Archive | March, 2015

Internet Campfire Tales: The Novel, A Creepypasta Review

31 Mar

A Creepypasta about literature? Well, isn’t that a… novel idea?


… Man, nobody appreciates my unique comic stylings. Anyway, I think the only other book related Creepypasta we’ve done is… Jason Loves To Read- oh, wow, that’s not doing this story any favors. The Novel! Let’s dig in!


“”Ten years after his sucessful novel, The Missing Ones, Nick Ashburn is releasing his second book. Mr. Ashburn, thank you for you time and congratulaiton on the second novel.””

‘Thank you for you time’? And ‘congratulaiton’? I hope Mr. Ashburn had a better editor than this story does.

“”Ha ha, thank you, Rachel. And please, call me Nick.””

I wonder, does anybody ever do the opposite? ‘No, please, call me by my last name, because I loath you. Entirely. Backwards and forwards. Anyway, on to my book!’

“”Your first book, The Missing Ones, was the best seller at the time. How does it feel to release second book after ten years?””

‘How does it feel to release second book’? I think you accidentally a word there.

“”Kind of nervous, acutally. Everytime I release a book, I feel like a student getting is work reviewed my the teacher. I don’t know what will the readers say.””

Oh for fuck’s sake- ‘Getting is work reviewing my the teacher’?! I’m supposed to be the reviewer, not the fucking editor!

[Editor’s Note: Oh, does that mean it’s my time to shine?]

No. Put the ball gag back on and get in the box.

It’s not a big box, either.

“”Is this a sequel from you last book?””

Sigh. ‘Is this a sequel from you last book’? This is what happens when you let spell reign supreme, people.

“”I guess you can say that.””

You can’t say it well, but you can certainly say it.

“”Could you give us a brief synopsis of the book?””

Or, in other words, read the blurb on the back? Because every book already has that you interviewer idiot.


That’s literally it. It’s all from the point of view of a well. Very moving and emotional, to boot.

“Roy sat down on the couch as Nick brought tea. “Here, have this garden-grown herbal tea I’ve made. It’ll help you be at ease” said Nick”

Yes, let me explain the entire history and backstory of the tea and why I’m giving it to you before you drink it, it was fucking vital.

“”Thank you,” said Roy. Roy tok a sip form the tea”

Oh, fuck you. Now you’re just trying to piss me off.

“”Now, let’s start this from the beginning. What you are saying is, your daughter disappeared ten years ago, and shortly after I released a novel about a girl going missing that had a lot of similarities with your girl’s case?””

Or, you know, this scene could have started at the beginning, and we wouldn’t have to summarize this at all, but this is a Creepypasta, and making sense is something that happens to other people.


My reaction exactly.

“”And you think I wrote based off your girl?””

‘No, I thought you wrote it based off Gone Girl YES OF COURSE I THINK YOU WROTE IT BASED OFF MY GIRL.’

“”As soon as I read the first sentence, I knew. I knew that the girl in the book too much in common with my daughter. Even the apartment complex where the kidnapping happened was almost identical. Didn’t you live in the same apartment as us ten years ago?!””

Oh god, grammar errors and awkward sentence structure. I honestly can’t tell if this is worse than the terrible spelling.

“”Please, calm down. Yes, I lived there ten years ago, but today’s the first time I heard about your girl. And I’m very sorry to hear that.””

We could… you know, give her a name, but no, just calling her “girl” seems to be just peachy.

“Roy got up from the couch, now raising his voice.”

He raised it from a little eight decibel cutie.

“”Please be honest! Our family has been living in hell ever since! My wife is in depression, and I quit my job to look for her in every way possible. Then, I saw your novel, The Missing Ones.“”

Which is the most cliche title for a novel about missing people possible. Somebody needs to be fired for that one. Out of a cannon. At the sun.

“Nick slowly got up from his seat.  “It’s very common to make a movie, drama, or book about children gone missing. Do you know how many kids are going missing every year? It’s over 3000. Now, as I’ve said, I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter, but you can’t really say I wrote about her.””

OH! Oh, okay, it’s over 3000! Everyone from the census, go home! Nick figured it out!

