HOPEWELL, MI – It has been said that human subcultures are fractally nested, and that there is no bottom. Pundits have also claimed that in the age of the internet, people with interests so specific and so far outside the mainstream can come together and commiserate in ways that would have once been impossible. Putting both of those ideas to the test is the emerging subculture of “benchwarmers.”

Despite what the name may suggest, “benchwarmers” are not people who are left on the sidelines during sporting events. As an anonymous “benchwarmer” put it in an interview with the Hopewell Democrat-Tribune, “we call ourselves ‘benchwarmers’ because we’re on the bleachers all the time.” In other words, the “benchwarmer” subculture is made up of people who regularly drink bleach.

One might think that, given bleach’s propensity to cause chemical burns, that such a subculture might go extinct after its first outing. However, the “benchwarmer” that spoke to the Democrat-Tribune disagreed. “We start with a very low concentration, just enough to get the taste and the burning sensation,” she said, “and then we gradually increase the percentage of sodium hypoclorite.” This accelerates the formation of scar tissue that protects the drinker from the full effects of the caustic chemical.

Gathering on web sites and forums like “The Bleachfields” or “Sodium Hypocrites,” the “benchwarmers” share their stories of internal injury, oral and coleorectal scarring, and different ways of diluting bleach so that its ingestion does not cause instant and painful death. The sites also maintain “Benchwarmer MVP” lists with information about fallen members of the subculture and the highest percentage of sodium hypoclorite they were able to ingest before death.

“Cloroxian1977 is still a legend on The Bleachfields,” said the anonymous source. “He was able to get up to a solution of 37% NaClO before his organs ruptured.” Our source maintains that the dream of a human being who is able to drink pure, undiluted bleach–100% sodium hypoclorate–remains the dream of the subculture.

Responding to criticisms that “benchwarming” is a suicidal fixation and most likely a manifestation of a mental illness like pica, the Democrat-Tribune‘s source became defensive. “It’s a very freeing, cleansing thing, and extremely important to our mental well-being,” she said. “People ingest dangerous amount of chemicals all the time, we are simply more open about it.”

At press time, the “benchwarmers” associated with The Bleachfields online forum were attempting to have their first in-person convention at the Southern Michigan University convention center. The head of that facilty told us that he would not be “party to a suicide pact” and had refused to let the space. In a response, the campus diversity officer blasted his concerns as “exclusionary” and “divisive.”

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The Taw, the last letter of the Hebrew alphabet, is used to describe a movable point in space, the size and hardness and luster of a pearl. It contains within it the exact mathematical opposite of every point in the known and living universe. Gazing into it is to invite madness. Sages have wasted away aeons tracking down the Taw wherever it has found itself and attempting to intuit truths about our world from viewing its opposite.

None of this, however, explains how the Taw appeared on eBay with an opening bid of 99¢ and a Buy It Now price of $19.99 (plus sales tax in California).

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SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): I like my hand. I’ll see you your “yes” vote on a highway appropriations bill and raise you one “yes” vote on a bridge to nowhere.

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): Page!

PAGE: Yes, Senator?

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): How many bridges in Senator Muddleford’s state equal the highway appropriation in the pot?

PAGE: 2.5, Senator.

SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): Very well, “yes” votes on 2.5 bridges to nowhere.

SENATOR ALOSYIUS J. URSINE (W-IL): Is there even that much nowhere in you state?

SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): We can always make some. Senator Ursine, are you going to ante up or fold?

SENATOR ALOSYIUS J. URSINE (W-IL): Getting too rich for my blood. Will you gentlemen accept an abstention on an ethics censure vote?

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): Throw in a “yes” vote on an authorization for the unconstitutional use of force and you’ve got a bet.

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“And so,” intoned Mwa the Mole gravely, “we take comfort in knowing that Mone the Mole died doing what he loved.”

Mone the Mole’s widow, Naabi the Mole, comforted her pups as Mwa the Mole continued his remarks.

“Digging tunnels and eating earthworms, those were Mone the Mole’s great passions. We all remember the stories about his tunnels, which seemed to get longer with each telling, and the fine earthworm sashimi he used to regurgitate from time to time.”

The pallmoles shuffled forward, bearing Mone the Mole’s mortal remains, still with bits of dirt from the cave-in and chunks of earthworm in his mouth. Mwa the Mola and Naabi the Mole were not sure if Mone the Mole had died from the cave-in or from choking, but either one counted as doing what he loved.

“And thus, we commend Mone the Mole to the air. Oxygen to oxygen, nitrogen to nitrogen.”

Gathering around the hole opened in the ceiling, the pallmoles reverently chucked Mone the Mole out of it.
moles “burying” their dead aboveground

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Sean saw it too late: his hiking partner had forgotten to douse the ashes of his campfire.

“Mike, wait!” he cried. But it was too late.

The high-caliber round put Mike down clean; he toppled face-first into the ashes, his blood quenching the embers that his fire bucket had not.

