Hipster Conan Reviews Life

"Gather 'round, Hipster Hordes. This is a vintage fire."

"Gather 'round, Hipster Hordes. This is a vintage fire."

Inspired by a comedy carpool discussion with Daniel Palmer.

As the sun set on the hide tents, Genghis Lennon addressed his hipster horde.

"Dai Yei! Conan! Hipster Conan! We won again! This is good, but what is best in life?"

Dai Yei held out his tattooed forearms and slapped them together.

"Authentic open steppe, a free-range for your fleet horse, strong-willed falcons at your wrist, but not, you know... on a collar, because that's cruel, and oh yeah, the wind in your immaculately gelled hair."

"WRONG!" Lennon hissed, pointing a finger.

"Conan. What is best in life?"

"Crush your enemies. See them driven before you. Hear the lamentations of their women." 

"Good," Genghis Lennon began. "That is good..." but then, Hipster Conan began.

"Well, actually, if you're talking about what is best in life because of market value, you know, money for the authenticity and quality of the experience, then what is best in life is the stew down at Madison's Cimmerian Charcuterie, they serve it in tiny bowls made out of bread and cheese, which are on rough-hewn segments of redwood tree cutting boards. They don't use forks or spoons, but everyone gets a spork and has to share a single table knife, so you don't eat it too fast, which is alright, because it's filling, but you know, it's not a lot - they make a bone broth gravy and this thick duck fat aioli from an old Argos recipe, they put it on the bowl-bread. You should get the single-source pour-over coffee, it's from Zingara, they serve it in old alchemical flasks from the den of demonologists that they tore down to build the charcuterie, it's got a lot of caffeine, so take it slow. Oh, and what is best there - so it's definitely what is best in life, all together, is this dessert craft cocktail they serve in a bronze baby shoe. It's a liquefied bacon-fat brownie made out of expired cocoa puff cereal and bonemeal, covered in local corn liquor that's aged in barrels made from the wood from an old tannery. Each piece costs 17 coins, sure, but after you've had the soup, you're probably full, and kinda tired, because you have to sit on old sailing ship chairs they bolt to the top of bar stool bases, and instead of tables it's old shields that they let you write on while you eat..."

A sword cut off his head at that point.

"That is good, Conan."

Budweiser has been Renamed "America"

The lone video recording unit that captured this historic moment.

The lone video recording unit that captured this historic moment.

Of all the things I believe we should have let stay buried, this is the top of the list. However, once we found this scrap of American history, we could not let it go. Behold: The marketing meeting where Budweiser was temporarily renamed "America."





“OK, so maybe ‘Straight from Clydesdale” isn’t the best marketing ploy, alright!” Dick Vaals shouts over the din of Belgian corporate flunkies.

He’s panicking, there’s millions of dollars on the line and if he fails, the Budweiser CEO will drown his family in barrels of budweiser lime.

“Alright. I’ve just got one word. ONE WORD.”

Budweiser CEO Carlos Brito is just jerking off, dick in hand. (He’s Brazilian, don’t judge him by American mores) He’s excited. One one hand, he could earn billions of dollars. On the other, he could get to drown a family in barrels of budweiser lime.

That’s the only way to get the flavors of death piss and despair.

“One word that says ‘people will buy anything if it’s properly marketed.”

“Budweiser?” An intern asks.

“We already call it Budweiser. Have that man catheterized and drained for Johnny Appleseed.” Carlos says, continuing his masturbation.

“AMERICA.” Dick Vaals says.

“America!” The CEO screams, and at that moment he jizzes all over the table. The two interns who just dragged their college buddy to the catheterization table come running back in with towels, to mop up that cum and save it, because that’s the only way you can make a bud lite clamato chelada.

Did you think that ‘clam juice’ is a real ingredient? No. It’s a euphemism.

“America!” Dick is on a roll, spitballing, he stops to snort another line of coke and everyone else does too.

“Red white and blue cans? NOT ENOUGH. Flags on the six packs? FUCK THAT, what are you, a goddamn communist? NO, the whole thing is AMERICA.”

