blackcomedy

LMBAO!!! This #thanksgiving some of your #family members are bound to throw some #shade at you. Be sharp and ready to #thanksgivingclapback This hashtag has me SCREAMING! LOL 😂😂😂😂 #lol #lmao #funny #hilarious #laugh #laughing #holiday #black #blackhumour #comedy #blackcomedy #tea #sippingtea (at Mariogodiva.com)

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So, I'm a copywriter.

I started my new job this week. I should have started last week, but if you don’t demand another five days to get your affairs in order, they’ll think you have no worth.

It’s all part of the workplace game. I think the tactics involved in negotiating the shameful world of gainful employment are the only thing stopping the masses from getting a job. This complex strategy - juggling a deity-like reverence from every new human you meet with suckling the teat of ‘The Boss’, until His milky-white cash sloshes out of your mouth and speckles your wallet with the faintest of cloudy stains - is just too much for the average man’s identity. The identity of being sometimes white but always stupid. Whatever you do: Don’t blame them. Every aspect of a 9-to-5 is mentally taxing. Finding it, applying for it, getting it, turning up late for it, doing it badly, getting fired from it and then spending weeks trying to link the company’s name with the word 'Cunt’ on Google searches is a process at odds to the effort, care and lifestyle hygiene issues of the common chap. Nor is the reason for the 2.6 million sofas being used to masturbate to guests on daytime TV shows due to a shitty operation at the top. These power men and women can’t help but mould jobs from the dungheap of an Ass’s ass waste, buckling under so many asses on top. They can’t help it because they’re assholes. Assholes do as an assholes does; shit. It’s crap, it stinks and time has taught us it’s always worse in Germany. I think what I’m saying is that we’re one step away from Germany. War, obscene pornography and a steadfast determination to win at everything (such as 'Who can start the most World Wars?’ and 'Who can have the most porn films featuring one or more people defecating?) Sometimes I think there are two sides to the world; the horrible people who control it, and the horrible people who have to decide whether to play ball. And I’m the referee. But I don’t know the rules of the game and everyone’s shouting at me. It’s a vicious circle. If there were some justice in said vicious circle, I could analogise with an anti-rape device. But there isn’t, so I can’t. Either way, I hate rapists.

Sorry… it’s been a tough week. I thought waking up at all was horrible. Try it in the morning. Cold, bleak light refracted directly into your eyes by every reflective surface in your room. Torture. Sunshine boarding.

So, I started my job this week. I was supposed to turn up on Monday, but everyone starts on Mondays. So they said, “What about Tuesday?” but if they think I’m starting on the same day as all those pretentious wankers who refuse to start on a Monday… they can think again. Wednesday for me… and nobody else. I could hear the mutters of my fellow copywriters when I swanned in on the Wednesday morning. “What’s so special about this guy?” “Look at his belt!” (It was just a standard black belt, but I wore it like nobody else. Inside out and around my hairline) “He’s starting today? But today’s a Wednesday… [impressed silence] …Wow.” As the mutters gathered pace until the whole room was abuzz with the exclaim of newness, I shifted my weight to my heels and span round, ensuring every last eye was on me, and fell to one knee with two pairs of gun-fingers pointed at myself. “Copywrite…” I turned my digit’s aim at my colleagues. “Copywrong.” A small, self-assured laugh and I was up, on my way to the kitchen, to start writing my name on the tastiest food.

Maybe this job will be good for me. It’ll make a change from the freelance gigs I’ve had to fill my time with. A gentleman named Oliver asked me to do a stand-up comedy routine on geography for a group of Somerset-based professors. Armed with my wits, my tits and Weston the Super Mare (see below) I bowled in with confidence of Third Reich proportions. Turns out Oli said geology. To their credit, a room full of rock experts gave 15 straight minutes of horse-based-location-jokes some solid, if confused, laughter. Already in their happy place of comedy, this stellar group’s highlight was a throwaway line I used in a setup - “…I left no stone unturned…” - which they seized upon as the only tenuously-linked geology reference and brought the house down with. Despite the negatives, I’m fairly sure I’m the only stand-up comedian to have ever ended a set with roaring applause from a sentence that was devoid of any humour. Oh, apart from Michael McKintyre. Still, it’s never a nag to get paid a pony, even if KFC is only ahead of suicide in the 'what to do tonight?’ stakes by a nose. Don’t worry, I’m only horsing around. Etcetera. 

