Tag Archives: Choose Your Own Adventure

Choose Your Own Fucking Adventure: Space Edition!

By Veronica Toone

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Were back, babies! You thought this shit would taper off? You thought we were done with the ol CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE SECTION? I wish. But Ive been recruited by the fabled High Council to tell you all a SICK SPACE EPIC. Were continuing on a seemingly endless journey. The immolation of all ecosystems is at hand. I miss my kids.

Mama Jonithats mewill be your, quite frankly, underpaid guide today. So strap in, adjust your HELMETS and get your motherfucking TANG ready to go, because were gonna all up and venture where no man has ever dared to tread: space, the LAST FRONTIER. (I cant say final: Mama Joni likes to follow copyright law.)

Thats right, kiddies: this weeks adventure is:

Literal Outer Space.


START HERE! The year is 2689. You and your crew of ASTRONAUT PEEPS are gathered on board the Omnibus, a great big ol rocket whose name will not be mentioned again. CHRISTOPHER KRISTOFFERSON, your commander, approaches your teeny squadron. His eyes lock on you and you feel the dark-coffee heat of lust somewhere just below your hairline. Gentlemen, ladies, and those that transcend primal human gender binary, he barks. Were beginning our descent into the Karrian system. Well reach Parlius in T minus twenty minutes. Remember your mission. Are you ready to jump? His strong jaw twitches with anticipation, and something in your LOWER INTESTINE twitches with something else. Kristofferson is one hell of a pilot, and one hell of a man. The broccoli in his teeth forces you out of your fantasy and redirects your attention to the FLIGHT SUIT on the wall. Do you jump?

If you choose to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

If you choose not to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

PARAGRAPH 2: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged, tasty, face and swallow your humility in favor of looking like a grizzled veteran space traveler. You stay in your seat as your squadron adorns their flight suits.

Sir, you say, I dont think Im ready. Perhaps I should stay on the ship?

Perhaps you should do your goddamn job, Soldier. Go back to your quarters, youre on latrine duty for the next 12 star-days. No food, either: have fun being hungry. Also, Im fucking your sister,” said Kristofferson.

You got demoted. Your sister got fucked. Go back to START. Did you even go through basic training?

PARAGRAPH 3: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged tasty face and swallow your pride in favor of looking like youre a good little soldier who went through basic training, and knows at the very least how to do your goddamn job. Yes Sir, ready to be doing the jumping on your go, Sir. What? You turn your head and briskly approach the hatch before he can reply. Just adorn your flight suit, you awkward fuck. Mama Joni hopes your communication skills improve over the course of this choose your own adventure. The hatch openstake your last breath of artificial air. 32did you remember your oxygen tank?1. You drop out of the hatch and float down to Parlius, home of the Hareenians, a misunderstood and slightly-below-average-intelligence alien race whose name Mama Joni pulled outta her ass, and also will not be mentioned again. You change into your alternate outfit [flight suit now equipped!) and begin walking through a SICKASS ALIEN FOREST. Eventually you come to a fork in the road.

If you choose to go left, go to PARAGRAPH 4.

If you choose to go right, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

PARAGRAPH 4: You decide to go left, because right is always wrong, and you walk through said Sickass Alien Forest for what feels like star-weeks. (I just like putting star before actual increments of Earth time, welcome to space.) Eventually you reach the FABLED ALIEN CITY OF KAREEFER, home of thewhat were they called? Whatever, doesnt matterand look around you in wonder. You seem to blend in with the race of suspiciously-humanoid, fairly below-average-looking creatures that would never be so observant as to not notice a literal alien walking among them. You ask one of the aliens where the royal palace is, and they answer you in a language you do not understand. Shit! You didnt think to read up on the local language, did you? What are you gonna do now?

If you decide to just wander around, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide you want to try and talk back to the alien, go to PARAGRAPH 7.

PARAGRAPH 5: You should know by now that one of these is gonna lead you to death, right? I cant fill up too much space. Listen, you can think of Mama Joni more like a better-looking, cookie-baking Jiminy Cricket here, honey: youre the one that has to make the decisions. Anyway, you go andI dont know, dude. You go to the right and meet a PISSED OFF ALIEN who just blows your goddamn brains out. This magazine is free, isnt it? Youre not wasting any money on this?

YOU DIED. Go back to the beginning. Life is meaningless.

