ElGroucho posted:

Sorry dude, my knowledge of garbage cultures isn't as air tight as yours.

Your Computer posted:

Mind also that this comes from imgur where literally everything that has to do with asia has top comments consisting of "ROR, raughing out roud", "hirarious", "me rikey" etc.

Interestingly, as of lately the comment section has essentially been the exact opposite of the actual post so this one has a whole lot of people calling the dude out while posts bringing up social issues etc. get flooded with fedoras and racists. Reading a comment section on a public website and seeing highbrow discussion feels like stdh.txt come true.

Verisimilidude posted:

the racism is usually applauded and "it's a joke don't take it seriously" is the motto of the thread.

Verisimilidude posted:

Fathis Munk posted:

Sometimes I get the feeling the imgur voting and the imgur commenting audiences are actually quite different. They upvote racism to the front page but sometimes all comments call it out

Samizdata posted:

Dunno. All Imgur is to me as a place to put pictures I want to link to while elsewhere.

Verisimilidude posted:

quote:

Hannibal: The School Years
High School | Hamilton, OH, USA | Books & Reading, Parents, Students

(I am a freshman in high school. I’ve just received an assignment in my English class that really excites me; we have to write a story. I wind up writing a very gory and horrific story about a cannibalistic serial killer, so I put a disclaimer at the top. After we turn them in, the teacher has the class critique excerpts from everyone’s papers and asks the class how we could have written the work better. Mine comes up, and it just so happens to be the worst/best scene with lots of bad mental images.)

Teacher: “All right, you have one minute to point out everything wrong with this paragraph.”

(About five seconds go by before hands start to shoot up, one kid looks green.)

Teacher: “Yes, [Student #1]?”

Student #1: “Can we go on to the next one?”

Student #2: “Yeah, this is gross.”

Student #3: “Who wrote this? Whoever did has a really twisted sense of humor.”

(The teacher then decides to read the paragraph she chose, and only gets about a fourth of the way through before she goes pale and drags me outside. What happened after that was pretty amusing, because both my parents and I were interrogated to make sure I was psychologically stable. All my mother had to say was:)

Mom: “Stephen King had to start somewhere.”
1 Thumbs (1 Thumbs Up!)

Tunicate posted:

Fresh off the presses!

I love how the teacher didn't read it.

quote:

hot liquid poo poo splashing up and speckling my white bottom

a man dips his fingers in fetid rear end sweat and smears a line of it on my forehead.

"RAZOR" he murmurs

a cleansing dive into sparkling yellow piss waters, light at the top yet brown near the bottom. i plunge deep and feel the saltiness enter my pores.

a field of partially congealed cum on grass. before it continues to gel, i leap and splay myself out on the ground, nude. i wave my arms and legs, making the snape of an angel.

i am led down a darkened hallway and through a metal door that screams as it opens and closes. i sit down in an old wooden chair with a light above me and wait. soon he appears. helpers flank him, and then grip my face and hold my mouth open. the man leans forward, plugs one nostril, and blows the contents of his nasal cavity into my eager mouth.

because my face is strapped so tightly to the rear end of this man, the poo poo he pushes out is forced to go over, around, and under my eye sockets after they rapidly become full of feces. i grind my face a little, to enjoy the smooshing sensation.

Postal Parcel posted:

I think I have the paragraph in the paper

quote:

It was a hot summer day in Southern California, and I was ten minutes shy of finishing my shift at Starbucks and was super excited about my afternoon plans to see my boyfriend, who lived several hours away and was home for the first time in months. It had been a pleasant morning up until that point, lots of nice regulars, easy traffic, good co-workers, and I was feeling prettay, prettay, prettay good. I’d brought a cute outfit to change into and spent time fussing on my hair that morning, making sure I’d look good when he arrived to pick me up. It was dead at that point, so the manager taking over told me to wrap up early and head out.

And then she walked in.

This woman was an afternoon regular that I’d seen only a handful of times over the years I’d worked there, since I was usually the opening manager. But I knew exactly who she was and I *thought* I knew exactly what was coming. Only I had no idea how bad it was about to get for me. She usually ordered a Venti (I’m sorry, I know you hate that word) Caramel Frappuccino with two added shots of espresso, which elevated the drink from nasty to nasty plus smelling like dog farts. Sure enough, she ordered her regular drink and I start making it, barely even wrinkling my nose at the smell of the espresso hitting the Frap base.