I did make a friend at the office. Heimlich. He liked my quip regarding walking down Fleet Street… something like, “I haven’t seen so many pricks suited up since I put a condom on in a hall of mirrors…” but I wasn’t even talking to him. I caught my reflection in a toaster and decided to give my ears a break from everybody else. Heimlich seems quite attached to me already. I told him about one of my ideas - a feature film named Blade. A gritty, rollerblade musical. I was worried about confusion with the similarly-titled vampire flick, but Wesley Snipes made the mistake of being a rich black man and not tickling the white man’s balls when deepthroating their miniature rod of steel. The system has him now, surrounded by garlic, and I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want. Heimlich seemed quite enamoured with me, to the point where our entire future friendship flashed before my eyes. A sort-of cut-price Robin lackey, he’ll blindly follow me. I can see that. It’ll be useful, because perhaps it’ll be down to me and him for a promotion, or a sacking. That’s when I’ll whisper the secret about Blade - it’s actually going to be set on a beach, and everyone’s wearing ice skates. It’s a think piece. Doubtless, this would send Heimlich temporarily insane as all he’d want is that level of understanding where he could begin to ruminate about it. This admittance of inferiority would probably compound his misery, letting me get my way. As usual. I do have the inkling that, if this were the case, Heimlich’s infatuation might lead him to view me as some kind of messiah. I’d have to eventually get rid of him, of course. It’d probably be a meet in a wooded area, ending in me me taping him to a tree with three key ingredients - a look on his face screaming, “Save me,” a stomach tree-bark-struggling-graze suggesting, “Help me,” and a sign on his back reading, “Fuck me,” in large, black, permanent marker.

I was a genius once, you know. They wanted to move me up in primary school. From year 3 to Headmaster. I don’t know what went wrong. Sometimes I think back to the time I was ill, and I blew out my nose a large, thick chunk of bloody sinew. Half mucus, half undeterminable and wholly disgusting, I often ponder - was this, whatever it was, the secret key to my intelligence? Did expelling this nose-object make me stupid? Then I think… I just questioned whether expelling an object from my nose made me stupid. If it didn’t, it doesn’t matter.

Because something has.


Best, 
Ronnie James Jones.



P.S. Sorry it’s taken so long for another post. I used up all the words I knew in the last one, so I had to find some more. I’m such a lexiconical sycophant. 

vimeo

The Euthanizer (2009)

Colin O'Donoghue short film

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#badasskids #vine #funny #blackranked #blackcomedy #BRUH

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So, I'm a writer.

I have a degree in scriptwriting. I write scripts. Shorts (comedies, pathological horrors), half-hour comedy pilots, low-budget features. I write prose; a short novel (pathological horror). In three weeks I’m starting as a copywriter in London, based on my abilities to massage The Rich Man’s brain with colloquial, authoritative, persuasive writing. Syrup.

I mean, I’ve never been paid for anything I’ve written. That would make me a successful writer. My scripts float around on a wave of belly-laughs and confusion, the proletariat grasping for the ring buoy of meaning with laughable futility. Sucked in by the ocean of narrow thinking, watched from the shore with a strange, pleasant sadness. Their balls tickled by the sharks of inevitable mental staticity borne out of lifetimes of circular living; intellectually, socially, artistically. Or vaginas, whatever.

I see knee-slapping. I hear laughter. The best kind of chemicals flood my brain. Well done, Ronnie. Mission accomplished. But with the aroma of serenity comes the faintest whiff of mental doom; a stench that abruptly sours with the cessation of laughter. Laughter sucked into the black hole of sudden and unexpected majesty with such existence-shattering force that it makes the time they watched their cousin get undressed through a crack in the door seem like bacon and fucking eggs.

Their eyes bead across lines of text that won’t translate. Intricate ideas composed over months, years, of intense personal and societal reflection; concepts, lines, dialogue, characters, jokes at a register out of their drowny reach. I sit and watch what happens to their face as my words rape their synapses. No Ronnie James reach-around. I scan their features as they implode in a devastating haze of personal failure. Their eye twitches. Always.

They look up. I brace myself. They part their lips, stuck together at the corners. Saliva buildup? Or the last, subconscious urges of their ego to save face? Your call. Then, right from the bottom of the throat, comes the inevitable gurgle; that precursor sound people make when when they’re using everything they have to focus on the clarity of their words. Because everything else seems too much. They’re on the beach in Milton Keynes.

They speak. Garbled rubbish. It’s a blur. I drift in and out, but at the wrong pace. The only things I pick out are, “Like,” and, “erm.” Maybe the occasional, “You know,” if they were feeling eloquent. When they eventually get their shit together, I zone in to hear the gushing compliments.

