(Disclaimer: Complete and utter joke, don't take this seriously, tho he does exist in my AU)
MORTAL LIFE
Random Poffle was just a mere poffle, a monster forged by Miliko to be accessories for a fashion line he designed, only to be abandoned by him when he looked upon them in disgust.
After Project Starblast, all monsters at the time gained souls, and many would after being born afterwards, although no one knew what this meant for some...
After he was purchased by a rich Evangelite who wanted one in secret, he was a well-kept secret by his owner's servants, until one day he yipped a little too loud near some Evangelite guards, who found him and killed him. His owner could do nothing, although the oddest thing happened...
DIVINITY
His owner mourned Random Poffle until she purchased another who looked just like him, because it was him, resurrected as a divine, although none except divines would know this.
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Willpower Butch Condemns: Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski
When we enter these halls, we are in the domain of heroes. The honored names of figure skating are inscribed in gold here; they hang over our heads, and they ring in our ears. Scott Uber. Reginald Flechs. Boy Hepititan. And a number of un-macho personages who are better off lost to history. In the past, Manly Men! Magazine has exposed this blight which hides among us in fishnets, parades, and Graham Norton – these villains who deface our national television with their insolent lack of chest hair. Now, we turn our attention to their victims. In attending the National Figure Skating Championships last month, we had hoped to lend our muscle to the many conservative fans of this dying sport -- and to discover why NBC’s commentary had unexpectedly manifested the Apocalypse. What we uncovered there was Sadeian.
A candid of the shocking maltreatment fans were subjected to at the US National Figure Skating Championships, 2017.
Breaking with cultural expectations, NBC have recently hired an ice princess, her magic swan, and their family solicitor to helm prime-time figure skating coverage through next year’s Olympics. Tara Lipinski, gold medalist at those self-same Winter Pageants of 1998, is but the first of these maverick broadcasters if you begin your search at ground-level. Here at the US National Championships, she stands accused of aiding Russia by openly commenting on the skating – a charge that nevertheless pales in comparison to her years as the poster child for the Polish Little Octobrists, during which she bested Condoleezza Rice at extreme winning. Beside her, another voice emerges in the commentating booth out of brimstone and passive-aggressive eyelash crimping. It is that of Johmommy Weir, the Muscovite operative who once assassinated Skate Canada by wearing a rose crown in the Kiss & Cry. He was favored with the US National title three times in a row during the now-infamous “It’s Not Gay If It’s Jailbait” years of 2004 to 2006 and received silver in 2008 after being out-butched in the long program by Lester Obvious. Controversy continued to dog him: he would be expelled from the Vancouver Olympics two years later on suspicion of skating, appearing awake, and blocking everyone’s game on Tanith Belbin. Most recently, he has declared his intent to continue to dress like a female version of Lady Gaga. What further outrageousness could we expect at the Championships?
On the scene to find out was our very own correspondent Paragon Shag, armed against The Gay with carpenter glue and sweat-stained baseball caps. To provide the reader with a full sense of the danger he braved to bring you the following report, it is necessary to elaborate for a moment on the appearance of the so-called “Shimmer Soviet.” True to their name, Tara Lipinski could be seen at the Ladies’ free skate wearing a milkmaid costume from Eurovision 2014 and rehearsing a speech on the decline of western economic values being literalized through the failures of American athletes. Johmommy Weir, who rather resembles Amish Jim Parsons if he was moonlighting as Talia Shire, came dressed for revolution in the ectoplasm of Liberace’s ghost. Partnered with fashion sympathizer Gannon the Terry-ble, the pair regularly disseminate their totalitarian agenda as only they can: by making the skaters fall with their communist mind powers, which were bestowed upon them after bedazzling their headsets with cursed Siberian rhinestones. It was, therefore, in grave terror that our correspondent approached them from above on a sheet rope.
“Fiends!” Paragon Shag shouted, roundhouse-kicking Johmommy Weir’s coffee cup into the stands. He held out his Team America lunch cooler to Lipinski. “Open this if you dare, Satan!”
“She’s on a diet. She’s not eating anything that’s been within five meters of a Costco,” Weir waved him off. “Mommy hates it.” He then pulled out his phone and started dancing to Worldwide Web music while Lipinski threw pink monogrammed streamers at Rafael Arutunian. The pair, who will be co-marrying Todd Kapostasy later this year, had recently obtained permission from him to have a Nathan Chen-themed wedding.
“I’m thinking lace. Like, lots of black lace… and Red Army officers patrolling the grounds on bears to make sure that everyone is having fun,” Lipinski laughed in response to Shag’s query.
Weir, who hasn’t been a sister-wife since getting airplane wasted with Melissa Gregory and Denis Petukhov in 2007, expressed excitement at the scheme. “That’ll go great with Nathan’s seminar on the Leninist virtues of the quad,” he added effusively. “Never mind the three-way kiss; I can’t wait to show him our cake-topper of all his competitors face-planting on the ice.” Regarding Shag’s look of horror, Lipinski elaborated on their sinful arrangement.
“It isn’t just because Todd Kap and I hate the West. We had to try to snatch Johmommy up before Tanith and Charlie got him,” she smiled at her comrade brightly.
