Don't tell me how loud to shout "motherfucker", motherfucker.


Stunned Americans watched in horror this New Year’s as the ball dropped in Times Square, and Opposite Day 2016 became the first Opposite Day in recorded history to bridge consecutive calendar years. Now, nearly three months later and with no end in sight, many don’t know what – or, even, how – to think.

“It was-not-was almost fun at first,” began puzzle maker Laverne Northcutt, “trying to figure out how the bad guys became the not-bad guys…or how they became the not-bad-not-guys…or do I also have to refute the plurality of ‘guys’? I can’t fucking bring myself to care anymore.” Ms. Northcutt, entangled in a semiotic web of meta-negation, shut down at this point in the interview and inhaled deeply from a bottle of ether.

Confusion continues to mount as more and more people lose their ability to rationalize the world around them, given the contrapositive, conceptual framework, upon which Opposite Day is constructed. It has become increasingly difficult, it would seem, to make even the simplest of statements without fear of public reprisal. For example, an assertion like “I am going to the toilet” can now only be understood as “not-I isn’t going away from the not-toilet” or, more succinctly, “I am going to the president”.

When reached for comment, disgruntled Soviet comedian Yakov Smirnoff growled, “This is what I was warning you dipshits about the whole time.”


“In Communist Russia, we have no sympathy for you!”

Those less concerned about the unprecedented perpetuation of Opposite Day include symbolic logicians, who are enjoying their longest ever period of uninterrupted professional relevance, and aging Gen-Xers, who are using this interval of suspended reality to finally figure out what Donnie Darko is about.


“Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?”

Theoretical physicist Michio Kaku illustrates the abstract nature of Opposite Days by drawing a large circle on one side of a blackboard, representing our normal universe, and, on the other side, drawing an antiparallel simulacrum of the same circle, representing “this bullshit”. He then pounds his head onto the surface of the original circle over and over again, explaining, “With enough dumb, repetitive energy, we as a society can sufficiently injure reality to actually dig underneath the bottom of what we understand to be true. With this, Opposite Day begins to exert small influences over our existence.”



As blood runs down Michio Kaku’s forehead, he pauses his infernal battery long enough to clear his eyes of gore. “As I shove my head through the chalkboard, I am, in essence, creating a half-dimension between our world and that of Opposite Day. I call it ‘The Dumbfuck Dimension’. We can only pray that we die before we smash all the way through.”

While the 2016-2017 Opposite Day is a brutal reminder of our tenuous foothold in the abyssal precipice of rationale, it is not without historical precedent. Other notably prolonged Opposite Days include the 1980 season of Saturday Night Live, in which Joe Piscopo was mistakenly acknowledged as human, the Falklands War, and the weeklong period in November of 2003 when Kevin was not a fag.



However unlikely, Opposite Day is not without its advocates. Baseball caps – traditionally reserved for athletes – bumper stickers, and handcrafted signs employing “alternative spelling” techniques, have appeared throughout much of North America since Opposite Day began, apparently in support of this bloodbath of factual uncertainty. As recently even as last week, a festering, sepia-tone rutabaga insisted on national television that, despite widespread and publicly available evidence to the contrary, everything was going tremendously.


“I’m a good guy – very smart.”



President of the United States and erotic urine mogul Donald Trump betrayed a rare moment of empathy this week when he reached out across party lines to frightened liberals, inviting them to spend a weekend on Tornado Island, free of charge*. Tensions have run high in this unprecedentedly fraught inaugural month as Donald Trump, commander in chief and “the guy who knows where all the sewers go”, signed into effect a number of executive orders that many during his campaign had hoped were just the fever dreams of an elderly toddler. However, in an effort to salve divisive wounds, the real estate tycoon and potty champion has opened one of his vacation properties to fearful progressives, encouraging them to unwind and meditate on bipartisan cooperation amidst the unrelenting assault of Tornado Island’s relaxing, 240 mph breeze.


Its unique, coastal geology makes Tornado Island an ideal destination for extreme, physical dismemberment.

Originally acquired by the Trump family in the 1930s amidst rumors of buried monster bones, this blustery atoll has long been thought to bring tranquility, an onslaught of cyclopean, F5 devastation, and professional prosperity to those who make the pilgrimage to its distant shores. In addition to the unimaginably powerful, never-ending cyclones, Tornado Island is known for its lush, jungle interior, its rich, biologically diverse ecosystem, and its horrifying, aeolian destruction that knows no hope of ever abating.


Tornado Island’s unusual wildlife is sure to awaken the amateur naturalist in every visitor.

“Let us cast aside our differences and pee together as equals on Tornado Island!” proclaimed President Trump in a rare moment of nonpartisan compassion. “Our pee will whip around our bodies in the incomprehensible winds, joining as one Pee in the rotating wall cloud above our heads!”