Nasal snort, “Oh man,” laughter, cough, content sigh, “that bit when,” eyes closed, wheezy laughter, “that guy bottled that dog.” Pause. “I haven’t laughed like that since the woman who purposely got pregnant from my seed to extort money from me died the week after it happened.”

Then their smile secedes. Maybe a tongue onto a dry lower lip, definitely an intake of breath with a side of cold, hard, finger raising. “But, like, why does the rain brigade dance the fertility conga of Pulitzer?” If their right eye tightens, so will the right corner of their mouth. “When the Holy Spirit absorbs the antagonist’s sister-in-law, where do the ducks go?” A nasal flare, setting free a coiled jet-black hair. I make sure I wear my glasses. “Exactly who is Clive?” I realise I’m sitting, staring and not saying anything. Every time.

An awkward silence. For them. I sit and stare as their shame fills the room. I contain myself to the best of my abilities. Usually, I stand up and walk to the door. Sometimes I take stuff. Needless to say, I don’t speak. The atmosphere already says too much. I storm out and slam the door. Then I get the bus home.



I’m in the boat, wishing desperately I could save them. But I can’t. And the people from the shore wave to me and I wave back, not really reassured that everything will be alright.


Best,
Ronnie James Jones.


P.S. Yes, I was named after Ronnie James Dio. It was the last contribution to my life that my asshole father made. Most likely better than his first. He went out on a high, [my] mother fucker.

Day 6: favorite comedy.
X
I had to go with Heathers for this one because, again, it’s one of my favorite movies ever. I feel like a lot of people have never seen this, but everyone should. It’s a very dark comedy and it’s just perfect in every way. I don’t want to give too much away in case someone wants to watch it. But Veronica is the queen of sarcasm and JD is far too easy to fall in love with despite his flaws [I mean, Christian Slater was gorgeous, come on]. It’s just great, dark, satire. Go watch it if you haven’t. It’s basically like if Mean Girls had Cady and Aaron teamed up to get revenge on Regina by killing her instead. #heathers #30daychallenge #comedy #movies #blackcomedy #fuckmegentlywithachainsaw #thatsarealquotefromthismovie