“Think about it - what’s more American than two for one Americas during happy hour? What’s more patriotic than dollar off America longnecks on Tuesdays? Why did my grandfather die face down in the sand at Omaha Beach? So that one day his grandson could chug some America before crushing the empty can on his forehead! What’s more patriotic than a six pack of America and some domestic abuse? What’s more American than trying to explain to the police that you’re not drunk, you’re just high on America? NOTHING, goddamnit. NOTHING.”

“Plus, it’s an election year, so people will constantly be reminded that America’s for sale. Free advertising.”

Carlos spoke up for the first time since his ejaculation.

“We have many products. What about bud ice?”

“We call it CANADA.”

“What about bud lite?”

“Hmmm, same price, ⅗ the calories? We sell it to black people.”

“Any other great ideas?”

“We partner with Donald Trump. We have a beer named America, his campaign slogan is ‘Make America Great Again.’ BOOM. We’ve got a cartoon character with orange skin and terrible hair promising to improve our beer? Shock. Top.”

Pearl River Flow would like to remind everyone that America is not for everyone. Please contact your lawyer before consuming America. If you cannot afford a lawyer, perhaps America is not right for you. Pregnant women should not consume America. America is not recommended for children, or the physically or mentally ill.

Mississippi Legislative Adventures, Pt 1

The State Capitol, shrouded in darkness for what it has done.

The State Capitol, shrouded in darkness for what it has done.

They were brainwashed into it. That's my story that prevents me from exiling the lot. It may come as no surprise that my feelings for the governance of the State of Mississippi are less generous than my feelings toward barnacles. Barnacles, at least, have a useful ecological function, while our elected representatives are mere nuisances infesting our Ship of State. Given that the Ship of Mississippi is rotten, full of holes, and sinking, the barnacles ain't helping.

Yet, what they've been getting up to lately is beyond their usual assholery. I can think of no explanation for their behavior that does not end in them banished to one of those vanishing islands off the coast.

Save this one: They were under mind control. I've seen Jessica Jones, I know how the Purple Man works. That is the only rational explanation.

Therefore, I present, Mississippi Legislative Adventures: Starring Dick Billington!

Dick Billington strode his way across the gold-gilded red carpet of the Mississippi State Capitol the same way he made every footstep he’d ever taken - with the massive confidence of a golden-bronzed God, a pectoral colossus straddling the political globe in tasteful charcoal suit pants specially tailored to hide his shamefully massive bulges from the prying eyes of the curious public.

He hadn’t even been elected, but today’s polls showed him with an uncharacteristically poor 99.9% approval rate - a failure he personally blamed upon the four illiterate “readers” of a schlock website about the sort of food only ‘the poors’ would eat under threat of starvation.

No, Dick Billington had taken it upon himself to finally straighten out the worst body of governance in the United States. He’d personally cock-punched some boot-licking techbro representative and called him a “beta” before taking his office by force because it was headquartered in Madison, Mississippi. Madison was a town that Dick Billington liked because it covered every surface in bricks, and hard, red bricks made Dick Billington require even more spectacular acts of the tailor’s craft in order to keep his dress slacks slack and his shirt-threatening pectorals from sending his real ivory buttons flying across these august halls in a blinding display.

“What’s on the agenda today?” He asked Philip Gunn. The moment Dick Billington said that, Philip Gunn became the second most powerful man in the Mississippi State Legislature, and that position was only so prime because everyone else was jealous that Billington had spoken with him first. Until Dick Billington had walked in the room, Philip Gunn had the most masculine name in the chamber, and the best haircut, which was only because every Representative went to supercuts, while Dick Billington had willed his hair into Superman-esque jet black with the properly grey temples after once seeing Mitt Romney across a room at their favorite underground golf pro shop in the Maldives.

Dick snatched the agenda off the podium and glared at the press, forcing them to retreat from the chamber, up against the wall like Dick Billington wanted them, come the Revolution. He was a one man revolution, he knew, and they knew it, and they all wanted to die by his hand. The Clarion Ledger capitol beat reporter was wishing for the sweet embrace of oblivion so hard that Dick almost struck her down with his eyes, so cold and so blue that he’d never needed to use ice cubes, he just stared at his drink the way that he stared at the cowering members of the legislature and press. The scribe from WLBT threw himself onto a pen, and in his death, he knew happiness for the first time, relief from the weight of his lifetime of lies, transcendent bliss under the gaze of Dick Billington, a gaze harder than steel, a beam that could have withstood all the jet fuel in the world without melting.