“”B-but the girl in the book! The apartment! The family in grief! For a novel, it’s way too similar to our case! Are you perhaps the witness? Did you see her being taken away by someone?””

For fuck’s- both of these men are idiots. You deserve each other.

“”I told you, I don’t know anything. Writing a novel means being as realistic as possible. Please, this is a simple coincidence. I think you are suffering from paranoia and delusion after the loss of your daughter. I’ll recommend you a good doctor friend of mine, so why don’t you go see-“”


“”…Paranoia? Delusion? BULLSHIT! You wrote that book after witnessing my daughter.””

Or he kidnapped her himself? Why doesn’t that seem to occur to you?

“”P-please, calm down, this is not how-“”

It’s almost as though telling a grieving man he’s paranoid and delusional will piss him off. WHO’DA THUNK IT.


Well, if you read the book, and the book was the exact same, shouldn’t you know?

“”There’s no reason to-” Roy rushed into Nick, and pinned him against the wall. He began to choke Nick. “NO, YOU WEREN’T THE WITNESS. YOU WERE THE CULPRIT. WHERE IS MY GIRL? HUH?” “I can’t breathe… Please, it’s just a novel. And you need you get help.” “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH! I’ll… I’l…”  Roy began to lose grip on Nick, until he lost consciousness.”

Ah, I always love a happy ending. Well, that was The Novel! How was i-

“Roy woke you in a daze. The first thing he noticed was he was in some sort of bathroom, and his was tied up.”


“”What the fuck?!””

Right there with you, pal.

“”Ah, you are awake.””

As much as I wish I wasn’t, right now.

“”Y-you…” “I honestly thought you were going to kill me. Had the drug kicked a moment too late, I would’ve ben dead,” said Nick, soothing this throat.”

Oh, I guess “ben dead” is a thousand times worse than “being dead”?

“”You drugged that tea!””

Yep, with herbal!

… And drugs too, I guess.

“”You know, I was surprised to see someone was still digging around the case that happened ten years ago.””

‘Gosh, couldn’t you grieving families just get over it?’

“”Please… if you are going to kill me, at least tell me where she is…. where’s her body?””

In a middle school science class, like most people’s.

“”Body, no. There’s no body.” said Nick with a smile”

‘Turns out, you never had a daughter! OOoooooh.’

“”Th-then she’s alive? Where is she?””

Making it big on the Hollywood hills!

“”Nah,” said Nick, now with a grin and a tongue sticking out, “I ate her. Slowly, bit by bit, finger to finger… All of her…””

And by “all of her”, you apparently mean “her fingers”.

” “Could you give us a brief synopsis of the book?””

Oh god, we’re looping! I’m not going back, man!

“”Well, it’s about the culprit from the last book discovering cannibals.””

Not cannibalism, mind, just some cannibals. Living in the walls.

“”Wow, sounds scary…””

Not even a little.

“”Yes, you’ll see once you read it. I guess you could say, It’s very realistic…..””

Are we done? Finally? Done? Oh, thank fucking god, hit the goddamn escape pods.

Not to say that The Novel has nothing going for it, mind. The idea isn’t too bad, and the formatting is pretty nice, but my god, does the terrible writing shoot this one through the head.

All in all, it’s one I’m happy to close the book on.


Blue Angel, Is What I Would Name This If I Was Dick

30 Mar

Boom! Sketch day! (I say, as if there is some kind of pre-assigned day for sketches…)cassie

Just having some fun with the blur function, and experimenting with layers. Plus, getting to jot down some story ideas I haven’t gotten to work with yet is always fun!

blooba blooba bloobity future

29 Mar

Hey, here’s an excerpt from an upcoming video review… actually, you know what? You DON’T get an excerpt for an upcoming video review! Hah! How do you feel about THAT?! This one is all secret and stuff! 


Dear Bloodborne

28 Mar

Dear Bloodborne,









visions of the world of tomorrow

27 Mar

Woot! Video review scripts? Don’t mind if I do!

“”The following is based on a true story.” And by that, they mean that Jewish people really do exist.”

“Playing old romance songs during unfitting scenes to establish an uneasy atmosphere? My oh my, Insidious’s evil little ears must be burning.”