PARAGRAPH 6: Always polite, you say the only phrase you know in the language that these things happen to speak: reéairot quinoh. The alien looks mildly offended as you walk away, and you realize that you told them you might have fucked a dog once. Whatever, its not like you were invited to their Whiega feast or anything. (Im trying my best, Im the DM, these are made up words.) You round the corner and enter the CENTER OF TOWN. The aliens, whose species name escapes me right now, are watching you. You look past a square building at the ROYAL PALACE. Its big ay-eff. Your mission was clear from the beginning, even though I may or may not have mentioned it: you are Earths sole ambassador on this weird planet, and you have to talk to their weird king so they wont blow up your shit. You go to the town square and look up at the BIG ASS STATUE of one of these, uh, extraterrestrials.

If you decide to ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab, go to the LAZY ENDING.

If you decide to ask for a picture with the statue, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

PARAGRAPH 7: To your untrained human listening apparatuses, this whatever-theyre-called said something along the lines of: Bahaké treiej. You look her dead in her face: she is tall, taller than you, and is dense with muscle. Her face looks like a cross between Steve Buscemi and Scarlett Johansson. Take a second and try to visualize that shit. Oh, Im sorryuheloch gah more-own-a, you say. She gasps and slaps across the face. I speak English, she says as she goes on her way. And Im at a very healthy weight, thank you. Earth trash.

Wow, insulting a young aliens appearance. Way to go. Bet you feel like a real asshole, huh? Go back to Paragraph 4. You make me sick.

PARAGRAPH 8: Skip this. Go to Paragraph 9. I just need to have a number 8 here. Dont read this: this is for me and me alone. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Doo dee doo doo doot.

PARAGRAPH 9: You give your ANTIQUATED EARTH PICTURE-TAKING APPARATUS to a passing alien. Hey, can you get a picture of me with this bomb-ass statue? The alien looks at you in confusion, but after putting the camera in their little ol grubby hands, they seem to understand. They brush their hand to the sideget closer. You put your hand on the statue and it CRUMBLES INTO PIECES IMMEDIATELY. You and the alien stare in horror: what have you done? Youre supposed to be Earths sole ambassador, grade-A dumb shit. And you destroyed the statue. Its broken. And you did that.

Go to the REAL ENDING.

LAZY ENDING: You ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab and the driver shoots you in the fucking neck. Go away.

REAL ENDING: More aliens crowd around you, shouting obscenities in their native tongue. You try to defend yourself, saying it was an accident, and finally an alien steps forward. She speaks to you in English. Alien, she says, you have destroyed the great Statue of Ganja. You must appear before the High Court, where your fate will be judged by a judge. The SPACE PO-PO arrive and put handcuffs on you, and off youre carted to SPACE COURT. Space Court is a lot like regular court, except everyone isyou know what? This is my world. I do what I want, and you destroyed a statue. So you have to appear NUDE before the High Council and all the jurors are aiming LASER GUNS right at your dumb fucking forehead. The judge rules you guilty, and you remember that when you are found guilty in Space Court, all the jurors get to just blast their little ol lasers at you whenever they see fit, because you ruined their shit and now you deserve it. Perhaps you would have been better off in the Space Cab, huh? Ha ha.


Choose Your Own Freaking Adventure: Just 4 Kidz Edition!

By Veronica Toone

An excerpt from “Nonsense 4 Kidz”


Well howdy there, boys and girls! It’s time to GO INSIDE OUR NOGGINS and create a wonderful adventure before we’re inevitably thrust into the CRUEL AND UNFORTUNATE SET OF CIRCUMSTANCES AND PAIN we’ll call the rest of our lives!

Are you ready to get started? No? Tough! Life is hard, Timmy, and the sooner you come to realize that, the sooner you’ll appreciate the flickering light of your DYING IMAGINATION! So get ready, kids, and STRAP IN, because this week’s fun-tastic adventure is:



START RIGHT HERE: Your name is TIMMY JOHNSON. You’re an eight year-old with the intelligence level of the average comic book eight year-old. You live with MOM AND DAD, two confused caricatures of generic middle-class adults with a child smarter than they are combined. You like SpongeBob SquarePants and Minecraft.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. You’re sitting in a classroom full of your friends and they all love you. You’re wearing your favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, and you’re happy as can be! Your teacher calls on you to answer the question, but oh no: you weren’t paying attention! “Timmy!” she bellows, with the force to bring an elephant to its knees, “don’t make me ask you a third time: what is seven plus two?”

