here.

Soon enough, I would learn of the connection that Mr. Ian McCallister shared with these two fuck-nuts. This realization wouldn’t arrive until eight weeks into the semester, when the university was forced to shut down—like many in the country and the world at this time—and conduct the business of teaching through the virtual platform, Zoom. That’s when I discovered that Mr. McCallister has been in cahoots with Mr. Josh and Mr. Aaron all a-fucking-long. The sly bastard would never sit next to either Josh or Aaron during class, but it turns out he’d been texting them during the entirety of each seminar under the table, adding to the list of obscenities in their jizz-ridden conversations. Instead of texting them via phone, however, Mr. Ian has now been utilizing the direct chat feature over Zoom to comment on my breasts and speculate about how much my “asshole could take.” Mr. Josh and Mr. Aaron—or, as I refer to them in my head, Fuckface 1 and Fuckface 2—would goad him on, all evidently unaware that I, as the meeting’s virtual host, get a complete transcript of all of these conversations, even ones conducted over direct message.

To add insult to injury, all three of these students are actually quite nice to my face, and competently complete all of their assigned work in a timely manner. They’re obviously smart little assholes who think they can be vulgar and sexist in private without facing any consequences. I am sure of this, because they have each come to me asking if I could write them a recommendation letter. Josh is hoping to be admitted into an MFA program for photography; Aaron wishes to go on to earn a doctorate in biomedical engineering; and Ian is desperate to become a clinical social worker. I said yes to all of them, giving them a big ol’ smile of my own, acting like the dumb-fuck professor who knows absolutely nothing about the ways in which entitled man-children at world-class universities operate. Little do they know the type of letter I am constructing.

And I’d kindly ask that we all keep their ignorance about this letter intact. Nothing would get me off more than asking these three assholes how their applications turned out just to have them frown and tell me that they didn’t get into their desired programs. And then I’d get to sigh in faux-commiseration, tell them that there’s always next time, and then jerk myself off later that evening thinking about the ways in which I can subtly convince these same three students to ask me for another recommendation when that “next time” comes around.

Yours,

Prof. Evelyn Davies, PhD

Princeton University

Department of Psychology

Anchor 5

The Star(fruit)y Night

By Carly Rose Roy

HERALD WAS FACTUALLY too old for this shit. Which wasn’t unusual as a bartender. He was too old because women no longer found him attractive. Yes, it was his age, but his genetics, in particular, could not handle the test of time. Bald, pre-dementia (light on the pre), and indubitably a dick, no one was particularly interested. Not that he was a hit when he was younger, but (not to brag) he was not a virgin. So (shrugging emoji). Herald didn’t mind. He was really into painting landscapes on fruit right now, so his void was pretty full. Very little room in his void.

The shit that he was too old for was the two grinning young men in front of him.

“I won’t do it,” Herald told the shiny youths.

“Come on man. It’ll be fucking hilarious,” said the one with a mouth that was too big. Too big because he talked too much, but his mouth also didn’t fit his face. Far too large. Just truly not proportioned well. He had too much confidence for someone with that big a mouth.

“You look like you could use a laugh,” the other man said like a cheeky bitch. This one had nice lashes. Herald wanted to touch them. He didn’t though. Unless he did? No! Herald thought. That would be decidedly inappropriate. Unless? No!

Herald was fighting this civil war for both sides whilst staring at the man’s lashes.

“Dude, what the fuck?” He looked at the other boy’s mouth (the big one) and responded.

“Fine.” Herald agreed only because he didn’t want to rehash his civil war. It was bloody. They also offered him money.

The women at the end of the bar were fuming at him and at the young men on the other side, who were now waving at the women while laughing. He didn’t feel bad. As I said, Herald was a dick. He had given the women shots telling them that they were gifts from the two men. The men asked him to fill them with water instead of alcohol and he had. It was maybe cruel but Herald cared about a select few things in his life and most of that was fruit art. These women were neither fruit nor art. He didn’t smile but he did plan on painting this on a blood orange later. He would call it “the duping,” and he wouldn’t think about it again.

