By Adam

This is going to sound weird, but bear with me: one of my favorite words is “rape.” I know, right? That’s the kind of thing that severely limits my circle of friends, but I can’t help myself. People will walk up to me at work, and innocently ask the following: “Hey Adam, how was your night last night?” My first response is always “You know, the usual. Gettin’ raped.”

How do people not understand that this is an accurate statement? The best part of the English language is its transformative nature. Remember when “rape” was a powerful word, like “fuck” or (cover your vaginas, ladies) “cunt?” In high school, those words would have gotten me ostracized from the popular, predominantly-Christian crowd. Fast forward to today: I can affectionately call my employees, the people that work directly for me, “cunts.” I love America. We may not have hover cars, but we have the word “cunt” back. Pretty much the only word we can’t use is the “N-word,” which, if you are retarded and didn’t know, is “nigger.” Oh gosh!

Words have completely lost their value; they’ve lost their innate power. This is actually pretty awesome when it comes to me, because I can say that anyone who reads this column is a sloppy cunt that only survived the Holocaust because of luck. You know who you are. But words aren’t the only thing to have been devalued by today’s society. Unfortunately, this fucking piece of queer shit goes much, much deeper.

Have you bought a DVD recently? Great, huh? I was really excited when I brought home the special edition of The 40-Year-Old Virgin. “What wonders await me in the special features section,” I wondered aloud, as I tore through the motherFUCKING three security stickers and two plastic tabs on the side of the case. Have you seen those plastic tabs on the sides of books? How about sandwiches? Just fucking stop putting them there! I just rip them off anyway. Why is my DVD case asking me “Are you sure you really want to open this?” This isn’t the ark of the fucking covenant. My face will not melt. I will take out the DVD, and put it in my Playstation. I work with people with developmental disabilities, so you know when I call something “retarded” I fucking mean it. This shit is bananas retarded. Maybe my copy of The 40-Year-Old Virgin never tried to bite me while I wiped its’ ass, but this is about the closest analogy one could hope for.

Anyway, I digress. I put that son-of-a-cunt in and guess what? I got raped. Because I didn’t buy the “Repressed Adult” edition or the “Totally Uncensored” edition, the only special feature I got was a French subtitle option. I would rather have zero special features than that. To whom is that useful? My life is not Revenge of the Nerds 3. I wish my choices in entertainment would reflect that.

Videogames are even worse. You spend sixty goddamn dollars on a game, open the (Jesus, again?) three security stickers, and pop open the case. What falls out? A flyer advertising the super-secret epilogue campaign that—get this—you can buy in four weeks for twelve dollars! How convenient! And like an ultra-dipshit, you buy this, and finally get to experience the complete story. But wait? Did you get all of the achievements? Oh god, you didn’t? All of your internet friends—literally, all of them, even the ones on Facebook—are going to see your tiny e-penis and laugh. You thought you were buying an entertainment product. You stupid bastard! You just bought a second job. And get this: to get all of the achievements, you are going to have to play online, with other people. This is an activity that is less productive than hitting yourself in the head with a hammer.

I could go on—cars, music (I have to go to a concert and tolerate some douche bag with an ironic mustache for the real experience?), books, even food (I have to eat again?)—but I think my point is made. There is nothing of value is present in our society anymore. Our free time, the last thing that was actually ours, is now wasted if we don’t spend it in the pursuit of procuring the rest of the shit we should have already had. There’s nickel and dimed; we’ve graduated to twenty- and sixty-dollared; our next step is being month and yeared. My credit card is warm with pre-rape anticipation of this brave new world.

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