âRobert Brockway, Completely Respectable Journalist,â I lied to the man. âThatâs, uhâ¦thatâs great. Can I help you?â the sniveling, weaselly little bastard at the reception desk replied. âListen you sniveling, weaselly, little bastard,â I told him, in order to keep narrative consistency,âI am a goddamn reporter. I ask the questions around here; I donât answer them. I donât even know how to answer questions. I don't even really understand what the word 'answer' means. Is it a dance? Some sort of spicy soup? I don't know! Thatâs how good a journalist I am.â
Pictured: The best journalist ever. âSir, this is a highly secure area. Iâm afraid that, without extensive clearance and an appointment, I simply cannot let you beyond this point,â said the weasel, sniveling. Or at least I think thatâs what he said - at this point I was sprinting past him at top speed down the hallway and his voice was growing rather faint. He caught up to me after about 50 feet, when I had to lay down for a minute to get the wheezing under control. In retrospect, I should probably have put out at least one of the traditional pre-scam cigarettes I lit up immediately prior to running. âSir, Iâm going to call security. The Large Hadron Collider is not a joke, and we take any attempts at forced entry very seriously.â
PROTIP: Try to avoid the words "forced entry" when you work at a giant, distended robot anus. A group of be-suited gentlemen came around the corner just then and, thinking quickly, I jumped to my feet and thrust my package into the receptionist's outspread palm. âRAAAPE!â I cried. The man frantically tried to withdraw his hand, but I nimbly matched his every movement, and managed to keep my junk firmly in place as he jumped, flailed and ran about. To the casual observer, it appeared as though he was hurling me around the room by my dick. âTHIS IS SUCH A HARDCORE RAPE THAT YOU ARE DOING TO ME!â I screamed in panic. One of the suits quickly jogged up to us and heroically separated hand from balls. âJesus Christ, Amir! What are you doing?!â he demanded, only half-disturbed when I snuggled up into the nook of his arms for comfort, and began sobbing like a little girl. (Hey, there's no room for dignity in a good scam. You gotta sell that shit.)
Pictured: Some bitch sellin' it. âSir Iâ¦ he was going toâ¦ I didnât,â the receptionist tried to stammer out an explanation, but at that moment the suited man glanced over his shoulder. When he turned his gaze back a split-second later, we were all mildly surprised to find my genitals in Amirâs hands again. âThis man is rapeâs biggest fan! Heâs a rape expert!â I huddled back against the wall, wailing hysterically. As they dragged Amir from the building--hog-tied and positively marinated in mace--my would-be rescuer spoke to me. âI am so, so sorry about that. My name is Vance and Iâm the Operations Manager here. Can I help you with anything, anything at all?â âMy name is Robert Brockway, and Iâm a for realsies journalist. I had a tour of the facilities scheduled for my magazine,â I started the long, arduous process of lighting up my traditional post-scam cigarettes.
"I love it when a scam comes together." âThatâs funny, I donât see your name hereâ¦â the man said, checking some paperwork at the desk. âYeah that is funny; I bet Amir raped it off of there or something. Listen, thatâs not important anyway. Iâve got a better story now: 'Particle Acceleration Turns All Men into Rape Aficionados.' Good headline, eh?â âJesus, no! Listen, Iâll take you on a tour myself. Show you around the place. Itâs really quite an amazing facility, and Iâm sure youâll see that advanced physics is not at all a rape-friendly field. Unlike those god-forsaken marine biologists. Come on.â He led me gently by the arm to the elevators, and we descended downward into the guts of the accelerator.
"I'm so glad I went to six years of college so I could GIVE IT TO THIS SLUTTY JELLYFISH." - Every Marine Biologist âWhatâs this thingy, Vince?â I grabbed what is scientifically classified as a "gizmo" off the table and tossed it casually from hand to hand. âItâs Vance and- oh god! Put that down!â He frantically rushed over and stole my science doowacky. âWhat? Is that important or something?â âYes, itâs incredibly important! All of the equipment here is terribly sensitive and just astoundingly expensive. Please refrain from touching anything. Also, we do frown on smoking on the premises. You really shouldnât smoke more than four cigarettes at a time, anyway. Would you mind putting some of them out?â âIâd love to, Vaughn, but I wonât be doing that at all. Ever. Thereâs this little thing called âjournalistic immunity.â Maybe youâve heard of it? Your laws donât apply to me,â I answered, striding purposefully down the nearest random hallway. I once read that itâs important to maintain control in new social encounters, and the best way to do it is to subtly steer the course of conversation. So I started taking wild, random turns throughout the complex while I talked. Just, you know... just steering the hell out of that conversation. âNo, youâre thinking of diplomatic immunity,â Vance replied, struggling to keep up.
Pictured: The second greatest journalist ever. âYeah, that. Itâs like that, but better. Anyway,â I continued, absent-mindedly juggling a couple of doo-dads, âletâs collide us some hard-ons, eh?â âYes, ha ha. Weâre all quite familiar with that joke here,â Virgil desperately seized the science thingamajigs from their thrown orbits and replaced them in the various machines I had ripped them out of along the way. âJoke? What joke?â âYouâ¦what magazine did you say you worked for?â He began to eye me, for the first time, with suspicion. I was hurt. I expected this kind of treatment from nuns, police officers, children, the elderly, full-sighted women and Puerto Ricans, but not Viktor! âUnpopular Mechanics,â I said, choking back tears and some pills. âUnpopular Mechanics?â He repeated skeptically. âYeah, itâs like Popular Mechanics but we cover the loser science. You know, like the really fat, stupid robots and that gay stuff with the numbers.â I took two quick lefts, ducked under a pipe and climbed a short ladder. As long as I kept talking quickly enough, Vance was too distracted to protest.