“Education? Medicare? State Park funding? Prisons? Police? Roads? What is this shit?” Dick wasn’t shouting but everyone in the building knew they had to listen. Every last one of them was a toadying creature trained from birth to love the whip of fascism. Each and every empty skull was putty in the broad bronzed hand of Dick Billington. Putty he could shape. Mold. An amorphous gunk waiting to be turned into something beautiful, something more than the assembled biomass of slime mold and racism that had infested that glorious dome since time immemorial.

“This is all bullshit.” Dick Billington said, and every representative was ashamed that they had even considered this business. They flailed, gnashing teeth and sweating as each tried to outdo the other in eating their waiting bills, tearing lobbyist-written stacks of tax breaks and school rules into sweaty, bloody shreds, their flabby fingers working for the first times in their lives, the tiny reptilian basal ganglia all that could function in their atrophied brains, disused for decades. “Do you all know what the real problem is?”

Dan Eubanks, who, because of his exposure to superstardom in his blockbuster YouTube videos, had managed to maintain a modicum of awareness in the Dick Billington onslaught, screamed out the first thing that came to mind.


Dick Billington froze. With his improbable musculature, the effect of coming to such a full-body stop caused the air around him to heat up several degrees. The delegation began to mutter, to wonder, and as the steam wafted from Dick Billington, half of them were outraged that Eubanks had dared speak and half were bowing down in stunned religious fervor at anyone brave enough to assemble words in the presence of that awesome personage.

“Who are you?” Dick Billington asked. The words were like a tornado in a trailer park. Mississippi Representatives threw themselves on top of one another to try and answer, those who had been outraged were now genuflecting Eubanks, those who had bowed to him were now scrambling to be seen by Billington. Cries of ''witness me!” accompanied their petty acts of violence and cruelty, though Dick had eyes for none save Eubanks, a lone pillar of humanity in the writhing sea of genteel racists. It was like a Roman orgy rendered in salt pork, devoid of sex or pleasure. 

"Just a humble servant of the Lord who has selflessly taken it upon himself to represent the people of Mississippi.” Eubanks said, pleading on his knees as Representative Bubba Carpenter (R-Burnsville) shrieked racist epithets at the crowd to try and raise his voice above the clammy clamor.

Dick Billington silenced the mewling with a glare that froze sweet tea into sugary syrup and one word so perfectly pronounced that every Representative shed a single tear, which was shattered by the perfect enunciation issuing from those unchappable lips. They all wished they had never inserted the state-issued buttery cornmeal plug that every Mississippi politician is required to keep in their mouth at all times.

“Mediocre.” Dick said, and they fell to the floor in horror.

Then. “Cocks?” Dick asked, pointing his sculpted finger at Dan Eubanks (R-Nesbit) “What have you done about cocks?” 

“Meeee meee meee!” Philip Gunn (R-Clinton) sang like a schoolgirl, for he too had cock-related legislation that he would never have dared put forth had Dick Billington not disrupted the status quo so thoroughly.

“I didn’t ask YOU. I asked the man who yelled ‘cocks’ earlier.” Dick Billinton said. He felt as though the squabbling Representatives were becoming disorderly. He briefly considered making one of them stand in the corner for a punishment, though he knew the others would then become bloodthirsty, like Lord of the Flies on an island of piggies.

"I have a bill that would police people's genitals at the restroom door." Eubanks said. The others were agape at the pointless audacity of the proposal.

"And why didn't you bring it to the floor already?" Dick asked.

"I thought it was intrusive, offensive, and frankly, a bit absurd." Eubanks said. The others nodded mindlessly, and for a brief moment Dick Billington saw his spell fading, saw something approaching humanity enter the cold, dead eyes of the assembly.

“But cocks.” Dick said, and their attention was on him like a room full of dogs being shown a ball. All he had to do was throw it to Eubanks.

“Cocks.” Eubanks replied. “I want to make sure that if you’re using a restroom, only all natural 100% organic cocks are in that room with you, cocks that have been nurtured since birth. Cocks that understand the full joy of unchallenged manhood throughout their development, a cock that is a cock every day that it is behind God-given pants, a cock that rests, hopefully, nestled in comfortable, all cotton briefs, or, God forbid, boxers.”

