Magicians, Inventors, Assassins & Madmen #11

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Downfall at the Movies: Noah

Knife in hand, the grizzled patriarch advances upon a tearful young mother. She's his adoptive daughter, minutes from giving birth to twin girls of her own, but there's no time for maternal joy. Instead, she is left to plead with her father, first for the lives of her children, then, in a final act of desperation, to make their deaths as quick as possible.

Such is the tone of Noah, the harsh, bleak fantasy epic from director Darren Aronofsky. Calling this a 'fantasy' may give the wrong impression -- though set in a world with lumbering stone giants, multitudes of mythological creatures and many a clash of swords, this is no place for hobbits. Aronofsky's world is a blasted wasteland without rain, plants or, at a glance, much in the way of optimism.

Russel Crowe is the titular Noah, a stoic shaman by trade, warrior by necessity. He defends his wife and children from roving bands of marauders, who seem ravenously delighted to kill anything they stumble across. There's an implication of cannibalism occurring in the background, and though none of Noah's family is subjected to such a grisly fate, they ultimately fare little better. This is a universe set in motion by The Creator, an unseen force which communicates to Noah only through dreams. The single message is brief and grim: Humanity is out of time. The end is coming.

Assisted by a battalion of six-armed rock giants called Watchers, Noah proceeds to construct a massive ship which will -- thanks to internal architecture that changes as the film requires -- protect the 'innocent' animals against an impending global flood. Humans will be left to drown, presumably because Noah is the only man familiar with the concept of flotation devices.

Complications ensue. Tubal-Cain (Ray Winstone, swaggering through a variant of his turn in Beowulf) arrives to claim Noah's 'ark' for the sake of his own people. Noah's son, starved for affection, hopes to find a wife among them. Methuselah, played by Anthony Hopkins in the film's single point of good humor, searches relentlessly for the world's last crop of berries.

When the flood finally comes, it's a gloomy business. Noah and his family huddle in the ark, lashed by the desperate screams of those left to the storm. Convinced that The Creator intends humanity to perish completely, Noah refuses to rescue the survivors, instead outlining the burial procedure his family will follow as they die of old age. In a last-ditch attempt to lighten the mood, Noah relates The Creator's crafting of the universe, but no one seems especially uplifted.

Though directed with Aronofsky's signature visual magnificence, the story suffers for the inclusion of the horrifying Creator. This is a character apparently capable of constructing an entire universe, yet cannot find an alternative to  the wholesale slaughter of men, women and children. Noah begins as a loving father, but is ultimately forced to murder dozens of people, very nearly including his daughter's newborn infants. His motivation is murky; The Creator is implied to have begun as a benevolent overseer, but now seems to be looking at his villainous fantasy peers in the rearview mirror. Sure, Sauron and Voldemort wanted to rule the world, but The Creator is far happier destroying it.

Logistical issues abound. Why does The Creator refuse to help the beings he invented? Why does Noah continue to serve a master so eager to murder an entire population of sentient creatures? How can two of each animal (birds, insects, and elephants all fit into the ark without difficulty) repopulate their respective species? Noah faces the same issue when, after a change of heart, he decides his family should 'be fruitful and multiply'. This is a bit of a head-scratcher. Counting Naameh and Ila (Jennifer Connelly and Emma Watson), as well as Ila's daughters, humans are left with a grand total of four females. Noah has a few sons, but this doesn't solve the tiny, insignificant issue of catastrophic genetic overlap, and it's unlikely The Creator will be of much assistance.

Aronofsky has made an interesting and challenging film, but one so harsh and joyless that, regardless of an open ending, a franchise seems unlikely. Despite its PG-13 rating, this is a violent story that frequently plunges into scenes of nasty, gruesome violence. Even the dystopian world of The Hunger Games allowed some room for hope and laughter, but with The Creator still looming over the freshly-washed 'new world', the future looks dark for Noah's cross-eyed, inbred descendants.

A Skeptical God

There's a trend among the divine to avoid direct conversations. It's no secret that we've historically been a theatrical bunch, prone to convoluted schemes, esoteric reasoning and (admittedly) some pretty self-contradictory logic. That's why, when invited to speak with the Big G himself, I was already bracing myself for an excess of meaningless small talk. No matter how much I might pride myself on being a diligent fellow with an eye for the details, experience has taught me that it's unrealistic to expect straight answers from a top-tier deity.

Color me impressed. One doesn't expect God to be a plain-spoken fellow, somber and thoughtful in his reasoning, but that's exactly who I sat down to coffee with on a rainy Tuesday.

"Big fan," God tells me, shaking my hand in a firm, reassuring grip. "I've got some messengers of my own, but they don't have the swagger to pull off winged sandals."

"It's a classic look," I laugh, still a little taken aback. I've never met God in person. He usually hangs around the higher dimensions, inaccessible to a lower-level deity like me. I have, however, read His Bible, and it's grim stuff. I didn't expect the fellow who wrote abut drowning a planet full of sentient beings to be so…well, nice.

"How's Zeus these days?" God inquires. "We used to close down the bars, back in the non-material, pre-universal era. I knew his dad, of course, but obviously we don't talk about Cronus anymore."

"Same as always," I assure him. "If it's not rude of me, could we --"

"Start the interview," agrees God. "Best to get business out of the way, I completely agree. What would you like to know?"

I check my notes. "I was hoping you might clear up some ambiguity regarding the universe. A few of the other high-level gods claim they're responsible for existence, rather than you. Any comments?"

"I've answered this before," says God, but with a smile. "Any one deity claiming responsibility for reality is asking for trouble. You can't view existence in such black-and-white terms. Reality is a gradient, not a fact. Does that help?"

"Er," I say, checking my notes again. I had something for this, but God carries on without waiting for a reply.