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7

Lucifer Season 1 Episode 11

“St. Lucifer” (SPOILER ALERT)  Chloe wakes up in Lucifer’s bed. Lucifer tells her they didn’t have sex. Chloe is amazed. Lucifer says he got a rush by not doing what he really wanted to do which was sleep with Chloe. Maze and Lucifer have words. Lucifer shows up at a crime scene with a pair of panties, but they don’t belong to Chloe. The deceased is Tim Dunlear, the head of Dunlear Foundation. Chloe questions a witness. Lucifer questions whether the deceased got a high when he did something good. Malcolm handcuffs Dan to a pole in a basement somewhere. Dan doesn’t want Malcolm to kill Lucifer. He tells him that he’s going to set Dan up for Lucifer’s murder. Lucifer and Chloe question Tim’s wife. Lucifer offers to hold the upcoming fundraiser at the Lux. Lucifer is thrilled to be doing something good again, but tells Chloe he’s not feeling the same rush as he did when he opted not to take advantage of Chloe. Lucifer visits with Dr. Martin to talk about the high he’s getting from doing good deeds, which started with him choosing not to sleep with Chloe. Dr. Martin deduces that Lucifer is concerned about his image, but warns that doing good needs to be genuine. Lucifer and Chloe is questioning someone who pawned an item of Tim Dunlear’s. Lucifer decides to give the homeless guy the shirt off his back. He then realizes that his nice shirt will look like crap with the guy’s pants and gives him his pants as well. Chloe turns around just to see him be all nude after giving all of his clothes to the homeless guy. Chloe refuses to let him get into her car. Lucifer’s found some new clothes and they question Mrs. Dunlear again. Will Fleming is a counselor for the family and wants to kick the cops out. Lucifer talks to Vanessa while Chloe questions the lawyer. Lucifer questions the boy again. He becomes a suspect, but she decides to questions him some more. Chloe gives the lowdown on what he learned from the orphan boy. Vanessa asked Lucifer to haKve lunch with high society ladies or golden donors of the foundation on her behalf. They spill all their secrets to him. Lucifer does a good job talking. Chloe tries talking to some women, but fails. In order to get what he wants, he decides to sing a few songs. The ladies go crazy. As Lucifer is singing, Chloe is watching the only male in the room -  Kyle. He blows up at Lucifer’s singing claiming that everyone should be sad. This peaks both of their interests and they take off after him. Kyle admits that he and Tim had an affair. Turns out Tim was gay. Chloe asks questions about Vanessa and Tim’s marriage which was kept together for appearance’s sake. He shares a photo he got from Tim right before he died. Malcolm is still on an eating binge. He’s in the basement talking to Dan, telling him about his death experience. Dan tells him he needs help, then kicks at him. Malcolm picks up his fallen food, and Dan hides the knife that fell under his boot. Chloe is watching the video from Kyle’s phone. Will Fleming visits. Chloe tells him about his suspicions about Vanessa. Fleming warns her about pushing too far. At the Lux, Chloe is telling Lucifer about her run in with Fleming.Chloe wants Lucifer to get someone to talk using his special skills. Chloe tells Lucifer she misses the old Lucifer that still had bad in him. She doesn’t like the new, St. Lucifer. Maze interrupts Amenadiel’s dinner at a restaurant. She decides to join him for dinner. She is upset that his plan didn’t get Lucifer to go back to Hell. Amenadiel figures out why Maze is there…she’s looking for friendship. They go back and forth. She tells him how boring he is. Amenadiel tells Maze about a story of the goat which he started. Kyle helps Chloe out by looking at files and calendars of Tim’s travel. Chloe visits Will Fleming again. Tries to use Lucifer’s look into my eyes trick to gather information. Doesn’t work, but she does tell him about what he discovered about Vanessa opening up a dummy school. Fleming finds it hard to believe. Dan is trying to cut himself out of the binding. He succeeds and breaks through the door keeping him captive. Lucifer is getting ready at the Lux. Malcolm shows up with a gun. Tells him he’s going to murder him, why, and who. Lucifer decides to scare him by revealing his true self, but Malcolm isn’t affected. Lucifer tells him Amenadiel duped him. He pulls out his Pentecostal coin, a subway token for the damned to get him back to Hell. He tells Malcolm he can use it to get out of hell as well. Malcolm takes it, though Lucifer seems somewhat disturbed that it’s gone. Maze and Amenadiel are having sex in a car in an empty parking lot. Vanessa visits Lucifer at the club. Lucifer is really bothered he doesn’t have the coin. Lucifer figures out Vanessa killed Tim. Vanessa pulls a gun and shoots Lucifer. Dan shows up at the club and goes into the private room where Lucifer is lying dead on the floor. Much to his surprise though, Lucifer wakes up, with no bullet holes or blood. Dan tells him he came to stop Malcolm from shooting him. Lucifer leaves to attend the gala downstairs. Vanessa is surprised to see Lucifer. He takes the stand and reveals the killer. Chloe details all the accusations against her. He gets a rush whenever he does something good for Chloe, but it’s not as intense when it’s for someone else. At the bar, Maze has a drink with Lucifer. Maze tells him she slept with Amenadiel. He tells her about the assassination attempt. He questions why sometimes he’s immortal and sometimes he’s not. Then the light bulb goes off and he realizes it has to do with Chloe. Lucifer goes to Chloe’s place. She’s happy to see him.  She tells him that he makes her vulnerable and he tells her that she does the same to him.

Pandism | Pittaya Werasakwong.

Pặc, xoạt, xoẹt, honey!, pọt ❤️…Cuốn comic của hoạ sĩ truyện tranh người Thái tui tình cờ tìm thấy tại một shop bán tee ở Terminal 21. Biết danh dân Thái hài hước, bựa vô đối qua phim quảng cáo, các mùa giải thưởng [sáng tạo], chuẩn bị tư tưởng rồi đó mà vẫn bật ngửa, ngả nghiêng xiểng liểng với cái truyện này.

Lối vẽ có thể không trau chuốt, giống như vẽ nháp, nhưng cốt truyện, các tình tiết này nọ, rồi kết thúc có thể nói deep vãi chưởng (Adele không lăn vào được luôn). Hài nhưng mà là dạng hài đen, bạo lực + tục tục. Pandism đã thắng giải đồng ở International Manga Awards 2014. Đọc cũng vui, coi artist Thái tay chân thế nào, họ suy nghĩ ra sao.

P.S:

mua combo Pandism với cuốn nữa size nhỏ sẽ rẻ hơn, tiết kiệm được một ít $ ăn bạch tuộc nướng 😝. cuốn nhỏ giới thiệu tee, mỗi tee là một câu chuyện, vẽ bởi nhiều hoạ sĩ.

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This bitch empty… YEET!!! #yeet #Yeetmovement #highschool #hallway #blackcomedy #hoodcomedy #thisbitchempty #hilarious #funny

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