This olive branch came at a critical moment in Trump’s transition when many constituents were beginning to feel overwhelmed and disenfranchised by the spate of sudden changes in Washington. According to government insiders, though, Trump has had a strategy in place for centuries to mollify the inevitable naysayers. The first week in any new presidency is traditionally used to ease a less-experienced politician into power and strike a compromise within a polarized nation, and, at least in this regard, the maverick businessman and golden shower enthusiast is playing by the books.

Basking in the convivial whirlwinds, visitors agreed that Tornado Island is a veritable [paradise] of chaos and bloodshed.

“When the election happened, I was, of course, afraid for my civil liberties,” cited a former social action chairperson clinging horizontally from her balcony on Tornado Island’s premier hotel and casino, “but here I [feel like I am floating on air]!”

A resident alien of the United States spoke anonymously, his face a rictus of apparent glee, “At first, I didn’t know what my legal status was, or if I would have to do anything to not get separated from my family in America.” At this, he paused, shielding himself from the maelstrom of shrapnel shredding his lips from his skull. “Now, I’m on Tornado Island.”


*Visitors to Tornado Island will be expected to cover travel costs to and from Tornado Island, as well as any lodging and/or dining debt incurred on Tornado Island.

paraphrased from original quote


In a shocking ideological reversal, the once-proud cultural icon sacrificed his personal integrity this week to hang in the toolshed of a former adversary. Bat Boy, who was discovered living in Hellhole Cave – a federally protected area of Pendleton County, WV – by Dr. Ron Dillon in 19921, made a name for himself as a political maverick over the last four years by burning diplomatic bridges, presumably to reduce the available roosting space of rival bat-men and -women.

However, in an interview with the Associated Press on Saturday, Bat Boy, who learned to speak in 19982, told reporters that he was “energized” by his one-time opponent’s policies, and that he was “excited” by the prospect of dining on lightning bugs, moths, and other crepuscular insects come nightfall.

Republican Candidates Speak At Sunshine Summit In Orlando
“My specialized auditory organs allow me to locate mosquitos with echolocation.”

Bat Boy is no stranger to politics. Before his celebrated escape in the early 1990s3, he spent much of his childhood confined to a secure, government facility. It is little wonder, then, that Bat Boy sought and received political appointment after meeting with then-President George W. Bush at Camp David in 20014. He spent much of the following decade in and out of the public eye, sighted in such disparate locales as Afghanistan5, South America6, on top of a New York City subway car7, and backing insidious and damaging legislation in the state of Texas8.

Bat Boy has a reputation for making inflammatory remarks and alienating prominent members of his own party, championing fringe conservative causes and threatening to “drain the blood” of Senate Republican Leader Mitch McConnell. With his newfound confidence in the status quo, however, speculation has arisen that Bat Boy may have his morphologically oversized ears tuned to a higher calling within the new administration. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that Bat Boy may one day even fill the U.S. Supreme Court seat vacated by the suspicious beheading of Antonin Scalia, whose exhumed corpse was found to be stuffed with garlic.

bat-boy-2“I have arterial valves that prevent blood from rushing to my head as I hang upside down.”

At the moment, though, anything is possible for Bat Boy, who is not actually half-man, half-bat, but who, in fact, belongs to a race of imps that have had glancing interactions with humans for the last 400 years9. Bat Boy is optimistic for the future. His personal and political standing can only improve after his doomed presidential campaign last year, during which he somehow lost his party’s nomination to a decaying Jack-O-Lantern on the front porch that inexplicably still hasn’t been eaten by seagulls.


  1. “Bat Boy Found in West Virginia Cave!” by Bill Creighton, Weekly World News, June 23, 1992, pp 46–47. Reprinted July 16, 1999, pp. 46–47. Reprinted June 20, 2005 pp. 58–59.
  2. “Bat Boy Is Learning How to Talk!” by Mike Foster, March 24, 1998, p. 13.
  3. “Bat Boy Escapes!” by Dack Kennedy, October 6, 1992, p. 5.
  4. “Bat Boy Meets with Bush at Camp David” by Tomaso Focata, November 27, 2001, p. 9.
  5. “Bat Boy Storms Afghanistan with U.S. Marines” by Alicia Bousch, December 15, 2001, pp. 18–19.
  6. “Bat Boy Sightings!” Anonymous, November 19, 2002, p. 6-7.
  7. “Police Arrest ‘Bat Boy’: Elusive Creature Sighted in Upstate New York,” by Dick Siegel, June 11, 2007, p. 4.
  8. Reinert, Patty (June 28, 2006). Most of Texas’ redistricting map upheld. Houston Chronicle. Retrieved August 15, 2013.
  9. “Are Boy-Bat and Bat Boy Fraternal Twins Separated at Birth?” by Sammy Robin, January 2, 2006, p. 4.


In an undisclosed cabin in the California Redwoods, a dubious smile plays across John R.’s firm but forgiving lips as he lays a large, plastic tarp over the furniture and floor. We are at the site of the Fuckfest 2017, and the host is worried. On the condition of anonymity for himself and his guests, he has allowed me access to the largest annual gathering of the sexiest motherfuckers going, and I intend to participate. The liquor cabinet is stocked, the “toy chest” is full of erotic gadgets, the likes of which I have never imagined, and the attendees have been vetted by the most discriminating minds in the industry. So, why is John concerned?