"Let's get to the real issue," He says, folding His hands in His omnipresent lap. "We deities mustn't shoehorn ourselves into a single perception of reality, or a non-perception of sub-reality. Our perspectives have to be broader. Otherwise, we start running into the sorts of logical irregularities you were hoping to confront today. Oh yes, I'm well aware of it," He says, nodding. "This so called 'Problem of Humanity'."

I clear my throat. "Well, as long as we're on the subject, have you any thoughts on humanity?"

"Yes," says God. "I don't believe in them."

There's a little pause.

"Sorry?" I say, taken aback. "You don't believe in humanity?"

"Correct," says God. "I know you're not omniscient, Hermes, so take my word for it -- humanity doesn't exist. They're a myth. A fairy tale invented by deities so we won't have to feel so vast and limitless. If there really were some sort of mortal race with transcendent, eternal souls, don't you think I would have noticed?"

"I suppose," I admit. "But what about those gods who say that belief in humanity isn't an absolute? That it requires faith? Even some of the omniscient gods are willing to entertain the notion that humanity may exist in a reality outside our perception."

"Preposterous," scoffs God. "I am omniscient, and I don't believe tripe like that. Are you going to take Allah's word over mine?"

"Actually, some folks have been whispering that you and Allah are one and the same," I offer, trying not to sound meek. (I've heard through the theological grapevine that God isn't a fan of this conjecture.) "The same has been said for Vishnu. And for the record, Vishnu told me that nearly ninety percent of all deities believe in humanity."

"Vishnu." God rolls His eyes. "Blue-skinned boob. Never trust a guy with extra arms. In any case, no, I don't believe in humanity. And I don't care how many other gods believe in them -- everyone could be wrong, and it wouldn't change the facts. There's not a shred of logical, scientific evidence for the existence of humanity. I've done the research myself. Has Vishnu examined the laws of physics? I have. Every last atom in every conceivable universe. Don't you think, if humanity existed, I'd have found some evidence?"

"Most likely," I agree. "But -- sorry to circle back -- didn't you say that existence can't be viewed in black-and-white terms? That our perceptions have to be broad? Can't we apply those same requirements to a belief in humanity?"

"Don't be ridiculous. That doesn't even make sense."

"But you said --"

"Move along please, Hermes. No one likes a nag."

I clear my throat. "What about your Bible, then? You wrote that yourself, and it's full of facts about humanity."

"It's full of stories about humanity," God corrects me. "The Bible is a book. Is every book true?"

"Well…no, I suppose not."

"Precisely. The Bible is just a little thing I threw together a few billion years ago. I was bored, and Ganesh had been talking about this idea of mortal beings, so I thought I'd jot down a little story about them. It turned out longer than I planned, but it wasn't bad for a quick scribble. Although --" he leans forward with a secretive grin "-- I never did get around to writing that second draft."

"You were going to revise it?" This is a new one on me. "What would that have included?"

"Massive alterations. The first draft of my Bible is chock full of issues. To be honest, I didn't fully think through the 'Jesus' character, and he wound up a bit unbalanced. And that's not even getting into the way I wrote myself. Ever noticed what a prick I am in the Old Testament?"

"I had not noticed that," I say, keeping my tone neutral.

"Of course not," God chuckles. "Anyway, I'll get around to it one of these millennia. In the meantime, I'd suggest you keep after your interviews and just forget about humanity. We deities have enough to think about without wasting time on fairy tales."

"Fairy tales?" I say, surprised. "But in the book, humanity regards the Bible as the ultimate law. They use it to govern their lives, even to the point of killing each other. Isn't calling it a fairy tale a little…insulting?"

"Hermes, please," interrupts God. "I said I wrote the damned thing. I never said I did a good job."

100 MPS

Deadbolts barred the entrance, but the picketers had nevertheless turned out in force. 'Motley' sprang unavoidably to mind -- young and old thronged together, dressed in a spectrum from hand-tailored suits to intentionally ragged t-shirts. The signs were likewise assorted, some produced on wide-format printers, others slapped together with rubber cement, Magic Markers and rage. Street gangs boasted better coordination, yet could not have dreamt of approaching the magnitude of genuine fury.

Swatches of duct tape outlined the studio's largest window, strapping down a sheet of industrial plastic -- bandages on the ragged wound of a guerrilla culture war. Black graffiti slashed the sidewalk: SHIT is Not Expression.

Police were arriving, parking directly on the curb, grinding down the painted outrage. Uniforms emerged and took sentry, deflecting the cries of, "Sellouts! Pigs! Don't any of you have children?" with bulletproof reserve. Urban life cycled year after year; guards had ever been the last line in the clash of ideologies.

Volume and tension rose systematically as, at last, the doors opened. A brick hurtled instantly from the thick of picketers -- the evening's first apprehension was a tottering grandmother in a Guy Fawkes mask, shoved bodily into the shadows of a cruiser. Passion erupted as patrons dashed into the studio, determination to view the future beating back fear of the indignant, rioting past.

Canvases hung stark on the walls. Decoration was forgone, refreshments abandoned when threats of arson frightened away the caterers.

True war demands soldiers, but the culture war had rallied the troops available. Not striding, but slinking, the founder of the conflict took a reluctant center-stage.

"Er," he began, conscious of expectant eyes boring through his flimsy resolve. "Er. Yes. Thank you all for coming tonight. I know the situation has gotten a bit -- er -- heated. I frankly never expected this sort of reaction."

Onlookers waited. Canvases loomed behind them, while past the sheet of plastic and duct tape, a quartet of vitriolic middle-schoolers were bundled off toward a future in juvenile hall.

"Well, a lot of you may know how this all got started," continued the slinker. "My residency was about to end, and I was hoping to show the last of my landscapes when I came down with a nasty cold. Herbal tea has always been my friend there, so I made a mug of it. The studio was a little cluttered -- moving day coming up and everything -- and I, er, got it mixed up with my paint. Not much fun to end up with a mouthful of cerulean blue!"