If you decide to answer correctly because you’re a good boy who never touches his no-no square, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

If you can’t remember, go to PARAGRAPH 3.


PARAGRAPH 2: “Nine,” you retort, slouching back in your uncomfortable plastic chair. The teacher nods, satisfied (which means she’s happy! Good job! Gold star! Big sticker!), and moves on to harrow some other prey. You pull out your CRAYONS and begin to color a super duper fantastic picture of something totally wicked cool, like you as a superhero or something. “Attention, class,” your ambiguous teacher calls, “there will be a D.A.R.E. meeting today after snack time. Be sure to be ready to ask some questions!” A collective groan rises from your peers, but you’re excited about this news. A D.A.R.E. meeting? They have all kinds of helpful know-how. The bell rings, and the sound of fourteen plastic chairs scooting across linoleum echoes through the room.



PARAGRAPH 3: You can’t remember what seven plus two is? It’s in the paragraph right above this. Golly gee, you’ve been chowing down on those “special” gummies, haven’t you, Timmy?

Aww, darn: you’re in TIME OUT! Go back to PARAGRAPH 1.


SNACK TIME: You reach into your Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers lunch box and retrieve one WARM TUBE OF GOGURT, one bag of CRUSHED-UP GOLDFISH CRACKERS, and one POUCH OF CAPRI SUN (now equipped!). Nice. After a brief trade of with a sad-looking boy named Matt, you get a pack of DUNKAROOS in place of your warm GoGurt. Sucker. You finish your snacks and throw out your garbage like a good boy who never touches his no-no square. “Line up, boys and girls!” shouts your teacher, spraying spit across the room like a damn sprinkler. You jostle your way to the front of the line, standing like a general leading his foul-smelling, poorly-dressed kid troops into battle, and make your way to the GYM.

To pay attention, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

To zone out during the meeting, go to PARAGRAPH 6.


PARAGRAPH 5: After what seems like the rest of the school year’s worth of shushing and whispered scolding from more ambivalent teachers, a MAN walks onto the stage. He’s dressed in a nice suit, and has powdered sugar under his nose. “Hey, kids!” he says, and his voice is very loud. “You wanna know about drugs?” He pauses and wipes his nose. “I was born in the back of a van in 1978. My mother was a taxi driver and my dad was unemployed. I had big dreams of being a musician—” he stops for a second to wipe the sweat off of his hands, “—but that never happened.” He lets out a shrill laugh. “So, I’m here to talk to you today about why drugs are awful and you shouldn’t do them. For example: cocaine! Cocaine is a drug that costs a lot more money than it used to, believe me. But cocaine is a white powder that you snort up your nose.” He wiped his nose again. “And it makes you high. Does anyone know what high is?” A few precocious children that are still trying to feebly grasp at their innocence raise their hands. “Well, getting high is when you feel really really good for a little while!” He glances offstage quickly before turning his attention back to the audience. “But it feels bad after! So you shouldn’t do it, or something.”

Continue to PARAGRAPH 7.


PARAGRAPH 6: It’s always stifling in the gym, but you try to make it work. You make eyes at Susie Barnes, sitting about three rows to the right of you. She’s fine as hell and you know it. You turn your head to the front, and don’t pay attention.

What’s wrong with you? Pay attention, you rascal, you! Go back to PARAGRAPH 4!


PARAGRAPH 7: You put your hand up and wait patiently for him to call on you. “What?!” he suddenly says in your direction, turning dilated pupils on you. “Mister,” you ask, “do you buy cocaine with money, or can you trade it?” There’s a moment of silence, and then he laughs harshly. “Kid, you can get cocaine by doing lots of stuff. You can buy it with money, or sell other drugs, like a trade, or you can sell yourself!” There is a murmur off-stage, and he suddenly changes the subject. “Does anyone want some stickers?” Everyone around you cheers, and you decide you’ll wait until the end of the meeting for any further questions. He talks some more about a sad man he knew that took lots of cocaine, and now he drives around in a beat up 2007 Ford Fusion – whatever that is – and goes around to schools all the time, and that it’s a horrible job. After that, he finishes by tossing stickers into the crowd to the small, eager hands that awaited below.