“I understand.” Dick Billington said. His words bestowed a peace transcendent, and in that moment the Mississippi State House of Representatives knew truth, experienced justice, and was brought face-to-face with an unyielding avatar of the American Way. A thousand Captain Americas were born and died in the pause between “I” and “understand,” sacrificing their soul-eagles to the eternal fire of the Brotherhood of Men.

“I, Dick Billington, know but one pain.” Tears were wept in the open, and in a distant radio booth the state technicians struggled to unplug the microphones from SuperTalk Mississippi as both JT and Dave began masturbating to Dick’s words.

“And that pain is having some intersexed person come into the restroom with me while my penis is exposed. It’s dangerous. Any uterus in the room with me while my regal phallus is exposed to naked air will, without warning or delay, become pregnant.”

Tears were drawn down cheeks that had not felt them in decades. Every woman in the room became pregnant. A Clarion-Ledger reporter threw himself from the balcony as penance for his crimes.

“And what shall the punishment be for the misallocation of genitalia, Representative Eubanks?”

“I hadn’t thought to punish them, dare I? It seems so petty, so ruinous.” Eubanks said, quivering.

“Dare.” Dick demanded.

“One. No, two, no… three…” His eyes gleamed, this was the moment that he had been waiting for. The YouTube videos, the campaigns, the promises and hands on bibles, the handshakes and babies, the sacrifices on altars in the darkest woods, the endless hours on the pews of the church, when the only worship he now desired was that of Dick Billington….”

“FIVE YEARS!” He shouted. “HALLELUJAH!” 

“AMEN!” Came the cries of the flagellants. “AMEN! HOSANNA IN THE HIGHEST! They surely deserve the penitentiary for such flagrant destruction of life!”

“PARCHMAN FARM!” Cried Bubba Carpenter, hoping for one whit of attention from the Adorned One.

“Representative Eubanks, for your service to cocks, I will let you attach your name to this bill.” Dick said. “Now, let’s see, what else is on the ledger… schools? PAH! Crime lab, medicare, bridges? What kind of godless communist wants ‘clean water’ as a priority? If lead is good enough for bullets it’s good enough for our water systems.”

The crowd was frothing, ecstatic, like all southern men their fathers had never approved of their lives, and there was only one thing better than that approval. Dick. Billington. “Who else brings service to Dick?” Billington demanded from the whimpering crowd. The Mississippi State House of Representatives had proven easy enough to fix. He knew that Mississippi would be 40th in a few things before long.

Maybe even higher.

“I have something, I have something, I have something! Witness me! Witness ME!” Representative Gunn shrieked. He sounded like a wounded pig, he proudly wore his spittle like a bib of slime.

“GUNN.” Dick pronounced, and spontaneous ejaculations wracked the crowd as their new God said their favorite word. Randy P. Boyd (R-Itawamba) fell prostrate before the bronze form of Dick.

Show him our dick bill, Gunn! Show him our dick bill!” Randy pleaded, face buried in the red and gold carpet.

“Silence!” Gunn hissed, but in that moment of assertion he knew the entire crowd had turned on him, for daring to steal one whit of attention from the Almighty. He withered. The baleful eye of Dick was upon him. Speaker Gunn wished for death, but knew he did not have permission to die. Not yet. Not until Dick gave it to him.

“What do you have, Gunn?” Dick asked. He drew himself up to full height, adding half a foot to his already towering frame. Ivory buttons flew from his chest in cruel trajectories, ivory disks that ricocheted from the marble walls. William “Dick” Tracy Arnold (R-Prentiss) lost one eye as the others scrambled around his blood-soaked feet to grab the rarefied pieces of dead elephant.

“I need legal protections for the pathetic shreds of my sex life. I want sex outside of marriage to be illegal. I want to make sure nobody’s hiding a penis from me. I want to make sure nobody’s getting… getting…” The assembly hung their heads as one, the floor becoming even more interesting than Dick Billington for the briefest of moments.

