“…is…is this a trick?”
Last week, we sent an Undercover Investigative journalist into the most evil place we could imagine- a Vegan restaurant. We redacted the staff member’s name, because we knew that consuming Vegan food would leave an irreparable mark on his permanent record. But what we saw…it, well it haunted us. We saw a man reduced to rubble, not even afforded the decency of being allowed to chug a glass of bacon grease after his tofu crab cakes. He was given bowls full of warmed, liquid vegetables, normally only reserved for prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.
Our senior staff members watched the hidden camera footage of poor REDACTED as he suffered through a five course meal of nothing but vegetables, tofu, and succubi. It was painful to watch. “Oh God, he’s losing his mind out there,” Harrison Ford, our aviation editor, sighed.
“He’s eating it! Oh God, HE’S EATING IT!” Bruce Willis, our Barefoot Security Chief, began screaming.
“He’s going down in flames!” JFK III, the unknown-to-the-public grandson of JFK, exclaimed (it might sound like he was being insensitive, but man, you should hear how many airplane jokes the kid makes, it’s a bit fucked up).
“What have we done? What have we become?” Johnny Roosevelt asked, bowing his head sadly. We thought that REDACTED was done for. He was drooling on himself, he started weeping for minutes at a time, he didn’t even crack a smile when he started slapping the waiter while screaming, “YOUR NAME IS BRIAN! SAY IT! FUCKING SAY IT!”
Vegans dress ridiculously.
We thought we might have lost him, and would have to chisel his name on our wall of fallen staff members, along such illustrious names as Hunter S. Thompson and Interns #1 through 354 (Interns are sort of the Spinal Tap drummers of our operation). But there was a minor miracle, as REDACTED ran for freedom, fighting every vegetable-laden impulse telling his body to just give up, and he found the Mecca that is White Castle. After a dozen sliders, our medical staff was on the scene, pumping him full of liquefied beef and various animal souls. It was touch and go for a while, but REDACTED made it through. When he recovered, we decided, one week after they day of his darkest hour, to give him a token of our appreciation. Because we at AFFotD take care of our own.
So here, we present, REDACTED‘s night of American redemption.
Hey readers, REDACTED here. It’s strange to be back, I feel like I’ve gotten a second chance at this whole crazy world. I don’t remember what happened last week at the Vegan restaurant, I sort of blacked out. They say that when some people go through truly traumatic events that they can’t emotionally deal with, their minds put a block in place so they can just put it in their past and move on with their lives. I’m truly thankful that happened. Now I’m gonna get drunk.
All of that. Yes. All of it.
When I got home from the hospital, I was so ashamed of what I had done that I didn’t dare tell my family where I was. I couldn’t keep track of my lies, so I just said I was in AA, and then poured myself a stiff drink. My wife didn’t really seem to blink. I grabbed my oldest son by the shoulders and asked him to eat an entire bag of beef jerky for me. I needed to know he was still my son. He obliged. It was a weird couple of days.
Apparently various labor laws dictate that I have to show the world that I wasn’t “abused due to the actions of my employer.” But, between you and me, internet? I was. I fucking was.
So, Johnny Roosevelt and that fucking Dauphin-wannabe-asshole JFK III stopped by my office, asking if I was, “okay.” I said I was, I wanted them to leave this the fuck alone. I haven’t been sleeping much, you see. The night terrors. I’ll wake up in a field covered in cow’s blood like a goddamn Stephen King wet dream. I don’t question it, I can at least tell myself that it proves that I’m still American. Whatever.
Anyway, JR and JFK the third say, “Listen, we’ve got a bit of a party for you. In Boston. We want you to go, we think it’ll get help put this whole thing behind us.” A slew of AFFotD attorneys nodded.
“This is going to be a one way flight to fun, man,” JFK added. We nodded uncomfortably. “We’ll try to avoid any rough seas,” he continued. Everyone sort of looked each other awkwardly. “Hey, remember when my dad crashed his plane and died?” he finished.
“Goddamn it, alright I’ll fucking go! Jesus Christ, just…Jesus…” I shouted.
“Yeah man, that was kinda messed up,” Johnny Roosevelt agreed.
Before I went off to the “Remember that you’re American, please don’t sue us” party (we really gotta work on giving our parties better names) I was given a whole slew of American items. The legal team called them “gifts.” I called them “bribes.” But that in itself is pretty American, so I’m willing to let it go. First I was given a pair of boots. Made of leather. Cow hides. Something that lived. I put them on, and began to feel…well, I began to feel whole again.
Oh yeah. That’ll get you started. If I see that asshole Vegan Waiter Brian again, I’m gonna kick him right in the tofu bone [editor’s note: That’s not a thing] with these sons of bitches. Oh, this is cathartic, I’m gonna name the teenaged cow that was skinned to make these. I’ll call him Fredricko, he’s really into eating grass. His turn ons include watching other cows get milked, and his turn offs include getting murdered to be turned into shoes for me to wear. I love these things.
Does anyone know where to get spurs? Like, old school cowboys? I want some fucking spurs for these boots. Well, at that point, I’m starting to warm up to the AFFotD guys again. I can tell that they all are trying to avoid me at the office, like I was a New York Knicks intern who had just filed charges against Isiah Thomas. But, man…these shoes. God, they’re sweet.
That’s when they hit me with the chloroform, and I woke up with a bag over my head.
Don’t the eye holes defeat the purpose entirely?
It’s not that big of a deal, all AFFotD events are top secret. We’ve got a lot of enemies, so we want to keep them out of the loop. We’re all so used to the sweet taste of chloroform now that, hell, we actually need a little bit of it to get to sleep each night. So there’s no need to make a big deal of that.
Next thing I know, I’m in Boston, the city of brotherly love [editor’s note: Yeah, no] and I’m greeted with the second part of my bribe. A one hundred dollar cigar lighter, with a built in cigar cutter, next to a handle of scotch.
Bottom left corner. Butane lighter. God Bless America.
Sure, a hundred bucks for something you use to set tobacco ablaze seems like a lot of money. But, first of all, needless expenditures are incredibly American. And secondly, tobacco is nature. And fuck nature [editor’s note: Yessssss, he’s coming back to us.]
So the night was planned. Scotch and poker, with pizza and tobacco products because that’s the foundation of America, right [editor’s note: Technically tobacco is, we guess.] But just then…
Oh, God, it was terrible. Thank god there was brown liquor to calm my nerves.
Ahhhhh, takes the pain away
So, I got to talking with the handful of classic Americans, a mix of daredevils, bear hunters, and celebrities, like REDACTED DUE TO LEGAL REASONS and OH SHIT HE’D KILL US IF HIS WIFE FOUND OUT. We played a whole shitload of poker, and I was doing good until…
[Editor’s note: He went on for like, 300 words here. Seriously, we HATE people talking about bad beats in poker. We get it, you should have won, you didn’t, the other guy got lucky, so what? Christ, give it a rest already. It’s BORING we don’t want to hear about that shit.]
So at this point, between the four of us or so, that handle of scotch had turned into…well, this.
And we had consumed about…well, this much pizza.
As I was drunk and full, a bunch of AFFotD lawyers swooped in with some forms for me to sign. They told me that it was to give them permission to burn down some forest acreage, but apparently they were release forms. Saying that AFFotD is in no way liable for anything that happened to me. And worse yet, it stated that I was now legally obligated to do any investigation into un-American activities the site ever chooses to cover. Goddamn it! Those crafty sons of bitches!
His truth is marching on…
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