To ask the man more questions, go to PARAGRAPH 8.

To grab at the stickers and never ask questions, go HOME.


PARAGRAPH 8: You make your way through the crowd before the D.A.R.E. man can leave and tug on his sleeve. He smells like old milk and fire smoke. “What is it, kid?” he asks. “Do you like your job?” “Yeah, it’s great,” he says off-handedly, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a CIGARETTE. Your teacher always says that cigarettes are bad. “Is that a cigarette?” you ask dumbly, and the man turns his attention to you. “You ever try sherm?” You make a note to ask MOM what sherm is, and shake your head no. He waves a funny-smelling stick thing in your face. “This is what grown-ups do when they’re bored. ‘S called a joint. Your Mommy and Daddy probably use this when they’re at home, after they’re done…” he thinks for a moment, then says, “doing their taxes.” “What’s in it? Did you buy it from your friends?” You don’t mean to annoy him; you just have so many questions! Frustrated, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a TWENTY DOLLAR BILL. “Here, kid, if I give ya twenty bucks, will you get lost?” You’re fairly sure you could buy France with that kind of money, and he just shoved it into your hand like it was disposable. You take off with the money and jump onto the bus.

Continue HOME.


HOME: You jump onto your familiar yellow friend the school bus, amidst the harsh words slung around by careless children and the broken eyes of today’s youth. You take your seat next to your AMBIGUOUS FRIEND, and the bus rumbles away from the school. You stare out the window and talk to no one, thinking about all of the video games you’re gonna buy with your twenty dollars. You hop off the bus and go to YOUR ANTIQUATED HOUSE, and you’re greeted by your confused caricature of a middle-class generic white woman. She is wearing a bathrobe. “Timmy!” she says with surprise, “you’re home early!” “Yeah! There was a D.A.R.E. meeting, and school got out early because the meeting was over, and I got twenty dollars!” you tell her. She nods. “Right, honey, but why don’t you wait outside? Dad and I are doing our taxes—can you play with the dog for another forty-five minutes?” You nod and obediently and go to the backyard. It was a great day.

THE END. Super job, or something!

Choose Your Own Fucking Adventure: Renonaissance RPG Edition

By Veronica Toone

An excerpt from The Renonaissance!


Good evening, and again, my darlings, welcome to another round of CHOOSE YOUR OWN FUCKING ADVENTURE, where, true to its name, every decision is made for you and you realize that we’re all WORM FOOD.

While I’m sure that there are articles contained in this compendium that TICKLE YOUR G-SPOT infinitely more, I must say I’m truly honored that you would take the time to read the introduction. Now, unsheathe your sword from your ZIPPERED DENIM HOLSTER, mount your TRUSTY STEEDS, and adjust your FANNY PACKS, boys and girls, because this week’s adventure is:



START HERE: The year is 1420. You find yourself in the Ye Olde Towne of Hempsteade, and have no idea how you got there. You look around—trees for miles. You get up and rummage through the satchel you brought with you. In it is: a vape pen, a lighter, several Nonsense Humor magazines, a big honking bag of weed, and a crumpled piece of paper.

If you decide to smooth out the paper, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

If you decide to smoke the weed, go to PARAGRAPH 4.


PARAGRAPH 2: You put the paper on the ground and smooth it out. Reading it over, you discover it is a MAP (now equipped!). You look up at the late afternoon sky (which doesn’t have any smog or lights in it because this is 1420 and that kind of bullshit isn’t even a concept at this point) and realize it is getting dark. You’re going to need to start a fire to keep yourself warm! Do you combine the LIGHTER and NONSENSE HUMOR MAGAZINES to start a fire?

If you decide that Nonsense Humor magazines are far too funny to be burned, even in a survival situation, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

If you decide to burn the magazines, go to PARAGRAPH 5.


PARAGRAPH 3: You don’t burn the magazines, instead using the fading daylight to read them. You laugh haughtily at the rubbish therein and go to sleep in the dark. You’re eaten by hungry bears that see you as the fragile, tasty woodland creature you are.



PARAGRAPH 4: You smoke that DANK KUSH and get higher than you’ve ever been in your life. Zoinks, Scoob, you didn’t think a strain of such phenomenal, wondrous weed could find its way to your titillated taste buds. It tastes like the best pottage your mother never made, because she spent most of her time finagling with the turkey foot seller at the market or fucking the local plague doctor, didn’t she, John? You pass out and are eaten by hungry bears that see you as the fragile, tasty woodland creature you are.