“Tell me.” Dick said, beckoning Gunn over with a single curling finger. The man practically skipped into the circle of invisible light, and began whispering into Dick’s broad bronzed ear, but not before becoming hypnotised by each whorl of cartilage, wondering at what secrets those ears had heard, what they had…

“They’re doing what?” Dick was taken aback, blue angel eyes soaring in rage.

“With their penises. And sometimes the penises go in unsanctioned, unreserved… places…” Gunn blushed a crimson hue, what was whispering to Dick Billington was something that he had seen himself, something that he once had wished only to tolerate, but now, he knew, in the presence of that golden god, he must betray.

“...sometimes without penises. Entirely.”

Dick Billington shook with anger. He, an unelected servant of the Greater Good, here in this shameful chamber, would right this wrong - true, it was a wrong only he felt, a wrong that nobody with a modicum of decency would be affronted by, and yes, their “dick bill” would create untold legal issues.

“No!” Dan Eubanks said, crying. “Not that!” The others knew what he spoke of, in darkened rooms they had seen “The Dick Bill” and they knew they could never pass it, that no one would dare vote for it. For, even without reading it - none of them read the laws that they passed - they knew that it was a horrible legislative nightmare, shackling lifetimes of misery to accidents of birth, denying entire swathes of the population rights, enshrining in tortured legalese the minor conveniences of a nonexistent population.

Such things they had only glimpsed in their darkest fevered imaginings. Now, thanks to Dick Billington’s growing influence, it could become the law of the land. But for Dick they would burn the constitution they claimed to hold sacred, they would ignore the Holy Teachings they once had meditated on in pristine temples, before their elections, the rites of which had stolen their souls.

“Make it so.” Dick Billington said. “But as much as I despise people who labor under the assumption that our government doesn’t enforce the beliefs of the Christian religion…”

The assembly laughed. It was an honest laugh, they all knew the truth.

“..still, I can’t stand the hypocritical language in the title. ‘Protecting Christians from Government Discrimination’ - gentlemen, you know as well as I do that there is nothing at all Christian about this bill. Not one bit. Sure, those viewpoints are the only ones it protects, but… let’s think, what do none of you have?”

“Souls!” Eubanks shouted, weeping.

“Religion!” Carpenter added.

“Consciences!” Boyd shouted.

“Freedom!” Shouted Gunn.

“Then it’s settled.” Dick Billington said. “Protecting Freedom of Conscience from Government Discrimination.” 

They wept at the meaningless majesty of the title.

“Well, gentlemen, I must be off. This has been informative, but I’ve decided I don’t like working in government.” 

Dick Billington walked out, leaving a wake of desperate men, aghast at what they had done, what they had voted for. But it was too late.

Too late.

While we have been informed that the preceding sequence of events is "unlikely," we at Pearl River Flow will take the following silence from our lawmakers as tacit acknowledgement that it is an accurate summation of what occurred. Should any of them deny that this was the case, the staff of Pearl River Flow will gladly apologize for our assumption and prepare the boats for exiling our legislators.

I Also Do Stand Up

MAN, it seems like someone could make a joke about this. I dunno!

We sent an intern to intercept the man known as "Patrick Jerome," who has been masquerading as our own FPJEROME, during one of his supposed "Stand-Up Comedy" routines. We here at Pearl River Flow believe that comedy is best done by delivering people things that we find in swamps.

Our intern never returned from the viewing, claiming to have found "a better way of life" and also an employer that will not force him to fight racoons in dumpsters. What he sent in reply were the notes of the comedy set Mr. Jerome planned to do that night. We polished them up and have recorded them for posterity.

Hello, my name is Patrick Jerome. You can follow me on twitter, or stalk me on facebook. My twitter name is the same as my website - pearl river flow, pearlriverflow.com.

Uh, it is not about feminine hygiene products. Even though it sounds like it should be. Maybe it should. Maybe that would be more amusing.

This is my second time appearing at Hal and Mal's! It’s a great venue and you’re a great crowd. I want to thank you all for coming tonight, and listen, the last time I was here everyone had a good time, only one person cried, and that was my mom. She couldn’t make it out tonight.

Any single people here tonight? Man, being single now is so different than it was back when I was single. You’ve got your tinders, your grinders, your kindlers, your tumblers, your… wait, am I describing how to start a fire or how to get laid?