A few generous attendants helped the moment pass with induced laughter. The crowd had an air of adamance, already resolved to be awestruck.

"So there I was. Mouthful of paint, a week of residency left, nothing of interest to show. And…well…" The slinker gave the helpless shrug of a storm-tossed sailor, smashed against the rocks of fate. "I sneezed."

Sprays of color littered the canvases. Paint, just like a sneeze, could be propelled at over one hundred meters per second. The slinker had repeated this process fifteen times and mounted the results in the spartan hole of a gallery. Below the largest canvas was a tiny square of brown paper: "Sneeze Production #11. $2.5 million."

On the neighboring sidewalk, a picketer hefted his sign -- a three-foot, full-color, high-resolution photograph of the Mona Lisa. As the news cameras filmed, a second picketer took precise aim, extended one arm and savaged the photo with a can of fluorescent traffic-paint. The eyes, which watched the slinker wherever he went, vanished behind a haze of luminous pink.

Writers are fond of claiming that the rest is history. While this inevitably becomes true, history itself never rests.

On the sidewalk of Atelier Le Sneeze, the culture war raged and flourished.

Are YOU A Wanker?

Studies show that as many as three out of every five Americans could be a wanker. Are YOU a wanker? Let the Daily Downfall help you with this handy flowchart!

America Unveils New State Mottos

Nearly all of the fifty American states today announced their new mottos. Reasons for the change range from boredom (Nebraska) to most Americans not remembering that the state exists in the first place (Rhode Island). The new state mottos are:

Alaska: Warmer than you'd think! (Not really.)

Arizona: There is no Arizona.

Arkansas: Where inbreeding isn't just acceptable -- it's encouraged.

California: 90% of all Californians become rich celebrities! Honest!

Colorado: Get stoned! Legally! Also we've got mountains, but LEGAL POT!

Delaware: Politically relevant until 1847!

Florida: Because old people and bugs have to live somewhere.

Georgia: Peaches? Or something? Whatever, man.

Hawaii: Two words: Hula girls.

Idaho: Taters, Precious!

Indiana: We got them racin' cars!

Kansas: Over 82,000 square miles and not a hill in sight.

Kentucky: Not actually the home of fried chicken.

Louisiana: Now with slightly less catastrophic flooding!

Maine: Event.

Maryland: We're merry! Get it? Merry-land? No? …Shut up.

Massachusetts: Sabotaging spelling tests since 1775.

Michigan: D-FUCKIN'-TROIT, BITCHES!

Mississippi: Helping Americans count since 1894.

Missouri: Remarkably free of distinguishing features!

Montana: Our sky is bigger than your sky!

Nebraska: Because CORN!!!

Nevada: What happens in Nevada stays in Las Vegas. 

New Hampshire: 50% less British than Old Hampshire.

New Jersey: What exit?

New Mexico: Not entirely desert!

New York: Go back to Jersey, ya moron!

North Carolina: Better than South Carolina.

Ohio: Gozaimasu.

Oklahoma: We've got a musical!

Oregon: Birthplace of trails.

Pennsylvania: Do you like football? Are you a redneck? Come on in!

Rhode Island: Less fun than it looks on Family Guy.

South Carolina: Better than North Carolina.

Tennessee: Not responsible for the Dixie Chicks.

Texas: Guns, oil and religion. What else do you want?

Virginia: Ironically, not for lovers.

Washington: Fewer hipsters than Oregon.

West Virginia: Singlehandedly destroyed North Virginia. 

Wisconsin: Notable for more than cheese!

Wyoming: Wy not?

Alabama legislature claimed that, while they did wish to submit a revised motto, the deadline was missed due to difficulty spelling the word 'incestuous'. Additionally, several states (Vermont, Iowa and Minnesota) opted not to change their mottos, or in the case of Utah, claimed that they were, "Keeping the new one a secret." After some investigation, both North and South Dakota appear to have have vanished altogether.

The Last Caller

OPERATOR: 911 emergency.

VOICE: Listen to me very carefully. In exactly ninety seconds, you will be in a Liam Neeson movie.

OPERATOR: I'm sorry?

VOICE: Eighty-nine seconds. This is your only warning. After this call ends, people will start to die.

OPERATOR: Sir, 911 is for actual emergencies. Prank-calling this number is illegal.

VOICE: Eighty-seven seconds. You're wasting time, Angela.

OPERATOR: I'm -- I'm sorry?

VOICE: Eighty-six. Your name is Angela Morrison. You live on Partridge Street, apartment 2A. And in Eighty-one seconds, you will be in a Liam Neeson movie.

ANGELA: ...This is a joke. Is this Charlie? This is Charlie, isn't it? What have I told you about calling me at work?

VOICE: Charlie is dead. Eighty seconds.

ANGELA: I know it's you, Charlie. This isn't funny. You'll get us both in trouble if you keep doing this. It was cute the first time, but my supervisor gets really angry.

VOICE: You've just received an email. Open it. Seventy-three seconds.

ANGELA: All right, fine. But after I get home tonight we are having a serious -- Jesus Christ!

VOICE: Do I have your attention now, Angela Morrison? Seventy seconds.

ANGLEA: You -- you killed Charlie? Jesus (CENSORED) Christ! Who is this?

VOICE: You'll find out who I am. But only if you precisely follow every one of my instructions. Sixty-five seconds.

ANGELA: All right! All right! Charlie…Jesus...what do you want me to do?

VOICE: You have one minute. After that, you will be in a Liam Neeson movie. Improbable things will happen. There will be gunfire, car chases, and heated dialogue. Do you understand?

ANGELA: I understand!

VOICE: Good. Leave your desk. Go to the supermarket down the street. Purchase a bag of Flamin' Hot Doritos. Fifty-five seconds.

ANGELA: Dor -- Doritos?