Anchor 7

Define: Trick

By Anna Keating

TRICKS WOMEN PLAY ON MEN

“Women tell guys that we don’t fart. LOL. Or poop” - Lola Verhulst

“When we’re sexting we’ll lie about what we’re wearing” - Lola Verhulst

“That we’re dumber than we look” - Radley Docekal

"Like women getting guys drunk and flirting with them and then taking their money” - Camryn Garrett

"I don’t think bad pick up lines are tricks, though I suppose it depends” - Elle Anzinger

Tricks men play on women

“Hiding behind doors and scaring the shit out of people” - Ethan Hsia

“Leaving someone on read on Snap” - Ahmed Hasan

"Both lie to get what they want or when it’s advantageous” - Donovan Chase

Anchor 8

Cabin 2G and the Perfect Plan

By Amy Muller

THE BUGULE DIDN'T WAKE the kids of Camp Willow until 8am every morning, but at 7:59, the girls of cabin 2G were already up. There was a glittering air of excitement in the bunk as the girls waited for the boys in the adjacent 2F to realize how thoroughly, brutally, and ingeniously they had been pranked the night before.

Every year in the five years they’d been coming to camp, the girls’ pranks had gotten better and more elaborate. This year was their magnum opus. A prank of such precision and cohesion that it would make those who arranged the allied landings in Normandy bow their heads (the girls had all learned about the world wars in sixth grade social studies and had really taken to this comparison).

Their prank fully utilized the strengths of every girl in the cabin. It started with Lila, a shy, quiet girl who could get into and out of almost any room unnoticed. While this trait was usually unnerving, it was a great advantage here. She snuck into 2F and stole all the boys’ underwear, putting it in a big laundry bag. When she left, she looked like a tiny reverse Santa.

She handed the bag off to Casey, who was one of those girls who really needed everyone to know she wasn’t afraid of anything. Not bugs, not ghosts, not heights, nothing. She was an agile climber and a total showoff, so she took the bag of underwear into the woods and ran its contents up to the top of several trees.

She was supported by Molly and Tara, who were very resourceful and, more importantly, big freaking nerds. They had used the girls’ shirts and pants to make a long rope and a mechanism that mimicked the pulley system at the rock wall, and used it to belay Casey up and down the trees (Casey would be quick to point out that she didn’t need their help, but she couldn’t deny that they sped her up considerably).

Days prior, Nini, who so loved Nancy Drew and gruesome true-crime podcasts, was devising a series of increasingly complex clues and ciphers that would together comprise a nearly-impossible scavenger hunt. Using her worst handwriting, she scrawled these clues onto pieces of paper which Molly had kindly donated from the back end of her diary.

These clues were now in the hands of Fiona and Sawyer, who were not only the fastest runners in the cabin, but the fastest U13 runners in the whole state of Wisconsin. Quickly and quietly, they hid the clues in the predetermined scavenger hunt locations, which were each completely different, remote corners of camp.

Andi, Samantha, and Jordan all agreed to take supervisory lookout positions. Andi couldn’t be more pleased: she had really internalized the “I’m not bossy, I’m the boss” mentality, and as such was glad to be in charge. She coordinated the prank, and was now stationed in the cabin, prepared with plans B-Z for every element of the plan should anything go wrong.

Samantha was the lookout assigned to the center of camp, so she could see if any of the grown-ups surfaced. She was a quick runner (though not as quick as Fiona and Sawyer), so the plan was that if there was any sign of Bill or any other camp higher-ups, she would run and tell Andi, who would get the message out to everyone still doing their part of the mission. In the meantime, Samantha would run back and buy some time by telling whichever adult came out that her tummy hurts and she’s homesick. She was also ready to cry, if need be. She had, after all, played Eponine in their middle school’s production of Les Miserables Junior, so she was very in touch with her emotions.

Jordan was the lookout in the woods with Molly, Tara, and Casey. Truly, this prank could be pulled off by nine people, but they wanted everyone to have a job and Jordan was known to get anxious and choke in high-pressure situations (see: Color Wars the summer prior. Jesus Christ…). She was perfectly happy to take a backseat on this and frankly, just content to be included at all.

The plan had gone off without a hitch, and when the girls got back into bed at 3:27am, they had a hard time falling asleep.

By 7:59am, they were back up and ready to hear absolute pandemonium through the wall as the boys found out their underwear had all gone missing, noticed the first of Nini’s clues, and embarked on the mentally and physically taxing scavenger hunt the girls had set up in order to get them back.

