FAKE FRIENDS! Facebook Group Prefers Friend’s Hacked Account over the Actual Person

Members of the Laketown Ladies Facebook Group were disappointed to learn their friend Mary Smithson’s account had been hacked.

To clarify, their dismay came from the fact that Ms. Smithson had regained control of her account.
“Hey everyone,” Smithson posted in the social group. “You may have noticed my posts lately have been different. That’s because I was hacked!!! But I’m back now.”

Though the public responses on the forum were supportive, the mood in private was glum.

“She’s been fun lately,” said group co-founder Shreena Fulmer in a private message to everyone in the group except Smithson.

“Before the hacking, I would ask her what’s up and she would say ‘Oh, the usual.’ After she was hacked, she – I mean, the hacker – was always talking about something new. One day about how much money she made investing in cryptocurrency. The next about how she made money working from home.”

“I know, right?” replied the other group co-founder Brittany Erskine. “I was just glad she’d stopped posting pictures of her dumb kids. I mean, I love kids, but I try to only post when mine are doing something. Or accomplished something. Not just ‘Here my kids. Doing nothing.’ Boring.”

“What do you think, ladies?” Fulmer posted. She added a poll to the message. “Should we make a new group with everyone except Mary?”

Of the ten recipients, half voted so far. The results: five yes and zero no.

Erskine preceded her next post with several laughing emojis. “Maybe we should invite the person who hacked her account to the group.”

FLUSH RIGHT! New York Post Bravely Sacrifices Self to Save Quarantined Nation from Toilet Paper Shortage


Crass single-syllable headlines. Big, lewd, color photos. Moralizing editorials. The New York Post checks all the boxes that define a sleazy tabloid. It’s no one’s idea of a charitable organization.

That’s all about to change, publisher Mark B. Cravern explained at a press conference.

“During these trying times, under COVID-19 quarantine, we need everyone to pitch in. The New York Post may just be a tabloid, but we can help. We don’t have to limit ourselves to harassing celebrities. Or stoking fears. Or enforcing antiquated morality. Or servicing our Illuminati lizard-people owners. Uh, what point was I making again?”

Trying to do some good?

“Oh yes. It’s true we’ve kept the nineteenth-century yellow journalism style alive. It’s true we are a convenient outlet for disinformation campaigns large and small. But we can also help make the world a better place. And we can do that by easing the nation’s toilet paper shortage. Starting today, anyone can buy a copy of the New York Post and use it to clean their soiled nether regions.”

“Of course, you can also read it first, while sitting on the toilet, but I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Because sitting on the toilet too long can lead to hemorrhoids?

“It can? I didn’t know that. No, I wouldn’t recommend reading it because of the content. Don’t get high on your own supply, as the kids say. Which is why the world is going to hell, by the way. Kids today are dummies and lazies. Sheesh. Now I even talk like our headlines.”

If this was a true act of charity, why are you charging for the paper? Why print at all? Why not have your raw paper purchases go direct to toilet paper?

“Because our paper isn’t worth wiping your ass with until we print on it. That’s what makes us the New York Post.”

HIDING IN PLAIN ‘SITE’! Meaning of Life Found Within Unknown Website’s Terms & Conditions

The radical transformation of Daniel Pintosh began with a silly wager.

“We were joking around,” said his colleagues at Diversified Marketing. “We made a bet that none of us could read through a website’s Terms and Conditions.”

“It was an honor system contest, good for a laugh,” another said. “The game was, pick any website. Then read the entire Terms & Conditions, including the privacy policy. Word for word.”

“Dan was always competitive. He was the last to leave the office that night. He said, ‘I am going to do it.’”

The next morning, Pintosh’s co-workers found him still in the office. He was barefoot and wearing a black robe.

“He looked like a monk,” his co-workers said. “He did that ‘Namaste’ thing, bowing with his hands pressed together. Then he said, ‘I found the secrets to life. If you only knew.’ And he was beaming. You could tell he really meant it.”

Others in his department agreed. “The peace was just radiating off him. I started to cry. I mean, there are things I want in life, but the internal, indestructible joy he had. That’s everything. He had it. You could feel it.”

When asked which website’s Terms and Conditions had transformed him, Pintosh was vague.

“We are each on our own journey,” he said. “When you find the way, you will know.” Pintosh smiled serenely then left the office. Those were his final words.

His manager was also perplexed. “I thought it was a joke. But then the police showed up. His family doesn’t know where he is.”

“We checked his browser history, but it’s blank. Gone. What secret did he find? What did he learn? What site did he visit?”

“It makes sense,” his manager said. “The secret to life remains a mystery because it’s hiding where no one ever looks. It’s buried among the gibberish of some website’s Terms and Conditions and Privacy Policy.”

ONLY IF YOU ACT NOW! Actors on Infomercial Are Far Too Enthusiastic About Smoothie Mix to Be Believed

Adam Gasserman, local stoner, woke on his couch with his bong between his knees. The time was four a.m., and his television was still on.

Whatever he’d been watching had given way to several consecutive hours of informercials.

On his TV, a young, fit woman wearing a neon green two-piece workout suit, smiled as she walked across a gym.

“I can’t believe it!” she squealed eyes wide. “I’ve been trying Ash-O-Mix for six weeks! It’s amazing. The most incredible dietary supplement I’ve ever used. I’m in the best shape of my life! I’m happier than ever, and all because I tried Ash-O-Mix!”

“Like,” Gasserman said aloud to himself. He paused for a minute to watch pot smoke swirl above him. “Like,” he reiterated. After another pause, he completed his thought. “Like, she’s hot and all. That’s cool. But there’s no way anyone is that excited about protein powder.”

The woman on-screen was now standing at the edge of a smoothie bar. She smiled and nodded like a bobblehead doll in an earthquake. Nearby stood an enormous man, his body lumpy with muscles, tank top completely failing to cover his formidable nipples.

On the bar were two glasses of a gray-green liquid, a packet of Ash-O-Mix Protein Powder, and a blender. The man clenched his fists before his face as praised the protein powder with gibberish.

“We produce Ash-O-Mix with a patented isoflorene molecular structure. That bonds with the neuronal receptors of your musculature. The burtovinoids then get the absolute best from your fibrous ligaments. That builds strength, muscle mass, flexibility, and endurance.”

“No way he’s only using smoothies,” Gasserman said. “That beast is using steroids.”

On-screen, both the man and woman guzzled the gray-green drink. They slammed their cups on the bar before emitting a synchronized post-sexual-encounter-style sigh. They both smiled into the camera with the glazed expressions of newly-converted cultists.

“Ash-O-Mix is the best!” they both said at the same time.

“Not buying it,” Gasserman said, lighting up for another bong rip. “I see it in your eyes, folks. I see it in your eyes.”