VOICE: Flamin' Hot Doritos. Pay attention, Angela. Fifty seconds.

ANGELA: Okay! Okay, I've got it. Flamin' Hot Doritos. Then what?

VOICE: Take the Flamin' Hot Doritos to the corner of Fifth and Lake. Hold them out as traffic passes. When a clown driving a sewage truck stops in front of you, give the Doritos to him. Forty seconds.

ANGELA: A…clown?

VOICE: In a sewage truck. After the clown leaves, proceed to the Starry Skies Bowling Alley. Inside you will find a woman named Frederica. She has three teeth and one glass eye. Frederica will give you a thermos full of Campbell's Chunky Soup. Thirty-two seconds.

ANGELA: Bowling alley. Frederica. Chunky…Soup. I've got it.

VOICE: Eat the entire thermos of soup. Twenty-eight seconds.

ANGELA: Why?

VOICE: I told you, Angela. You're about to be in a Liam Neeson movie. It's important to have a nutritious meal before you confront the darker side of human nature. Twenty-three seconds.

ANGELA: Hang on. What kind of soup?

VOICE: Bacon cheeseburger. Why? Twenty seconds.

ANGELA: I'm a vegetarian.

VOICE: …(CENSORED). Hang on a minute.

ANGELA: I thought I only had twenty seconds?

VOICE: Shut up, I'm texting Frederica. Okay…she says she has Farm Fresh Minestrone. Is that okay? Twelve seconds.

ANGELA: Yeah, I like that one. What do I do after I eat the soup?

VOICE: That's for you to decide, Angela. Are you ready to be in your Liam Neeson movie? Ten seconds.

ANGELA: Wait, what do I have to decide? I don't --

VOICE: Remember what happened to Charlie. Seven seconds.

ANGELA: (CENSORED) Okay! Okay, I'm ready!

VOICE: Very good, Angela. You have five seconds.

ANGELA: Why do I always get the weirdos? 

VOICE: Three seconds.

ANGELA: I (CENSORED) hate the late shift.

VOICE: Two…one…

ANGELA: Poetry was a stupid major. I have to go back to school.

VOICE: Zero. Good luck, Angela.

ANGELA: I don't even like Liam Neeson.

Morning in Motor City

It's a cold, hard day in the Motor City. Wind sweeps down the sidewalk, stealing away the few leaves still clinging to branches. As I follow the crowd, I see pedestrians with steaming cups of coffee -- vendors are passing them out for free, getting in a bit of advertising as they help their neighbors stay warm on this momentous day.

I'm proud to be here, but I can't help feeling like a bit of an intruder. I've never even been to Michigan before, let alone the City of Champions. Old skyscrapers tower above me, while on every street corner, the powerful frames of future buildings stretch skyward. In decades past the frames would have been steel, often poured within the city limits, but nowadays they're built of the 313's patented alloy. It has a fancy technical name, but I like the local color: Blue Rock.

Ahead of me is the stage. The crowds surrounding it are thick and rowdy, but I don't mind; the air tastes like a carnival, and I'm glad to be a part of it. The scent of gyros mixes with espresso, reminding me that I skipped breakfast, but I'm not about to give up such a good view. The show should start any minute. Only a fool would miss this.

When a parade of cars cruises around the corner, the crowd explodes. I clap until my hands sting, watching as the procession parks stage-side. Every one of those cars was manufactured in the revitalized Detroit motor plants. Their engines are one hundred percent Blue Rock -- the roughest, toughest, lightest, cheapest metal on the face of the Earth. But we're not here to celebrate metal, and as the hero of the day mounts the stage, the crowds goes quiet.

Any other mayor would start a speech with, "Ladies and gentlemen," or, "My fellow Americans," or some tired old cliche like that. But this isn't any other mayor, and this isn't any other city. This is Hockeytown, and here, Mayor Jordan Pollock shouts a greeting like he's giving the order to charge: "Let me hear it, Detroit!"

Detroit lets him hear it. I doubt I'll be able to hear anything for a week, but I add my own shouts to the city's voice. Pollock stands there on the stage, arms crossed, nodding. He lets us go on for ninety seconds before holding up both hands for quiet.

"I'm the mayor," he announces, as if anyone needed reminding. "Maybe I'll be dead tomorrow, but I'm the mayor today. That means I've got a job to do. Right now, that job is to thank all of you for making this the best goddamn city in America."

We have to cheer again. Pollock lets us get on with it.

When we're finished, Pollock says, "In the last six years, we've turned this city around. Through hard work, creativity and determination, we've brought Detroit back from the brink of becoming a memory. But it wasn't just hard work, and it wasn't just creativity or determination. It wasn't our cars, or our sports teams, or even the Blue Rock. None of those things would have been possible without the change to our lives that also changed our hearts."

I can feel it coming. I'm not the only one -- the crowd is shifting, getting excited. Everyone knows what's next, and we're all ready for it.

"Detroit had the guts to get rid of the one thing that was holding us back!" shouts Pollock. "The thing that no other city -- no other country on the planet -- was brave enough to throw away. But we did it, and now we are the best there is! That's why today, in front of you all, I'm signing into law the unofficial policy that has brought us such unmatched prosperity!"

All around me, I hear the sound of snaps and zippers. The entire crowd is one giant spring, coiled and ready to release.

"On this day," the man booms, reaching for his own zipper, "I, Jordan Pollock -- your mayor -- do hereby declare Detroit, Michigan to be America's first Pants-Free City!"

No crowd ever cheered like ours. As one, we rip off our pants, trousers, shorts, jeans, cargos, capris, and overalls and hurl them toward the unfinished Blue Rock skyscrapers. I see Pollock's pinstripes join a flapping swarm of denim, cotton, corduroy and suede. The air is frosty, but I don't care. The mayor is right -- when Detroit got rid of pants, they got rid of restraint. Everything became new. A city without pants, we learned, is a city without rules.