PARAGRAPH 5: You burn the magazines with unmitigated joy. As they crackle and curl in the fire, you find that the smell of burning self-indulgent jokes is very comforting, and you fall asleep to the sound of Ye Olde police sirens. You wake up the next morning and continue on with your journey. Suddenly, out of the brush, a wild HOFCAT appears. He stands in front of you in a way that vaguely reminds you of a Japanese pocket monster game, but offers no battle cry. Instead—“’Sup, player,” says the cat, “what’s good?”

If you decide to talk to the cat, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide to kill the cat, go to PARAGRAPH 7.


PARAGRAPH 6: “Um, hi,” you reply tentatively. “You must be a hofcat.” The cat approaches you and hops gracefully onto your shoulder. “That I am. Do you know where you are, traveller?” “No,” you confess. The cat smiles, or would if cats could do that, and continues. “Why, you’re at the HOFSTRA CASTLE, home to the fiercest beasts and rarest treasures.” You stare about in wonder before your eyes fall on blue sign directly to your left. Hofstra Castle, home to the fiercest beasts and rarest treasures. You step onto the cobblestone path and, as if on cue, several solidly-built, well-endowed knights cross your path. “Oh!” you exclaim, startled, and take a step backwards. One of the knights notices you. “Why, hello traveller!” He looks you up and down before slapping a gloved hand onto his firm, tasty chest. “I am Sir Brodius of Dudeshire. My compatriots and I are off for an evening of cavorting and gallivanting at the Ye Olde McHebe’s. Care you to join us, fellow countryman?”

If you decide to follow the knight, go to the DOPE ENDING.

If you decide to continue on your path, go to PARAGRAPH 8.


PARAGRAPH 7: Whoa, really? Like, that’s a fucking talking cat. You’re just gonna kill it? You sick bastard; your mother didn’t kiss you goodnight, did she?



PARAGRAPH 8: You shake your head. “I’m sorry, Mister Brodius, but I’m on a quest,” you reply. The knight nods and adjusts his chain mail. “Ah, I understand, young man slash woman. We will think of you, brave traveler, in the midst of our rollicking. Come, gents,” he says to his fellow knights, “let this night be fucking lit!” The knights cheer and like a flash they’re gone, leaving a cloud of Axe™ Body Spray in their wake. You continue on until you come to a fork in the road. On the LEFT, the path is dirty, littered with empty potion bottles and horse shit. It does not seem to end. On the RIGHT, much of the same: discarded bowls of Freshen’s stew and human shit, yet it appears to end at a derelict building. Which path do you take?

If you decide to take the path on the LEFT, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

If you decide to take the path on the RIGHT, go to PARAGRAPH 10.


PARAGRAPH 9: Completely lost, you decide to take the path on the left. The trees look menacing above you, and your little Hofcat looks around cautiously. “Brave knight, I really think you should turn back,” he says, but you are set on going forward for some reason. After a while, crumpled on the sides of the path, are the SKELETONS OF PEASANTS PAST. You think you see one blink its empty eyeholes. Dread bubbles up in your stomach like Mother’s three week-old mashed peas, and you wish the Black Death had just killed you when it had the chance. Suddenly, a skeleton steps in front of you: he is wearing a tattered Attack on Titan cosplay and is clutching a Nerf gun. He aims it at your head and fires.

“Long live Hofstra versus Zombies.”



PARAGRAPH 10: You decide to follow the MAP you have in your satchel (remember that shit? You didn’t think I would bring that up again, did you?) and take the path on the right. A chilled wind blows through your hair and shakes you to your core. After walking along the dirty path, you approach the broken-down building. Scanning the façade carefully, you see it is a SBARRO’S PIZZA. The Hofcat on your shoulder hisses. “Brave knight,” he protests, “this does not feel right!” Ignoring your tiny compadre, you continue on. You kick down the splintery door, and at first, nothing seems out of the ordinary: chairs scattered about, with a lonely stand in the centre of the room. The trays are full of Sbarro’s food, still looking edible. Surrounding the stand are skeletons in various pained-looking positions, which are themselves surrounded by human fecal matter. Hofstra shits. Poor bastards. There’s a loud whoosh, and as you turn, the door behind you slams.