This issue: We unveil the new DipshitBot 5000!âMath?â âYeah, that stuff. Also, weâre doing a piece on your pussy machine here.â I took four quick lefts, bringing us full circle, and then dropped down a vent. âOur what?â âWell, itâs kind of famous now for being a giant pussy, isnât it? It came online for half a day, collided like four particles and then broke.â
"Yeah listen, we're just gonna leave the scaffolding up in case another molecule accidentally gets in here and destroys absolutely everything." âMachines canât be âpussies,â Mr. Brockway. Itâs true that our technology is very delicate, but thatâs because itâs unspeakably advanced,â Vanessa protested. I donât think he fully realized that at this point he was actually helping me to pry the cover off this hatch, but he was obviously quite troubled by my accusation. âWhat did you guys say last time â the Higgs Boson traveled back in time to prevent itself being created?â âWell, sort of. I mean, that's almost close to one theoryâ¦â âOK, well, how big was he?â At this point we had both taken off our jackets and rolled up our sleeves - just really ripping into this hatch. âWho?â âHiggs Boson. Was he fuckinâ retard-ripped like the T-100, or was he more like one of those T-1000s--all wiry, but kind of badass in a creepy serial killer kind of way?â The covering finally gave way and clattered to the floor. Vance was still too absorbed in our conversation to notice.
Higgs Boson: The Hadron Chronicles âNo, itâsâ¦ itâs not a perso-" he began, but I cut him off. âYeah, I know. Itâs a machine designed to look like a man. Iâm not stupid.â âNo, I mean itâs a particle. Microscopic.â âOh come on, man,â I continued, ducking through the opening and tearing through some inconvenient wiring, âitâs so small you canât even see it, and it still whooped your butts? And didnât a bird just kick your ass with a crouton or something? You tellin' me your giant-ass boner-ramming machine isnât a huge pussy after that?â âWell, yes it is true that this last malfunction was caused by a seagull dropping a piece of bread into some machinery butâ¦OK, yeah itâs kind of a pussy.â
This is what birds do... when they're not beating science's ass, that is. âGiant pussy,â I corrected. âFine. Yes. The Large Hadron Collider is a giant pussy. But I donât see what merit that has on the experiments weâre tr-" an ear-piercing wail shattered the air around us and lights began flashing. âWhat â where are we?!â Vicki Vale frantically spun around, taking in our surroundings for the first time. âOh god! Oh god weâre inside the accelerator! We have to get out of here! Where did we come in?!â He began clawing at the walls of the concrete tunnel, looking for an exit. âThat was like a mile back there, man. Why, whatâs the big deal?â âTheâ¦ the big deal? THE BIG DEAL?!â My Cousin Vinnyâs eyes pissed themselves with fear. Crying, I think itâs called. âThe big deal is that weâre going to die! The acceleratorâs starting up, and when that happens weâre going to be bombarded with particle beams!â At least thatâs what I think he said, because at this point I was sprinting top speed down the tunnel and his voice was growing faint. When I glanced back, Vindaloo was jogging after me.
Pictured: The author's complete understanding of particle beams. âWhat are you doing? Youâll never make it to an exit in time! The beam is starting up!â âWell itâll have to fuckinâ catch me first, wonât it?â I shouted back, remembering to put out two of the traditional impending-doom-cigarettes Iâd lit up. âYou canât out-run a particle beam!â he insisted. âBut Iâm so fuckinâ fast!â I argued. âYouâre laying on the floor,â he helpfully pointed out. I was indeed laying on the floor. Putting out those cigarettes had bought me another eight-feet of distance; it was apparently not enough. âWhat are we going to do?â Virginia Woolf quietly lamented. âI know what Iâm going to do,â I replied, rising to my feet. I slowly slipped on the sunglasses I always keep on me in case of dramatic effect. âIâm going to kick the Large Hadron Colliderâs ass.â
"I disCERN that somebody's about to COLLIDE with a PARTicle of my fist and.. it's going to be...HARDo, ah fuck it: YYEAAAAHHH!!!" Vampire Weekend started to protest, but I had already flown into action. First I drop-kicked a length of cable, Captain Kirk-style. Then I unleashed a flying elbow onto an unsuspecting control panel. I made a bunny motion by extending and wiggling two curled fingers on my left hand and, while the circuit-board was distracted, I karate-chopped it with my right. I groin-punched a lever. I fish-hooked a release valve. I eye-gouged Vance. âOw, fuck!â screamed Vance. But I didnât even hear it. I was lost in a berserker rage: A red, bloody fugue of violence and seriously repressed sexual energy.
This seems to happen more and more often these days... When I came to, the tunnel was in absolute ruins and the sirens had stopped. âYou did it,â whispered V for Vendetta in awe. âI beat the shit out of your particle accelerator,â I acknowledged, lighting up my series of traditional post-shit-kicking cigarettes. âAnd why?â âB-because itâs a giant pussy?â he weakly answered. âThatâs right. The Large Hadron Collider is a giant, humongous, weeping pussy.â
You fucking heard me, CERN. What? DO SOMETHING.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.