It's a city where anything is possible.

I watch my Levis land on a curb, and give them a final salute. I'm just visiting Detroit for the weekend, but…

…I like their style.

Pornographers Seek Reprieve

A heartfelt plea for mercy was heard today, originating from the world's most beloved industry.

"We just need a fighting chance," says professional pornographer Jasper Slick. "In the last three years, porn-profits have dropped nearly ninety-five percent. We're trying our best to keep it up, but I think we might be screwed."

"All of us are doing our best," says Hung Well, South Korean star of more than three thousand hands-on-romances. "We put in long, hard hours, but lately, payouts have been a bit limp."

Hung Well is certainly understating the crisis. Until recently, 'romance documentaries' have been the single most lucrative industry on the planet. In 2010 alone, pornographers listed take-home earnings of over seven-hundred trillion dollars, largely thanks to a partnership with McDonalds.

"We've always been in the business of putting smiles on our customers' faces," says Ron M. Donald, CEO of the fast-food mega-chain. "The creation of the adult-oriented Extra-Happy Meal -- each of which contains both a DVD and a safe, fun and completely hygienic toy! -- was a natural step in what has proved to be an extremely popular direction. We encourage all our customers to have their break today. We guarantee, they'll be lovin' it!"

Donald's optimism aside, the once-giant industry has shriveled noticeably in the cold economy. While various international factors may be to blame, the iconic actress Jenny Biggums has a different view.

"There's only one person to blame," declares Biggums. "Jennifer Lawrence is a menace to every erotica star in the industry! Since she came along, our winters have been totally boned. People are hungry for her games, and we just can't compete -- she's a first-class act." 

Word on the street seems to support Biggums' perspective. Based on random polls on high school and college campuses, nearly all Special Happy Time since 2011 has been dedicated exclusively to the talented young star.

Nevertheless, Biggums and her co-workers are optimistic.

"Sure, things are a bit flat right now," says Biggums, "but I'm absolutely sure we'll bounce back!"

"We just need to catch our breath," promises Well Hung. "In fifteen to twenty minutes, I promise we'll be back for more!"

Elusive Meme Plagues Interwebs

A mysterious hashtag has been flooding every corner of electronic media, causing massive disruption to servers and private accounts.

"We have all our best people working on Operation SOCHI," says Robert Twitter, founder of the internet. "We're confident that we'll soon discover the source of this strange meme, and quickly undo the damage it has caused."

In recent weeks, the SOCHI incident has grown out of control. Television channels have been forced to broadcast near-constant coverage of many bizarre events.

"It's absolutely baffling," says Jane Network, President of Television. "Our best analysts are at a loss to explain why anyone would ride a tiny sled down icy hills at skull-shattering speeds. Not only that, but we've witnessed men and women in flamboyant spandex costumes flailing wildly about in ice-covered arenas. We suspect some sort of astrological influence."

Sixty-star general Jack Warguy has a different opinion.

"It's obviously a Ruskie plot," snarls America's most highly-decorated officer. "CIA analysts have uncovered definitive proof that SOCHI -- actually 'Soviet Operations of Crazily High Importance' -- is a computer-generated simulation meant to distract from an impending Russian invasion! You really think anyone would be crazy enough to voluntarily go flying off a giant snow-hill with some two-by-fours strapped to their boots? Be sensible!"

Forum-users around the internet have been contributing to the attempted unraveling of the SOCHI puzzle without success.

"We're getting close," writes xXLaser_Dragoon_78Xx. "For once, the military is on the right track. 'SOCHI' is definitely an acronym, but we can't decide between 'Sympathetic Otherworldly Creatures of Hairy Identity' or 'Somebody's Obnoxious Concept of a Hungarian Ibis'."

Even as the transmission is investigated, some parents are growing desperate.

"SOCHI is wreaking havoc on my impressionable children!" wails Marie Meddler, professional gossip and mother of twenty-six. "Just yesterday, I went outside to find eleven of my daughters stuck on the roof! They had built a ramp out of snow and ridden a sled down the hill at ninety miles an hour! This has to stop!"

Until the SOCHI puzzle is solved, internet and television will likely continue to show these strange images. While authorities are encouraging caution, we at the Daily Downfall will be outside. This 'snowboarding' thing looks totally rad.

Muslim Official Protests Altered Images

Members of the Muslim community spoke out today, offended by images they claim were, "Drastically altered."

"It's very upsetting," says Muslim Cleric Hudhafah Shamim. "The original images portray a peaceful rally held by a calm, rational gathering of Muslim citizens. This displays the true feelings of Muslims, while the altered versions paint a very different picture."

The altered photo:

And the original:

Such incidents have recently been on the rise. Asked who he believes might be behind this shameful slander, Shamim's response is immediate.

"The militant atheists are on the move," says the Cleric. "They'll stop at nothing to convince the world that Islam encourages violence and chaos. Frankly, I don't see how anyone could believe it."

Internet Intellagince Plummits

A new study has been published, linking internet usage to a drastic decline in intelligence. The bigger issue, however, is that everyone may already be too stupid to understand it.

"People are definitely getting less smart," said some guy, who works at one of those places where guys study things. "We got lots of numbers and graphs and stuff, and they all show that what we think is right."

Asked how this really bad thing happened, the guy shrugs.

"As far as we can tell, the internet is so full of stupid stuff that it's making the peopel who use it stupid too. LOLCats, fifty-page forum wars, and arguments about which Call of Duty game is the best are all contributing factors."

Surproisingly, this guy also thinks he knows where it all started. Began. Somthing like that.

"We've traced the evidence back to the source," says the guy, holding up a graph with a lot of numbers on it. "It looks like veryone started to get super, super dumb when the Hamster Dance came online in the late nineties. It was all donwhill after that."

The guy said a lot more stuff, but most of it was really confusing and hard to right down.