“Is there some kind of hat rule in this family? Both the daughters are wearing one! If there was a third one, we’d call it a hat trick.”

“And we have established a broken family dynamic! Houston, we are go for ripping off Amityville Horror.”

“”For real? You’re going to blame this on me?” Yes. I thought the fact that I was blaming this on you made that fairly obvious.”

“What could have… possessed somebody to make this movie? Eh? Eh? Eh– oh, fuck you.”

“Second scariest jack-in-the-box ever.”

“Hah hah, we’re being happy now to juxtapose the horrible things that are going to happen later!”

Diary Of A Body Removal Expert

27 Mar

(You know what I’m in the mood for! Writing a Creepypasta! LET’S ROLL!)

Really? You’re really going to make me tell these stories? Alright, pass me that bottle. I’m not telling these stories till I’m fucking plastered.

Okay, that’s a little better.

First thing’s first: I work as a body removal service. Or, in layman’s terms, I carry corpses. Professionally. If you’ve died, somebody has to carry your body to the morgue, or to the hospital, and it sure as fuck isn’t going to be the cops. We call ourselves the Reapers, if only because it rolls easier off the tongue.

Don’t worry, it’s not nearly as morbid as it sounds. Working with corpses is easy, especially if you don’t know the person. Once they’re dead, it’s a lot easier to see them as just big sacks of meat. Grieving doesn’t start up until long after you’ve already dumped the body bags at the nearest hospital you have a contract with, and by then, it’s not my fucking problem any more, is it?

You notice some things on a job like this.

For one, as far as standard civil servants are concerned, you’re practically invisible. You roll up, in your big black van, in your nice black suits, and you might as well be dead yourself. Everybody knows what you’re here to do, and nobody wants to talk about it. The only people who even slightly react are the cops, and that’s only because they’re relieved that they don’t have to stand around this rotting corpse any more. Fucking pansies.

Next, you start to appreciate the people who actually clean the crime scenes. Death isn’t pretty, and blood stains like you wouldn’t believe. Even the quietest stiff evacuates their bowels when they die, and the worst would have to be the internal bleeders. Sometimes, people would hurting from something they didn’t even know they had, and end up vomiting a thick coating of blood across the room. Projectile. Gallons. It would even hit the ceiling, sometimes. If that happens to you, you do have a pretty good chance of surviving if you can make it to a hospital right the fuck away, but people rarely do. Their first instinct is to clean up the blood they just made. Isn’t that silly? So we’d walk in, and find some poor bastard in a pool of their own blood, with a bottle of dish soap and a sponge clutched in both hands. After a while, you start to appreciate the ones who have the good sense to kill themselves in the bathtub. At least it’s all contained, even if they do end up making human-soup after a while.

And finally, if it was a kid who died, we’d carry the body bag in our laps on the drive back. It’s what we do.

But of course, every job has it’s weird days.


One second.

Refilling my glass.

Okay, I’m back.

The one that I usually stick with at parties is the story of the seven hundred pound man. No, seriously, he broke our damn gurney, he was so fucking heavy. And he lived sixteen floors up. In a building with no elevator. And of course, it was in the middle of summer, and he had been rotting in an attic for all that time. And we had to carry him down. Without dropping him. Down sixteen floors of stairs.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, have you ever seen a water balloon pop before?

The worst days were the ones when the family had found the body. Oh, I’m not talking about your usual weeping widows, you get used to those. No, no, I’m talking about those extended families, where practically everybody in the neighbourhood is related? And of course, they’re all there to pay their “respects”. There’s weeping, sobbing, screaming. Singing, on the weird ones. They throw themselves on the gurney, beside the gurney, perpendicular to the gurney, the whole nine yards. It turns a five minute job into a six hour one, with everybody screaming at you the entire time, like a really depressing rave. You sit through one of those jobs, and you have a headache for weeks.

Except for this one day. We showed up, nodded to the policemen, and headed inside, same as usual. We took the guy, sixty-eight years old, looked Filipino, slid him onto the gurney, and started heading out through the apartment complex.

And the family was there.

And they were all completely silent.