YOU ARE TRAPPED. What do you do?

If you decide to look around, go to PARAGRAPH 11.

If you decide to give up and live on Sbarro’s forever, go to the PUSSY ENDING.


PARAGRAPH 11: You look around. Carefully avoiding the stinky dead Hofstra shit people (because those jokes never die), you glance around the moldy walls in the hopes of finding a way out. Suddenly, you spot a LEVER on the wall. Deciding that well, nothing matters and Death is coming, you pull it, and a part of the wall slides back to reveal and entrance to a CAVE. Your Hofcat is shaking now. You turn and, fearing what lurks ahead, take a SWORD from a gross poop skeleton (now in Items!). Carefully, you enter the cave, because you didn’t take the pussy ending so that means you’re a tough guy, aren’t you? Descending a set of stone steps, you find yourself surrounded by THE BUBBLING PITS OF HOT SMELLY PIZZA GREASE. Careful! One touch and you’re dead: keep moving! You trek on, past more skeletons, pieces of discarded armor and cigarette butts. You turn a corner, and…

Before you, nestled amongst the pits of grease and leftover pizza crusts, is the dragon. He opens one eye. What do you do?

If you decide to fight the dragon, go to the BATTLE.

If you decide to run away, go to the PUSSY ENDING.


BATTLE: The dragon awakens, and boy, is it pissed. You equip your SWORD and hold it out menacingly, before it occurs to you that you have no idea how to use a sword. The dragon rises to its full height and, with a mighty roar, releases a cloud of Froot Loops™ flavored vape smoke, right in your face. You cough: dude, not cool. The dragon is moving slow. You’re certain you could kill it if not for the fucking smoke everywhere. It just keeps…breathing on you. Trying to find a patch of clean air, you spot scales and swing blindly. The dragon lets out a roar of pain, and you think you might have actually damaged that bad boy. The air starts to clear, and you swing again and again. With a final cry, the dragon’s head tumbles to the floor. But your trial is not done, brave homie. Underneath the dragon’s head is none other than RENOWNED CHEF, BOBBY FLAY. You now have to, quite literally, beat Bobby Flay, just like on his new show, Beat Bobby Flay, hosted by chef Bobby Flay, airing only on Food Network Thursdays at 10, after Food: Fact or Fiction with Michael McKean. This is worse than the dragon. You look around in a panic for something to use to defeat him with, but all you find is a PRE-MADE SBARRO PIZZA CRUST and a CHAMBER POT. He laughs in your face. Do you admit defeat?

If you decide that Bobby Flay is a fucking piece of human garbage that deserves to lose in his own dungeon, go to the FINAL BOSS.

If you decide to admit defeat, go to the PUSSY ENDING.


FINAL BOSS: By combing the PRE-MADE SBARRO’S PIZZA CRUST and the CHAMBER POT, you are able to create SBARRO’S PIZZA! Bobby Flay, shocked that you were able to so accurately make the best pizza on the island, uses the dragon’s head and creates DRAGON FLAMBÉ! He laughs at you again, the smug bastard, and you stab him in the chest.

Bobby Flay is defeated! You eat the Sbarro’s Pizza and rejoice!



PUSSY ENDING: Really? You’re just gonna give up just like that? What the fuck? Look around! Explore, adventure—fight! That’s what the point of this fucking thing is! Why do you think I spent days writing this? So that you could give up? Fuck no!

What? You still wanna give up? Fine. I hope you’re happy not doing anything fun ever, you piece of shit. Go back to your Tumblr blog.



DOPE ENDING: You nod firmly and follow close behind the knight. He leads you down the street to a dirty building (even though really, in retrospect, all buildings in 1420 were fucking filthy, but that’s putting the cart before the horse). The tacked up wooden sign on the door reads: “Ye Olde McHebe’s. Two shots $38.” You hear the thudding of bass inside, and enter to find swarms of underage peasants, grinding up against each other like they’re trying to fuse together. “Hallowéd be the name of McHebe’s!” one shouts, clearly having imbibed copious amounts of mead. The wasted young sir staggers out of the pub, and you want to get that crunk yourself. You raise a Ye Olde shot glass and scream to the heavens:

“I’m ready to get fucked up! Who wants to blow me?”