“Of course, darling,” he agreed, pecking her cheek. “We share everything. That’s what socialism is all about!” Noticing a small child walk into their proximity, Weir then called out, “I hope you plan on sharing that ice cream with Comrade Johmommy!” But before the girl could answer, Lipinski perfumed her in the face, tearing the treat from the crying child’s hands and passing it to her co-insurgent.
“What?” she glared, shrugging aggressively at Shag. “The live broadcast doesn’t begin until the last two skaters. I can do whatever I want.”
This, ladies and Men, was news to us, for we had never encountered a television schedule before. Hoping to address this fact, Shag took his leave of these villains and next approached NBC’s head of broadcasting, Honcho Deathstar, anonymously in the restroom. Blocking his hand from the door in a bombastically heterosexual way, Shag cornered Mr. Deathstar for a response: “You promised us the Ladies’ free skate would be live, and it isn’t. How do you look your children in the eye?”
“I peer down my nose at them,” he responded. “But the people in the broadcast are alive. The last couple seconds are live – in some places anyway. Isn’t that what matters?”
“But why not show the Ladies’ ‘streams’ on the Internet while you’re airing the Men’s shorts on television?”
Mr. Deathstar paused. “The Internet? That’s where we normally keep Tara and Johnny. I thought it was a gay thing.”
If one fact has become clear to us in the course of the month since this Armageddon began, it is that American figure skating coverage is in a state of crisis. This crisis is led, as most are, by an influx of Eastern Europeans into the prosperity of a post-German techno lifestyle. For all that time necessitates change, figure skating has remained a bastion of culture in this world of gender-bending despair – a dreamland where women still dress like women and men still dress like fox hunters on opiates. This is the legacy that NBC’s Homintern hope to overthrow with their rampant skin care regimen. Therefore, it is evident to me that commentating must return to a golden standard before the sport itself can follow: to an era when every jump was punctuated by prehistoric screams, when the greats of yesteryear recited amateur death poetry while loosely watching the skating, and when the utmost condescension was dispensed to the real pansies who wear glitter and feathers. And, to be sure, when it was all about a snarky old man and lady discussing what the judges of the day were looking for, not a shady young man and lady discussing what the judges of the day are looking for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Admiral Willpower Butch is an esteemed producer of Witnesses on Ice, a five-time Olympic protester, and an avowed opponent of all forms of manscaping. He and the recently-excavated Paragon Shag have released a hip, rad Christian pop single, “Hell-bound in a Birkin Bag,” to commemorate the experience of their first National Championships. Their secretary and low-budget horror gore, The Artist Formerly Known as Prancony Perkins, is an apologist for all things suspected of containing dancercise.
I really need help, this is very serious and I don’t know who else to turn to. I considered the college but they won’t take me seriously, I won’t try my friends, they would laugh and I won’t even think about the Government, For my own reasons.
Anyway, on the night of the 13th of September something happened that has opened my eyes. I haven’t quite slept since, and have felt like I’m being watched for a while now. I’m a photography student, so I like to go out some evenings with my camera to try and get good photos. So with my dslr in hand I went out, I was on my own and took some pretty decent photos. It was getting darker so I decided to start off home; When I turned down the path I was on I was shocked to my very core. There was a figure on the path, it was looking at me. It was about 4 feet tall and brown, I was terrified! It clicked so I threw a rock at it. It scampered off. I’m sure what I saw was not human, I’m thinking it was an alien! I ran home (obviously) to tell my parents about it, I told them everything and they were shocked. They know I’m not a liar so they are finding out for the first time that aliens walk among us, my dad tells me to show him what it looked like pointing to my camera...
I didn’t take a picture; I was scared and shocked so I forgot. My dad tells me either I’m the dumbest photographer in history or a liar. And you know what? My mum agrees! Suddenly I’m left between a rock and a hard place, with the choice of having my parents think I’m bad at my only skill, or that I’m a liar. I stuck to my story and now they think I’m dumb and a liar! My question is, should I go out down the same lane (that I’m not naming for your safety and the creatures) around the same time in order to get a picture of the creature?
Knowing that I’ll be in danger, in order to find it, picture it and prove my skill and honor.
Where do we even start with this? Chances are what you saw wasn’t an alien, maybe a particularly big squirrel? Or a deer? There are plenty of things that are brown and about 4 feet tall. I mean seriously there’s a greater chance that what you saw was an otter rather than an alien. I really don’t think going out to try and get a picture of this thing could hurt (physically). If you expect your parents to respect you but come back with anything less than a picture of an alien, their respect for you will lessen, if anything. You were right not to tell your friends as they would laugh, most people would (including ourselves). You should feel free to tell the college, they would take you seriously… certainly seriously enough to get you counselling, I think?
You won’t find many people who will agree that you saw an extra-terrestrial, but feel free to tell people. It may be fun to live out your life as ‘that guy who thinks he ruined first contact by throwing a rock at an alien’. Chances are if you ever do find what you actually saw it won’t be an alien, just disappointment. But who are we to stop you?
The real truth of the matter is that this is more about your parents than the alien. Just prove your skill by doing well on your photography course, and prove you’re not a liar through being completely honest… Or go out and get the picture, depends on your preference really. We would love feedback on this if you do (or did) go out looking for it. Best of luck
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