I joined a dating website once. It was called NOTOKCUPID. Yeah. It was all clowns. Just sad pictures of horny clowns. You couldn’t swipe left fast enough. “Down to clown” NOPE. “No juggaloes.” Well that’s great, but still NOPE.

I did get to go to an orgy because of NOTOKCUPID. Yeah. It was in the backseat of her car, but still. It counts.

I am married. Any married people out here tonight?

You can tell they’re married because they don’t care. Sounded like a pile of baloon animals deflating in the corner.

Two things went through the heads of every woman, and some of the men, in here: 1: “Whew.” 2: “Poor girl.”

Poor girl indeed. I married way over my head. I married a bellydancer. I don’t even have a dad bod. This isn’t a dad bod. It’s a dead bod. It’s a beach body. The kind that washes ashore on the beach. 

Getting married changes you. My idea of a wild night now is to watch german documentaries, have mustard, liver, and onions, and go to sleep early so I can get up and play D&D in the morning.

I married a Texan. Texans are just like regular people, unless you bring up Texas or try to put anything other than meat and hot peppers into chili. They hate that. They freak out. You can get a special dispensation to put tomatoes in your chili, but you have to get the ghost of John Wayne to sign it at the Alamo.

I just had my wisdom teeth removed. My face hurts and now I want to vote for Donald Trump.

We got any Donald Trump fans out there? 

No? Huh. Just me, I guess.

I’m not originally from Jackson. I’m from a small town north of here called Pickens. We got anybody from Pickens in the crowd tonight? No? Well sit tight, city-slickers. Let me tell you about PIckens.

Pickens is so small it doesn’t have a waffle house. There used to be a coffin factory there, but it went out of business, so now all they make is meth and dead people.

Pickens may not have a waffle house, but it does have a strip club. A strip club in a truck stop. And all you can eat wings on Thursdays. Yes, the truck stop strip club chicken wing buffet was the best place to be in town. It wasn’t the most sanitary. You have to be sure you don’t mix up your thongs and your tongs or things will get messy.

I don’t live in Pickens anymore. I’m here in Jackson now, I work at the Rainbow Coop, I do all their marketing, manage all their signs and their pictures and their social media. So, you know, my dad’s real proud of me. 

Pickens is a small town, so I misunderstand some things here in Jackson. Like, I went to a food truck rodeo recently. I didn’t get any food, but I did hog-tie a taco truck.

I met some hippies there. I like hippies. I know, they get a bad rap. But, they can make milk out of absolutely anything. Quinoa, oats, almonds, hazelnuts, hemp - any kind of nut. I don’t even know what a quinoa is, but there is a barn full of vegans out there somewhere milking those tiny little nut-tits so hippies can drink milk.

A hippy told me, you can make vegetarian chili in Texas, but you can only flavor it with your father’s tears.

I met some hipsters there, too. Or as I call them, “urban attention seekers.”  It can be hard to tell hipsters and hippies apart, you know? I have a test I use. You can’t ask them about music, they both have the same taste in music - they hate all of it, other than Tom Waits blowing Leonard Cohen, hobos yelling at trains and Julie Andrews, and Taylor Swift.

No, you give them some mustard. If they ask you “oh, where’s it from? Where are the mustard seeds grown?” Then, they’re a hipster. If they ask you if it’s got gluten in it, then they’re hippies.

What is gluten? It’s like quinoa. Nobody knows what it is. You’ve got to educate yourself. So I figured, I need to know what gluten is. I’ll turn on The Learning Channel.

...after eighteen hours of watching rednecks - I think I recognized Pickens on a few shows - I found out what gluten is. A guy on the learning channel found out about it on the mayan calendar, so you know it’s legit.

You see, gluten is a protein found in wheat. When it gets into your intestines, it dissolves into billions of tiny microspiders that crawl through your intestines, into your bloodstream, and make you vulnerable to alien mind control.

...I dunno if I can trust the learning channel.

People ask me why I do comedy. It’s because I’m a nihilist. It’s why I eat the waffle house.

You may think that a nihilist would eat at Arby’s, or at the truck stop strip club chicken wing buffet. But no. I eat at Waffle House, because on each Waffle House menu they print the phrase “you had a choice. And you chose us.”