"It's already too late to do anything," he says. "Just keep using YouTube and MemeBase. Pretty soon, everybody will be too dumb to breathe, and the human race will just go extin -- eckstink -- humans will die out. We'll know it's happening when people can't even finish typing a sntbejhbsbBJ:nszX,…...

A Warning

Not in the sense of, "Oh gee, I feel a little bit worse than I did a few minutes ago, maybe I should go eat an apple and get some exercise." This is the real deal. Actual, complete destruction on a subatomic level. The complete severing of all electrical bonds between every atom of your physical body. It will be thorough, and it will be horrifying.

Run along now.

You're still reading, aren't you? What's your problem? Do you not understand the word 'warning'? It was right at the top of this post in big red letters. Right after that was a clear, concise statement that reading this would destroy you, followed by an equally clear statement about what that destruction would entail. And yet, here you are, still reading away. Why is that? Actually, ignore that question. The answer is obvious.

You don't believe the warning, do you? You think this is just another screwball page on the internet. You don't need to pay a lick of attention to any of this, because it's all just a silly joke. It may, in fact, be some sort of scam. When you get to the end of this text, you'll be instructed to send your banking information to a Nigerian Prince, only to have your life savings stolen by a fourteen-year-old hacker living in Spokane.

Do you think the word 'skeptic' grants you some sort of immunity from destruction? A special pass from the horrible annihilation lurking just around the corner? Well newsflash, smarty-pants:

You're boned. Screwed. Utterly buggered, and nothing you can do will stop that. Your only hope at this point is to stop reading right now and go cower in a closet like the miserable wretch you are.

You haven't done it. You're still here.

All right, fine. Let's say -- just for a second -- that you're right. Reading this won't destroy you. What then? What will you have gained?

You'll be exactly as lukewarm and mediocre as you were before coming here. You won't be special. You won't be a unique, beautiful snowflake. You won't even be brave or impressive for having defied the will of some idiot with a blog, reading on when they told you to leave. It doesn't matter.

Are you STILL reading? Good grief you're persistent. Okay, fine. You know what? This is impressive. Not very, but a little bit. And because of that, you win a prize. A really, really good prize. You, in fact, win the Daily Downfall's 'Pretty Impressive But Not Really All That Great' prize. Scroll down a little. It's waiting for you in the next paragraph.

Ha! Sucker! There is no prize! Now don't you feel stupid? You really believed there'd be something here, didn't you? Well you were 

and now you feel like an idiot!

Hey, wait! Where are you going? Come back! I'm sorry I called you an idiot!

I'm so lonely.

Research Concludes: Everything Will Kill You

After an exhaustive study, researchers at the West Standbrook Department of Lethalogy have released their conclusive results: EVERYTHING will kill you.

"It's a matter of circumstance," says Dr. Malcom Grisly. "We couldn't be certain until the study was complete, but we're now confident that every single thing in the universe, when properly applied, will kill you.

"Consider the humble rock," says Grisly, indicating an ordinary sample of limestone on his desk. "Left to its own devices, it's basically harmless. But propelled at a few hundred miles and hour and aimed at a convenient human skull, that's a guaranteed kill. Same goes for twigs, peanuts, small children. You name it, we can kill something with it."

When asked how he was able to conduct such a thorough study, Grisly credits the university's progressive policies.

"West Standbrook is a groundbreaking institution," says Grisly, himself a former student. "Our work wouldn't have been possible without the Mandatory Science program, which requires student participation in at least three studies every year. It's true that not all the freshmen were happy about being selected for our catapult tests, but I think they'd agree that the collected data was worth the trouble."

Grisly also expresses his gratitude to the community.

"We had an incredible degree of cooperation from many of West Standbook's businesses. Everybody stepped up, from hardware stores to the local zoo. We couldn't have completed our unit on predator-prey relationships without the tigers and hyenas they lent us."

Of special importance are Grisly's conclusions on the less prominent causes of death.

"When we say 'everything', we mean it," Grisly stresses. "Astrology? One of the signs is actually named 'Cancer'. Veganism? Fries your immune system like a microwave. Might as well be called, 'Invitation to any flesh-eating bacteria in the tri-county area-ism'. And don't even get me started on subatomic particles. Let's just say that if you underestimate an electron, you're not long for this Earth."

When asked what steps one might take to avoid untimely demise, Grisly responds with a dry chuckle.

"Forget it. If you're reading this article on a computer, your head will explode from the screen's electromagnetic emissions. If it's on paper, you can enjoy immolation when the page spontaneously combusts. It's basically a lost cause."

Fortunately, Grisly has a solution.

"We haven't arrived at a firm course of action yet, but my department is presently researching a variety of ways to destroy the universe. The end result is the same, but it'll save everyone a lot of hassle. Look forward to our announcement!"

Actual Pathetic People Mad at Shia LaBeouf

"Shia LaBeouf is a miserable poser!" declares Simon Droopy, president of the Coalition of American Losers. He pauses to blow his nose on a somewhat mangy handkerchief before continuing, "Some of us have dedicated years to the craft of being shamelessly pathetic, while others are just beginning to achieve success. We won't sit idly by while some Hollywood sleaze-bag steals our hard-earned spotlight!"

The eponymous 'Hollywood sleaze-bag' is none other than actor (possibly former actor) Shia LaBeouf, who has recently been delighting Yahoo News readers with a rich variety of schaudenfreude-inducing antics. Beginning with a drunk-driving incident during the filming of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, LaBeouf has escalated on insulting costars, directors, and crews of many other projects, securing his status as one of Hollywood's least-liked (and therefore most useful) fixtures.

"I don't know what we'd do without guys like Shia," says Transformers director Michael Bay, nodding enthusiastically. "We rely on people like him to draw attention away from the shockingly poor quality of our films. What else can we do? Make good movies? Please."