“Make sure you put EXTRA CARAMEL in there,” she hissed, peering at me over the divider. Her eyes were small and darting, following my movements and nodding in agreement with the steps I was taking. I added an extra pump of the caramel syrup and readied the sauce bottle while the drink blended.

“I LOVE THE EXTRA CARAMEL!” she reminded me, literally four seconds later. “So make sure you put EXTRA CARAMEL IN THERE!”

I assured her I would and she responded by pressing against the plastic divider to get an even better view of her drink being made. Her smooshed up face looked like a eager slice of wet ham as she continued eyeballing me while I poured her drink into the cup.

“WAIT!” she shouted, as the cup was half full. “I want caramel in the cup.”

Not an uncommon request, but a gross one. I poured her drink back in the blender and did a generous swirl of caramel sauce around the cup.

“MORE!” she implored.

“Sure, but I added extra in the drink as well, so y’know, it’s gonna be real caramel-y,” I said. This set her the gently caress off.

“That’s why I said extra caramel! That’s why I order the espresso! EXTRA CARAMEL EXTRA CARAMEL!” she chanted.

At this point, the inside of the cup was completely coated in caramel with at least a 1/4 inch of the sauce at the bottom. I poured her drink into the cup, did a nice little dollop of whipped cream and went to give it one last drizzle of sauce before she had another freak out. Except my caramel bottle was empty and now I had to fill a new one.

“Just a sec,” I told her, heading to the back to grab a bag of caramel sauce. I heard her say something to my co-worker like, “Can you make sure she puts caramel on top?” and I swear to god, I wanted to run back out there and choke her with the drat drink. Instead I grabbed the bag and headed back out.

At the time I worked there the caramel sauce came in these large slug-like bags. You’d snip the corner, jerk it off into a bottle, and yay, everyone is happy (except you because you now hate something as wonderful as caramel). So, I get the bottle full and the bag is about 1/4 full. I know, I KNOW that this nasty Caramel Golem is going to ask me about it. I am bracing myself for it as I snap the lid on her drink and place it on the bar. Even though I logically know where this is heading, I’m still shocked when she asks me for the bag.

“I can’t give that out, ma’am. Sorry! Have a good one.”

I headed to the back room to grab my stuff, leaving her standing there with her sick drink.I’d just finished changing my shirt and touching up my makeup when I heard a huge crash from the floor. I ran out and sure enough, she was trying to reach over the bar to grab the bag and ended up knocking over a stack of clean pitchers and supplies.Her arm was flailing and half of her body was sprawled out on the bar while my poor coworker was trying to do damage control.

“Ma’am, you are going to have to leave now. This behavior is not acceptable and you’re making us uncomfortable,” I explain to her.

“Just give me the loving bag!”

“Ma’am, I am happy to add more caramel to your drink but I cannot give out our supplies. We have been very polite to you and now I need to ask that you GO.”

She pulled herself upright, drink in hand, and glared at me like I’d never been glared at before. “You. loving. BITCH!” she screamed, throwing her drink at me.

It hit me in the chest, exploded instantly and covered my whole torso and my hair in a repulsive, sticky mess. I was shocked, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and taking very, very deep breaths so that I wouldn’t leap over the bar and attack her. Before I could do anything, she turned around and ran out.

My boyfriend arrived a few minutes later and pitched in to help us clean up, but ughhh. I was just done at that point and wanted to go home and cry/eat pizza in the shower. The next day, my manager informed me that she got the woman’s information off her credit card and reported the whole thing to the police. I don’t know what, if anything, came of it but she never returned to that store again while I was working.

quote:

I was in a Starbucks yesterday and a gaggle of teenage girls, (I feel like gaggle isn’t right for teenage girls. A flock? A murder? A murder.) a murder of teenage girls came in behind me. As I finished my order, the barista (who was a treasure of a human being and recommended a kick-rear end fruit sauce for baked brie) turned to the group, and seeing that it was comprised of entirely teenagers, said, “Hi! Welcome to Starbucks! What kind of frappuccinos can I get for you?”

Then we made eye-contact and I gave him an eyeball high-five and then laughed forever. Get it, saucy barista.

queserasera posted:

From yesterday's Behind Closed Ovens:


And from the comments section:


Jesus loving Christ.

quote:

One day a man saw a old lady, stranded on the side of the road, but even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her.

Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn’t look safe; he looked poor and hungry.

He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. I t was that chill which only fear can put in you.

He said, “I’m here to help you, ma’am. Why don’t you wait in the car where it’s warm? By the way, my name is Bryan Anderson.”

Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough.

Bryan crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands hurt.

As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down the window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only just passing through. She couldn’t thank him enough for coming to her aid.

Bryan just smiled as he closed her trunk. The lady asked how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped.

Bryan never thought twice about being paid.

This was not a job to him. This was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty, who had given him a hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way.

He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance they needed, and Bryan added, “And think of me.”

He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home, disappearing into the twilight.

A few miles down the road the lady saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her. The waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn’t erase. The lady noticed the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Bryan .

After the lady finished her meal, she paid with a hundred dollar bill. The waitress quickly went to get change for her hundred dollar bill, but the old lady had slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. The waitress wondered where the lady could be. Then she noticed something written on the napkin.

There were tears in her eyes when she read what the lady wrote: “You don’t owe me an anything. I have been there too. Somebody once helped me out, the way I’m helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here is what you do: Do not let this chain of love end with you.”

Under the napkin were four more $100 bills.

Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could the lady have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard….

She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, “Everything’s going to be all right. I love you, Bryan Anderson.”

There is an old saying “What goes a round comes around.” Today, I sent you this story, and I’m asking you to pass it on .. Let this light shine.

Don’t delete it, don’t return it. Simply, pass this on to a friend

Good friends are like stars….You don’t always see them, but you know they are always there.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Everblight posted:

My brain is forcing me to only focus on the e.e. cummings punctuation and numerous typos, because my eyes are refusing to transmit the text itself into my brain

hallo spacedog posted:

Much like the times people post really stupid but obvious jokes in this thread, that's just a parable. It's not supposed to be something that actually happened, just a saccharine little story for your grandma about why you should put kindness into the world.

Jeez people in this thread are so literal.

Hatrocious posted:

Well, this is a new one.




I too, refer to my loved ones by their full names when I talk to them in their sleep.

dijon du jour posted:

I was expecting the first part of this to turn into "AND THEN WHEN SHE GOT HOME HER HUSBAND LOOKED UNDER THE CAR HE FOUND THAT SOMEONE HAD TRIED TO CUT HER BREAKS THIS IS A NEW THUG GANG INITIATION RITUAL SO IF SOMEONE STOPS YOU ON THE ROAD AND OFFERS TO FIX YOUR CAR SAY NO!!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW!!!!!! STAY SAFE AND GOD BLESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SINCERELY THE CHIEF OF POLICE"

queserasera posted:

From yesterday's Behind Closed Ovens:


And from the comments section:


Jesus loving Christ.

Verisimilidude posted:

Assuming that first story is real the lady is obviously disturbed and needs some kind of medical assistance.

That second story is sad. I agree with what someone else said earlier, about how that story isn't good enough to bear repeating. I feel like too many people are too willing to give praise for inane bullshit these days. I can't tell you how many pictures/stories I've seen on imgur and tumblr that should really end with "you'd think it was funny if you were there."

We should come up with rules for spotting a bullshit story. I'll start:

How to tell if a story is bullshit: people speak in complete sentences as if the author remembers every single word.

kdrudy posted:

I was expecting Bryan Anderson to have been dead the entire time, and he was an angel.

My Lovely Horse posted:

Same, but for the old lady.

Kinda want to write a sappy STDH now that involves two benevolent angel ghosts meeting each other and they can't let the other know and it gets really awkward.

tacodaemon posted:

A Captain of Industry posted:

I cancelled my yearly subscription to FT just last Thursday and I let them know that it was because I could not take their publication seriously whilst they publish the ramblings of Izabella Kaminska.

I received an email back thanking me for my "bold" explanation and a full refund.

divabot posted:

The Financial Times has a blogger who's meeeean to Bitcoin.


Because people spend $300 a year for an online subscription to FT purely for entertainment, and not for anything related to their jobs.

quote:

FT is basically a tabloid for people who want to fancy themselves as investors.

flosofl posted:

I don't get Buttcoiners.

Verisimilidude posted:

Verisimilidude posted:

BrigadierSensible posted:

Kid is just putting in the time so that the can say "MY BLACK FRIEND" on message boards in the future when he is accused of racism.

Or more likely the mum is just doing that now by proxy. "I'm not racist, I allow my son to associate with negros."

dijon du jour posted:

SINCERELY THE CHIEF OF POLICE

Verisimilidude posted:

dijon du jour posted:

As far as I can tell this article doesn't actually exist, which does still make this STDH, to be fair.