I’m a nihilist. But I’m also an optimist. See, the thing is, one day we’ll all be dead, everything we do will be forgotten, no matter how many nights you spent watching hicks on TV or eating chili.

You've all been a wonderful crowd. Thank you very much!

- Readers of Pearl River Flow who attend one of these "shows" by Patrick Jerome can receive ONE FREE DRINK from him by bringing a piece of interesting trash. No wrappers or cigarette butts, please. This will send him a message from FPJEROME.

Contest Ends Soon

The great trash-winning contest will soon be over! You've got until Monday to win THIS beauty:


Monday, September 8th, I will select the comment on the website I deem to be "most amusing." The commenter will win this hollow glass ...thing. It has a hole in the top and bottom, and would maybe make a nice aquarium feature or air-plant planter or on the end of your bottle tree, or would look good in any modern retro-apocalyptic hideout. If you're here in Jackson, I promise hand delivery. If you're not, I'll ship it to you at no cost to you. If you want it to be arted - I'll do something to it before sending it you. If you just want a globe, you'll just get a globe.

Now, get those razor-wits dulled on the facial hair that is the NEWSFLOW.


You could win a USED PLATE!


Dear Reader, have you ever looked through these photo galleries (statistics suggest that 41% of you have at least looked *at* them) and thought to yourself "Wow, I wish I had some of THAT sweet loot?"

Well here's your chance to win junk by being funny. This is a humor-site (statistics suggest that 85% of you don't believe any of this to be funny at all) and you could make it more amusing and win something!

Just leave a comment on ANY article or section of the website. Funniest comment wins. Simple as that. You can leave as many as you want, or win with a single golden jab. Comment on ALL the articles. Make a joke down here. Feel free.

This will mark a momentous occasion when A: People leave comments. and B: I read them. I guarantee you neither will happen again.

When you win, I'll go to the swamp and hand-pick something JUST FOR YOU! I'll then either clean it or preserve it and make sure it's something that you can actually have in your house without attracting ants.

The contest will end when I feel like it's been won, though I'll probably give everyone a couple of weeks. If you don't live in Jackson, I'll mail it to you or wait till you come to town.

Rejected Movies Based on Chain E-Mails

The offending data-storage unit.

While doing my usual scavenging down by the Pearl, I stumbled across an optical data tape. Tracking down the equipment to read it on was rather difficult, but not impossible.

What was on the tapes should have remained hidden and has been destroyed. However, in order to spread the misery, I feel as though I must give a short rundown of the contents here.

The optical data tape came from the desk of Michael Scott, the producer behind the cinematic stinker "God's Not Dead," a movie quite literally based on a chain e-mail.

They were not done plumbing the cinematic depths....

Other Chain Email Movies: Pure Flix America C Reel

Help My Baby Live

Based on the scintillating email of the same name, Help My Baby Live offers a True American story - one couple TOO BROKE  to have the baby that God wants them to have! In a world where abortion is almost mostly available, ONE COUPLE must debase themselves by asking total strangers for money - or else they will make their only choice PRO - DEATH. It's Juno meets Jesus Camp!

Saved By the Church Bell

You've all gotten the gut-punching TOTALLY TRUE EMAIL - now see THE MOVIE! The 2004 Megathrust Earthquake and Tsunami may have been among the most deadly natural disasters in human history, but not for one group of God-loving church-goers who picked the right God this Christmas! See Muslims kick the Christians out of town - and on to the high ground! You'll marvel at the wrath of a wronged deity - except this Christmas he's the DIE-iety!

Salute My Shorts

We at Pure Flix all know that U.S. Marines were so unprofessional that they gave Bill Clinton a purely ceremonial riffing nobody would ever have spotted when they didn't salute him - but did you know WHY? This summer's hottest comedy stars Randy Quaid as Bill Clinton - and Kirk Cameron as the zany Marine who's so concerned with the President's fingers that he won't even get his own near his face!

Butt Seriously!

Hey, what's the deal with rectal thermometers? This documentary finds out how they're calibrated, with an attention to detail that can only be described as.... anal.