Simon Droopy isn't having any of it. "The man is a filthy fraud!" he bellows, banging his fist for emphasis. "He was contractually obligated to make out with Megan Fox, and now he's getting paid to make big-budget porn! What excuse does he have to be unhappy?"

When informed that LaBeouf's newest film (Nymphomaniac, helmed by director Lars Von Trier) isn't technically porn, Droopy only grows angrier.

"Don't bother me with semantics!" he shouts. "The point is that no matter how many paper bags Shia LaBeouf wears over his head, no matter how much he apologizes to people he hasn't met for things he didn't do, he isn't legitimately pathetic! Our Coalition is chock-full of people completely committed to the craft. Shia could never be one of us!"

Droopy may have a point. Originally founded in 1976, the Coalition of American Losers seeks to distill and personify all the most cringe-worthy aspects of American culture. Ranging from introductory members (classified between 'Kind of Lame' and 'What a Douche') to the much-vaunted 'Absolute Human Wreckage', the CAL displays genuine dedication to its goals.

"I haven't showered, shaved, or eaten non-expired food in three weeks," declares Droopy, beaming with watery-eyed pride. "Every inch of my house is chock-full of People magazine issues about the Kardashians, and the only television I watch is Duck Dynasty and Honey Boo Boo. Did I mention I'm illegally squatting in the house?"

Other members of CAL express similar sentiments.

"He's a giant fraud," says Rebecca Lamest. "You expect me to believe that a successful twenty-seven-year-old actor with infinite potential and millions of dollars is pathetic? I had my name legally changed to 'Lamest'! I've lived in a cardboard box for nine years! I've declared bankruptcy four times! What has Shia done? Plagiarized a cartoonist and posted a few dumb things on Twitter? That's amateur hour!"

Even LaBeouf's most recent move -- an art installation where visitors can view him crying and accost him with assorted 'implements' -- fails to impress the CAL.

"It's shoddy workmanship at best," Droopy growls, while Lamest nods her agreement. "For that matter, it's not even original. Joaquin Phoenix pulled the same crap three years ago, and now he's got a movie where he has sex with his phone. At least, I think he does. That's what Her is about, right?"

Whether the Coalition's complaints will gain traction remains to be seen. In the meantime, readers can look forward to learning why, if Shia no longer wishes to be famous, he insists on hurling himself into degrading situations of his own design.

Scientology Receives Coveted Award

The Academy of World Religions held its annual award ceremony Saturday evening, and as always, the star-studded spectacle was a treat to behold. Theological celebrities from around the world arrived in a whirl of splendor and -- owing to Pope's personal attendance -- no small amount of rhinestones.

"Nothing wrong with dressing for an occasion!" chuckled John Paul Benedict Cumberland XXVVII, the reflectivity of whose outfit (a collaboration between Armani, Gucci and the Liberace estate) is reported to have caused several minor traffic accidents. "If we can't let our hair down tonight -- purely in honor the Holy Father, of course -- when can we?"

Muslim Cleric Hudhafah Shamim was of a similar mindset. "This old thing?" he said, referring to the live peacock draped across his shoulders. "Oh, I just threw it on before leaving the hotel. Draws the eye though, wouldn't you agree?"

Members of various religions also entertained onlookers by attempting to convert one another to their opposing faiths. Accounts are still scattered, but Peter Stubsford, multi-trillionaire leader of the Mormon Financial Association, is reputed to have come dangerously close to a change of heart.

"There's just something about those Wiccans," he mused. "I can't put my finger on it, exactly. Must be the power of their rhetoric."

Stubsford's competitor in the debate, Genevieve Oakmoon, was extremely casual regarding her victory. "I've always been persuasive," she agreed. "And, with no offense meant to Stubsford, Wicca simply has…a lot more to offer than Mormonism. Would you excuse me? It's a bit chilly tonight." Oakmoon then excused herself and proceeded into the hall. In traditional custom for modern Wiccans, she and her company were entirely nude.

The highlight of the evening, as always, were the awards themselves. Christianity took home its usual 'Religion With Most Self-Contradictory Scripture', while Islam handily secured the award for 'Least Effective Way to Provide Guidance on Basically Any Subject'. In a surprise turn, Islam was also awarded 'Most Disappointing Afterlife', owing to the fact that -- as most men agreed in a recent Gallup poll -- being granted seventy-two virgins, "Just isn't that appealing, you know?"

The evening's runaway success, however, was Scientology. In addition to the expected awards ('Best New(ish) Religion', 'Religion Most Likely to Become a Major Motion Picture', and 'Best Way to Drive Desperate People into Crippling Debt'), Scientology also received the coveted 'Religion with the Most Batshit Insane Theology / Seriously, How Does Anybody Believe This Crap?'.

"Yeah, we're really proud," said Hollywood mega-star Doug Shooter, one of Scientology's most vocal advocates. "It's not easy to make people believe the kind of stuff we throw at 'em, but we've got the tax-exempt profits to prove it's possible. I can only speak for myself, but my past lives as a clam were pretty enlightening. Without Scientology's guidance, I never would have learned that we're the souls of dead aliens imprisoned on Earth by Darth Vader. Or…shit…fucking Voldemort, or whoever the fuck our allegory for Satan is supposed to be. Don't ask me, I can't understand this shit unless I'm stoned."

When asked to comment on Scientology's rise to stardom, Pope Cumberland and Cleric Hudhafah were noncommittal.

"It's nice that the kids are having fun," said Cumberland, "but Scientology needs a bit more oomph to become a major player in the religious arena. Don't get me wrong, fleecing suckers of their hard-earned money is a great start. I'm just a little skeptical about Scientology's staying power. How is a religion supposed to get any traction if it encourages people to seek enlightenment within themselves? A good religion tells people what's true, not how to find the path to truth."