No crying, no screaming, no sobbing, no singing. No teary eyes, no averted glances, no guilty glares- nothing. The exact same looks, across every man, woman, old lady, frowning grandpa, estranged uncles, confused friends- must have been over a hundred, easy. And not just in the grown-ups, either. There were little kids watching us, couldn’t have been more than ten years old, and they were staring just as blankly as everyone else.

Wait. No, I guess “blankly” is an unfair way to put it.

They looked excited.

Like little kids, who couldn’t wait for their turn on the roller-coaster.

I drank like a fucking champ that night.

Years before I had started working there, my boss, Greg, used to do this job solo, and on long nights, he’d tell me of this one call he had gotten. It was about noon, and he had gotten called out to a construction site. Somebody had fallen off, and gravity had taken it’s toll- it’s always messier than it is in movies, by the way. If they’d hit something hard, it was hard to even tell they used to be humans. But this guy was apparently one of the luckier ones- relatively speaking.

When Greg had gotten there, he’d noticed that the cops and ambulance drivers were even more wary then usual- like, waited a good twenty feet away from the body kinda wary. But Greg just shrugged, and went ahead anyway. He walked over to it, flipped it face-up, which is the part of the story where Greg would turn noticeably green in his retelling, and tried to pick it up.

Which is when it started moving.

First, it’s head shot up, shattered jaw flapping in the wind as if it was trying to scream, before swinging it’s shattered arms uselessly, trying to hit Greg. As it did, it’s compound fracture began to tear through the already battered flesh, and the white edge of the bone began to slice out from inside the torn muscle.

That was about when Greg ran.

It calmed down a few moments later, and as Greg and the cops started trying to inspect it, it started up again. But one of the cops- evidently a rookie- panicked, and slammed his nightstick through the body’s barely attached head.

Nobody really had a problem with that.

The coroner’s official diagnosis was that some stray adrenaline and electrical currents had combined, and send the body hog-wild, like a chicken with it’s head cut off. I asked Greg exactly how much truth there is to the story, seeing as we both had a fair amount of rum at this point.

He just smiled, and pointed to our freezers- see, we’re not always able to get the bodies to a morgue right away. Sometimes, we just take them back to our shop and stuff them in our several man-sized freezers to keep them nice and fresh while we run paperwork.

And look at that.

There’s a lock on the outside.

Okay, one more, you get one more fucking story out of me.

Suicides are pretty much the bread and butter in a job like this- god, what a sentence. But it’s true. With a suicide, there’s no crime scene, so once the cops are done, we get to just swoop in and take the mess off their hands. Like morbid superheroes.

It was a normal guy- forty, white, tattoos- and we made it just as the technicians were figuring out all the medication he was on, and which ones he used to off himself. They’d put them into little plastic baggies, just to keep things as morbidly convenient as possible.

We walked in, invisible as always, and Greg leaned down to flip the body over, so he’d be face-up when he was on the gurney. And as he did, he accidentally shifted his shirt.

Revealing that under his shirt, something was carved into his chest.

Words, sentences- English, definitely- and that’s all I could tell for sure before the cops let out a gasp of startled confusion, and immediately picked us up by the scruff of the neck and tossed us out the door. Next thing you know, the entire building was lit up by the crime technicians, and we were told that our services weren’t needed any more.

Weirdest thing is, we never heard of it again. No news stories, no hospitals, nothing.

Greg got a better look at the words than me, and he was practically shaking by the time we got out of there.

I asked him what they said.

He never did tell me.

Heart-attack, a week later.

They made me pick him up.


25 Mar

You know what I need in my life? More dicks!

M- more dick jokes, I mean! Like- like the kind I’d make when I’m making fun of Omegle- OH SHUT UP.


Any girl to help me cum? 😉

Oh, golly gee, you must be super popular with the ladies.

Should I get off here and get back to work

Being on here is work for me! Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

Would you two have sex while I watch? Just try it…

Oh, yeah, because people absolutely can have sex through an internet connection.

Is it weird for 19 and 17 year old sister and brother to sleep together in bed and spoon/hug?


can the domestication of fire be considered a technology?

You’re domesticating fire?! Put a saddle on that bad boy, and call me up!


where is the rap my good sir

That is an excellent question, sir! Strike my chassis, where are gallivanting manners. This lack of the rapalacious break-down is a fine-ass madness!