Missing Day - of the Condor

Conspiracy and intrigue so deeply hidden that only your weird Uncle would forward you an email mentioning it! ONE MAN is onto a secret SO HIDDEN that NASA doesn't even know it hid it! Watch as this increasingly improbably sequence of events becomes so impossible that there's no way it could NOT have happened! They say the truth is stranger than fiction - but what about a lie?

Who Fed The Dogs That?

We've all heard the story about the woman buying her dogs steak with food stamps - and if we've all heard it, it must be true!  There is literally no other possible explanation! This movie dares ask the question - Who Fed the Dogs That?

Chris McDaniel - Bounty Hunter

He was denied justice. He was denied office. But NEXT SUMMER he won't be denied the truth! ACTION! Hard-hitting political wankery! One man may not be able to get to Congress with just a story - but Chris McDaniel's got a story, a gun, and a lot of enemies!

Double Secret Muslim: The Obama Intrigue

We may not know where he's from or which man in the sky tells him what to do - but what we don't know CAN hurt us!  This documentary, which Dinesh D'Souza called "execrable, even by my unfathomably shitty standards" is the movie that THEY don't want US to release!

Debate Dad!

When people called God's Not Dead "a movie quite literally based on a chain email," they didn't know what we had in store for them next! The atheist philosophy professor may have died at the end of the last movie, but he got lucky and went to heaven, so one biologist is taking up the book - Darwin's Book! Look out! He's an evolutionist! Now one girl's dad must come out of debate team retirement - even if it blows out his debating valve in his brain and kills him - in order to defeat the diabolical teaching of biology in the biology classroom!


Yes Virginia, There Are Cryovolcanoes

Dear Mr. FP Jerome,

I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say that there are no cryovolcanoes.

Papa says “if FP Jerome says it, you know it to be so.”

Please tell me the truth. Are there cryovolcanoes on the ice moons of the outer gas giants?

Virginia O’Hambone

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong! They have been effected by youthful cynicism in this wondrous age. They do not believe in things that they could see, given a suitable telescope, or perhaps a powerful space probe. You see, Virginia, all eyes, be they child’s eyes or man’s eyes, are small. In this great universe of ours it would be foolish to compare men to insects, since insects are pretty sweet and all, and have been around longer than us, outnumber us, and… 

    Yes, Virginia, there are cryovolcanoes! They exist as certainly as great red storms on Jupiter or that downright freaky hexagon on the north pole of Saturn, and you know that the wonders of the solar system abound to give you the highest joy and beauty. Alas! How dreary the worlds would be if there were no cryovolcanoes! It would be as dreary as if there were no platypus, no comb jelly, there would be no true things to find childlike joy in, only poetry and romance would exist to make tolerant this existence. We can have enjoyment, knowing that simple hydrocarbons erupt in atmosphere-piercing plumes from pressurized subsurface chambers, a mere 1.2 billion kilometers from the birthplace of the species.

Not to believe in cryovolcanoes! You might as well not believe in Kuiper Belt objects! You might listen to some whackaloon on the internet claim that the space program is fake, but what does that prove? Nobody sees cryovolcanoes with their eyes, and everyone hears nitwits on the internet, but that does not mean that methane and ammonia cannot behave like molten rock in subzero temperatures! Some of the most real things in the world are those that neither men nor children can see. When Rutherford used a glass gun to shoot radiation at a thin sheet of gold foil, do you think he saw the atom? No, he only saw the evidence of it’s existence, and conceived the unseen wonders of the subatomic world. 

If you tear apart the baby’s rattle and find out what makes the noise, that’s good science, Virginia, but your ethics board is going to deny your funding if you’re at an accredited institution. There is a veil of ignorance that covers the visible and invisible universe. Only with knowledge, diligence, honesty, imagination, and the courage to go wherever the evidence takes you, will you push aside that veil of ignorance and superstition for the rest of mankind. Are cryovolcanoes real? Ah, Virginia, in all the worlds there are things people believe far more strongly with far less evidence.

No cryovolcanoes! Humbug! They erupt now and they will erupt in the future! A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now (a blink in the cosmological eye) they will continue to erupt and make glad the childlike hearts of astronomers everywhere!

Also, you should show that hexagon on Saturn to your friends. It’ll blow their minds.



Unless you're friends with astronomers.