But when the bugle went off and the day got started, they didn’t hear anything. Lila snuck around to the entrance of the boys’ bunk and eavesdropped to figure out what was going on. It had been fifteen minutes since the bugle when one of the boys (Charlie, the cutest one) asked the other boys if they’d stolen his underwear.

From there, they all quickly figured out their underwear was gone. By then, all the girls were right outside the door with Lila, stifling giggles and listening intently. Surely, the boys were about to find the first clue taped to the mirror in the bathroom.

“Where could all of our underwear have possibly gone?” Asked Liam (most agreed he was the 7th cutest, but he was a polarizing figure. Lila and Nini would have put him first, honestly).

There were murmurs of confusion.

“Well boys,” announced Aidan (the de facto group leader, despite being only the third cutest), “I guess we’re just stuck in our current underpants for the rest of the summer.”

There were murmurs of agreement. And with that, the boys headed to the mess hall for breakfast, hitting the girls in the face with their cabin door as they left.

Anchor 9

Tyler T's Totally Awesome Blog

By Cassidy Jackson

GREETING MY DUDES and welcome back to another installment of Tyler T’s Totally Awesome Blog. If you’re anything like me than you know that women are just here to trick men and refuse to have sex with us. (A bummer since that’s all they’re good for ammiright). Today we’re gonna get into the top 10 tricks women play on men. Stay tuned to read my ranking. And make sure to leave a comment telling me which lie women tell you the most!

Top 10 Tricks Women Play on Men

10. “I’m, like, really good at math. I can help you with geometry if you want”

Um yeah right Jessica. Everyone knows girls can’t do math. Numbers are too hard for your scientifically smaller brain. I’ll a-happily take my C please and thank you.

9. “I actually love sports. I watch football every Sunday.”

Hahaha sure you do. Girls love to pretend they like sports because they think it makes them hot. But if you really like the Bears then you could tell me the blood type of the entire ‘86 offensive line, right? Yeah…. That’s what I thought

8. “My boobs are too big, they hurt my back.”

Boobs are on the front, that makes no sense. Your bozingas are beautiful the way they are. #StopBreastReductions2020

7. “I’m Fine”

We’ve all fallen for this one fellas, and if there’s something to be sure of it is that your lady is always mad at you for no reason and she will punish you for nothing

6. “Girls fake orgasms all the time”

Okay sure… then explain to me how every girl I’ve ever had sex with (3!) has cum so hard she can’t have sex with me ever again…

5. Booty pics that are really just their elbows in a thong

I’m always super respectful when I ask for nudes. I like, hardly, ask for them during daylight hours. And I like pretty much only ask girls that I’ve met before. The least you could do is send me a pic of your real butt :( Not sayin I haven’t yanked one to an elbow pic before… it is better than bein blocked and reported

4. Self tanner

For real though, the sun hasn’t shone in months. We are all in suburbia. Fuckin cool it. No one is falling for it. There is no reason to be orange in December.

3. “Your dick is really big”

Let’s get one thing straight ladies. My dick is HUMONGOUS. It is GIGANTIC and it absolutely is the biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

2. Makeup

We all know makeup is just a lie for your face, that’s why I always take her swimming on the first date. I’m not about to get stuck with an uggo.

1. Pretending to be nice before revealing that they’re all actually psycho bitches

I have yet to meet a female who isn’t a psycho bitch so to this I say: prove me wrong… oh wait… you can’t

Now that we’ve covered all that let's get into the top 10 tricks men play on women!

Top 10 Tricks Men Play on Women

1-10. The implementation of a global patriarchal system that will continue to treat women and anyone who falls outside of incredibly rigid (white!) male gender roles like second class citizens forever!

Can I get a hell yeah!

Hahaha lmao

-Tyler T. ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

Anchor 10

Gen D

By Evan Montgomery

IT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED to end up like this…

It started as a silly little joke between friends

We never thought it would escalate so quickly

On Saturday June 25th, we started the hashtag

#IfYouCutOffYourLeftPinkyFingerYourDickWillGrowBigger

Within just two minutes of tweeting this, it was #1 trending on twitter

It appears I have severely overestimated the intelligence of the male population

2/3 of the male population to be exact

The streets are littered with decomposing pinkies

Because of my actions, we will become known as the

No pinky, little dick generation