“For as long as I can remember,” John R. waxes sentimental, “Fuckfest was revered as the highest attainable calling in this country. Generations of men and women have bent over the alter of Fuckfest, but, for most of the last decade, interest has waned, and Fuckfest has just been the same few people banging away against each other over and over again.”

Moisture gathers, but does not coalesce, at the corner of John’s stoic eye as he runs a finger nostalgically against the contours of a much loved fleshlight.

“We’ve had some good times for sure. God, I’ll never forget Fuckfest 2001. A couple of the guys we had in here just threw caution to the wind and fucked everyone. I thought their towers would never go down.”

Fuckfest 2001

Demonized of late by the mainstream media, Fuckfest seems, by the latter half of the 2010s, to have become a cruel parody of itself. Critics argue that a national Fuckfest is no longer feasible, and that it should be supplanted by smaller, grassroots fuckfests at the state level. However, John remains cautiously optimistic about this year’s gathering as guests begin to arrive.

“We may never again reach the dizzying highs of those first Fuckfests, but this guest, at least, isn’t afraid to take a ‘bird in the hand’,” indicating Betsy D., the first to show, “and you know what that’s worth in the bush, if you know what I mean.” John finally cracks a grin. Despite everything that’s happened, he clearly still enjoys his job.

Fuckfest 1923

As fresh faces begin to file in, John breathes a bemused sigh of relief and explains to me their specific functions in this year’s Fuckfest.

“This is Rex. He’s the sensual massage guy. He gets oil everywhere,” Johns sweeps his arm, illustrating the concept of ‘everywhere’.

“There’s Rick. He’s a real treat on the dance floor,” John pauses, “That’s about all he’s good for.”

“That little cherub on the fuck swing is Jeff. We call him ‘the gerbil’. You can imagine why.”

Like a patient school counselor, John guides my hand firmly into that of the next arrival. “This is Ben. He’s very good at sex.” After a full thirty seconds of handshaking, Ben becomes distracted by a blow-up doll in the jacuzzi and walks over to introduce himself. “Ben likes to role-play scenes from his favorite video game ToeJam & Earl. That’s what he thinks sex is,” John confides in me.

Watching the next participant step out of his car, John is barely able to contain his enthusiasm, “No shit! I never expected to see Steve here! Looks like everyone’s getting some tickles down below tonight!”

 Tickles Down Below

Fuckfest 2017 seemed to be exceeding expectations already. One guest, when asked which orifices would be made available for penetration, replied, “Oh Jesus, all of them,” before pointing to the faces and waists of every partygoer. Another invited me to “donkey-punch [her] on the spot”, claiming she “just [doesn’t] want to be conscious for any of this”.

By my third glass of chablis, I’m starting to feel pretty comfortable in my place at Fuckfest 2017, and I’m just removing my jean jacket when it happens. If the Zune Media Player plugged into the portable speakers on the chifforobe had a “record scratch” function, it would surely be going off as the presumptive final guest emerges triumphantly from his limousine. Everyone in attendance stops mid-coitus, removing whosever sex organ from their lips to silently mouth “Oh. My. God.”

The Fuckfest, already thrusting at a fever pitch, escalates to a state of religious ecstasy that would make Caligula blush. John R., his face smeared with the fluids of countless genitals, grips me by my hips, shouting directly at my pelvis, “Fuck yeah! The Pee Guy is here!” Any zipper heretofore fastened is hastily unzipped as towels and buckets are arranged strategically on the plastic fuck mat. A rank of engorged bladders lines up expectantly along the makeshift urine trough.

The guest of honor kicks through the screen door and, slithering through the gash, announces victoriously, “I’m the Pee Guy!” A cheer erupts from the throngs of reveling fuck-pigs as the proud, human fire hydrant unlaces his elegant necktie and lies face-up on the improvised sex toilet. “This is what I’m into. I am a tremendous and powerful and very smart urinal.” With this proclamation, dozens of waste geysers discharge from dozens of excretory organs, drenching the Pee Guy in seconds. Smacking his lips in erotic bliss, the Pee Guy yells to the dribbling members above him, “I declare Fuckfest 2017 to be delicious!”

As the party rages on, I make a diplomatic exit, surveying and then quickly fleeing the snack table. I wave goodbye to my gracious host as he judiciously removes a Ben Wa ball from himself. From his parting wink, I gather that Fuckfest 2017 will be one to rival any other Fuckfest this nation has seen. Twosomes and threesomes join forces to become nebulous, moshing clusterfucks. Moans of rapture and anguish echo through the air vents, and, in the middle of it all, the Pee Guy drips radiantly, his arms raised as if to say “the whole planet is my Fuckfest”. Fuck yes. The world is yours, Pee Guy, and we will all be fucked.


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