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.