Half a mile away, atop a ranger watch tower, the bear regarded the scene through the lens of his 20x Leupold. His spotter nodded, and the bear ejected his 7.62mm brass into one outstretched paw. He then tucked it behind the band of his campaign hat.

“Only you,” he growled. “Only you.”

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Q: Why was the triangular ratio unable to get a home loan?

A: Because it needed someone to cosine.

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Many people have wondered how the small town (pop. 137) of Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) in Mississippi got its name. The road signs for Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) were a constant source of amusement for out-of-towners and frequently stolen by pranksters until the town ordered them replaced with painted boulders to deter theft in the manner of Shitterton, Dorsetshire.

It has been suggestion, by analogy with the town of Bad Fücking in Saxony, that the name Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) is simply another language that seems scatalogical to English speakers. After all, Bad Fücking simply means “the baths of Fuecke’s people” after a long-dead merchant named Johannes Fuecke.

However, none of the theories about the origin of the name Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) have thus far held up to scrutiny. The oft-repeated tale that it has its roots in a Cajun place name, Beau d’Holey, neglects the fact that “Holey” is not a known word or place name in French. Another theory, that the town was named after a hole in a local butte, is belied by its location in board-flat Mississippi floodplain country. And despite the suggestion in a Saturday Night Live skit from 1987 that brought the town a burst of worldwide notice, there never was a “Cyrus Q. Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”), Esquire.”

Even the notion that the name was adopted with full knowledge of its actual meaning is troublesome, as the scatological term is unknown before 1859 (and then only in the West) while Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) was founded in 1822. No source reflecting on the humor of the name can be found in any contemporary accounts, even from the Union troops who occupied the area in 1863 and who would have had good reason for a laugh at their adversaries’ expense.

In the midst of all of this, the town of Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) is laughing all the way to the bank. Despite being overwhelmingly rural, conservative, and Republican, the town nevertheless makes a healthy profit selling t-shirts and souvenirs in person and online.

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And, yea, did He cast out his Palms. And, yea, upon those same Palms were the Marks of which much has been written, the Stigmata. On His left Hand He bore the oozing Facsimile of a 1, and on his right Hand bore he a similarly crimson 0.

By rapidly alternating His hands, could he replicate any Program in existence. At this Sight, yea, the assembled Debuggers and Programmers did fall to their Knees (excepting those many whose Fat precluded this, who instead, yea, fell into their Chairs or Rascals).

In the fullness of Time, though, a thorough Examination was made and the bearer of the Stigmata was found to have an additional one on His ankles, that of the Number 2. And, yea, did they cast Him out from among their Number, rejecting His Code and His rights.

For, as any Coder will tell you, there is no such Thing as 2.

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“This is our rare book room, where we keep our most valuable tomes untouched and raw, just as they were when they came to us, with only a bare minimum of alteration to keep them–and us–safe. Let’s move on.”

“What’s that room next door? The one where the books are all burned and mangled on the outside, but some of the pages look like they might still be readable?”

“Oh, that’s our medium-rare book room. If you think that’s something, wait until you see our well-done book room!”

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On Tuesday, our town passed a rather grim milestone: the 20,000th prisoner was incarcinated here. Now, many people have written about mass incarcination throughout the media, and there are a lot of understandably intense opinions on the subject from all parts of the political spectrum. What I’d like to do here is to take a step back.

Academic exercises about our “carcinal society” tend to seem very remote and ivory tower to average citizens, especially those that do not known an incarcinated person or persons. This, along with a relatively simple “crime should equal incarcination” philosophy winds up completely obfuscating the issue.

So what exactly is mass incarcination? When you boil it down, incarcination is nothing more or nothing less than feeding those convicted of crimes to gigantic land-crabs. And mass incarcination is feeding a lot of those convicted of crimes to a lot of giant land-crabs.

Now, surely you’ve all seen Cl-Clickrr, Tecumseh County Incarcination Crab #3, making its scuttling rounds outside the city limits or carefully guarding its clutch of gigantic eggs in the hollow near Collie Hill. You might have even seen an escapee, stained with digestive juices, that was able to escape incarcination when Cl-Clickrr attempted to regurgitate for its young.

But have you ever thought of the lasting effects of incarcination inside Cl-Clickrr?

What of the few that are paroled after serving their time submerged in hemolymph, that no longer have any hair or limbs? What about those who come home with an insatiable lust for crab meat and wind up robbing a Red Lobster? Those institutional men who immediately violate their parole or cover themselves with rotting shellfish?

Mass incarcination destroyes lives, destroys homes, destroys societies. All it does is protect the powerful giant land-crabs with a vested interest in the status quo. That’s why we need a saner system, one with fewer giant land-crabs, one with fewer convicts fed to those land-crabs, and one with land-crabs bred for rehabilitation rather than digestion.

Only then can we reap the benefits of other societies that have reduced or abolished giant land-crabs altogether. Only then can we shed the embarrassment of being second only to China and its infamous pandarisons in the feeding of our own people to gigantic organisms.

It’s time, people. It’s time.

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