"It's just a fad," said Hudhafah, adjusting his peacock. "No religion can survive if it isn't beheading, stoning or burning the unfaithful. At the very least, it should have some incredibly restrictive prohibitions about sex. Scientology doesn't cover any of those bases, and to top it off, they haven't got a single crusade or ethnic cleansing to their name. To me, those are the things that really make a religion. I mean, I'm no fan of Christianity, but Jehovah really fucked some people up in the Old Testament. Dude killed the entire world with that Noah's-Ark-Flood-Thing. That's a good day's work, amirite?"

Surprisingly present were a small contingent of atheists and secular humanists. When questioned about their unexpected attendance, the group freely admitted they were gate-crashing.

"We love sneaking into these things," said a cosmologist, who requested to remain nameless. "It's good entertainment value for the money, and those little Catholic wafers are great with salsa."

First Muslim Ever to be Annoyed

In a shocking turn of events, someone has upset a Muslim.

Though difficult to accept, the facts of the matter speak for themselves. On Monday, February 10th, Eric Bobberson of Seattle, Washington made a comment to his girlfriend regarding a coworker named 'Muhammad'. As Bobberson was experiencing difficulties with Muhammad (allegedly over a failure to replace an empty toner cartridge), he was overhead to mention, "Yeah, Muhammad can be a little annoying sometimes."

Unbeknownst to Bobberson, Aahil Ibinalhim, a practicing member of the Islamic faith, happened to overhear the comment. Rising calmly from his seat at a nearby Starbucks patio, Ibinalhim proceeded to politely interrupt the conversation and voice his concern over what he felt, "Could possibly have been an insult to the Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him.)"

Surprised at this unusual display of emotion from a Muslim (traditionally known for their calm demeanor and preference for rational discourse), Bobberson hastened to clarify. With the misunderstanding resolved, Ibinalhim apologized for the intrusion, and invited Bobberson and his girlfriend for a Caramel Flan Latte. Reports indicate that the trio, along with Muhammad, are attending a Taylor Swift concert later this week.

Reaction to the incident has been widespread and, sadly, typical for such situations. While Muslim officials have responded with the patience and understanding characteristic of their community, radical non-religious sects were swift to attack several mosques and Starbucks locations. Police are still investigating a viral video in which a quartet of militant atheists appear to devour Bobberson's cat, Sniffles.

"We've come to expect this sort of behavior from secular humanists," said Police Chief Roger Huffbrook, at a press conference following the eruption of violence. "Studies have repeatedly shown that logical thought and a dedication to rationality can only lead to a life of brutal crime. This particular pack of savages was led by Kirk Cameron, known to have recently relapsed into the militant atheism that plagued his childhood."

Also weighing in on the matter was Pope John Paul Benedict Cumberland XXVVII. Pausing in his distribution of contraceptives and AIDS-awareness pamphlets in a small African village, the Pope mused that, "Humanists are only doing what their beliefs require. Unlike the sensible Christian and Muslim faiths, which demand nothing illogical of their followers, atheists have no choice but to commit these atrocities."

When asked whether he forgives the rationalist-led attacks, the Pope replied, "Well, we must hold them accountable for their actions, but I think it best to grant them a degree of latitude. Their lack of faith doesn't afford them the stability of a nice, reliable god. After all, can you imagine someone using religion to justify violence? The very idea is absurd!"

Scientist Confirms: Bigfoot is a F**king Dick

As readers will doubtless be aware, a rash of unexpected misfortune has recently swept across the Pacific Northwest. Incidents of missing socks have skyrocketed, and misplaced keys, purses and wallets have become similarly problematic. Further, a distressing number of cats have been found with their fur shorn into unacceptably passé styles.

What is the source of this chaos? Why has the standard degree of everyday misfortune increased so drastically, and in such a short duration?

Researchers at the West Standbrook College of Natural Sciences believe they have discovered the answer.

"After much study, and many nights freezing our backsides off in the woods," says Archibald Butterswot, professor of cryptozoology, "my team is relieved to announce our findings. The recent difficulties have been caused by Bigfoot."

The American Sasquatch (often mistaken for a yeti, gorilla, or Zach Galifinikas) has long been known to possess a mischievous streak. The most prominent member of the species is indeed Bigfoot, known for frustrating photographers in his refusal to pose for focused pictures.

"In past decades, Bigfoot has traditionally been content to remain in the forest, avoiding contact with humans," says Butterswot. "However, we've observed a dramatic shift in Bigfoot's typical patterns of behavior. He has become downright obnoxious, and after much study, my team has concluded that Bigfoot is a fucking douche."

When questioned whether this is a reasonable determination for a scientific study, Butterswot is emphatic.

"Science has proven the existence of an objective standard for assholes," says the professor, speaking from his well-funded laboratory on the West Standbrook campus. "We have a preponderance of evidence, ranging from fossil records to specific genetic encoding, that being a dick is simply a biological imperative for many organisms."

While Butterswot's claims are surprising, there does seem to be a great deal of evidence to support his theory.

"In recent weeks, we've observed Bigfoot committing countless incidents of TAB -- Total Asshole Behavior,"says Butterswot. "In addition to hiding socks and harassing house-pets, Bigfoot has also been seen wearing a sideways baseball cap, a Bluetooth headset, and using a stolen Android tablet to stream episodes of Game of Thrones and Orange is the New Black, quickly depleting the monthly data allowance of many suburban households. This alone should illustrate the severity of Bigfoot's condition -- he's such a prick he didn't even bother to steal an iPad."

When asked what can be done about the Sasquatch's behavior, Butterswot only shakes his head.

"Assholes are immune to all forms of criticism and recompense. If history is any indication, we can expect Bigfoot to continue in this vein for the foreseeable future. My advice is to keep your pets indoors and secure your wireless routers. It's reasonable to assume that Bigfoot will soon become as problematic as the Loch Ness Monster, that miserable bitch."