Last Podcast On The Left - Side Stories: Creepypasta XVI - Pigman

Episode Date: October 28, 2021

Marcus joins Ben 'n' Henry to read a slew of Creepypasta stories involving horse-men, Squidward, cryptid love, and MUCH MORE.Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0

A roast as dark as the night, perfect for fueling the cryptid research and mad ravings required for your podcasting. Don't mind the red eyes, he's just trying to warn you of the bridge! The bridge! Finally, from the caffeine-addled brains of Spring Hill Jack Coffee and Last Podcast on the left, we bring you Mothman's Red Eye Blend. Yes, delicious Panama beans, go to lastpodcastmerch.com to order yours today! There's no place to escape to. This is the last podcast on the left.

Side stories! I love your glades. That's when the cannibalism started. Side stories, yes. Yes! And you feel how creepy it is in here? That was scary, man. You know what's creepy about it?

What? I'm not wearing any underwear. Is that weird to say, just out loud? Because I actually, I ran out. You ran out of underwear? Yeah, man, I've been really burning the candle at both ends. I can get you some underwear, dude. No, man.

No, I got whole right on denim right now. I can feel it. It feels like braille. That's the creepiest of all. No, you didn't do bathing suit? You've done bathing suit in the past. You don't have to wear it. It's kind of chilly here.

It is a little chilly. So I didn't want to wear my short shorts. I needed some denim. And I also didn't have underwear. I did, but I had to do yoga in the other pants. With no underwear. That's the scariest story you're going to hear all day. Hey, everyone.

Welcome to a super, super special episode of Side Stories. Marcus has joined. Hey, man! Me and myself! Yay! Yeah, you fucker. Now you're in our realm now, bro. We got you now.

Happy to be here, man. I feel like this is fun. I'm a guest on a show. I'm really happy to be here, guys. Thanks for having me on today. And you're going to get all the Side Stories swag that you could possibly handle. Today we're actually doing bloody ring anal toss. So your asshole, if you don't mind bending over, this is going to be really, really nice.

And we'll throw onion rings towards the hole. Also been working on the Side Stories permanent condom, which is the condom you wear when you're not having sex. Got it. Okay, there you go. It keeps your dick tight. Okay, dick sweater. Honestly, that is one of the biggest complaints I have about getting older is how much looser and longer my penis is getting with age and gravity.

Yeah, it is kind of funny. You used to go to the showers there, the YMCA, you know, when you were a kid. Look at all the old man dongs. I perved on them, see? Because I was the young boy. And I was like, look at that dangler. And I was wondering if it was going to happen to us. But I think it does slowly happen.

The ding dong does get longer. But it doesn't get stronger. No. It loses foundation. It's like building seven. Absolutely. It just slowly loses strength. But today we're doing...

Fun episode. We're back into it. It's a... Macarons. Yes indeed. We're back into the creepy pasta. And guess what, ladies and gentlemen? Gou and ganache.

When it comes in, yes, it is a gooey ganache. That's dessert. Yeah. No blood, goo. Richard Chase, gutting. Ganache is a kind of chocolate. Yes, it's a type of it. Like a glaze.

Well, a ganache can be yes. It's a glaze. I see that's a ganache. I was thinking gnocchi. Gnocchi. Gnocchi. Nifey gnocchi. This is...

I'll tell you what. And we haven't gotten better as hosts over the years. No. I think this is number 14. Is it? Somewhere on there. Maybe 15. I think last one was for it.

I think this is... I think we're at the 15th annual creepypasta extravaganza. And the creepypastas... We sound like Ted Bundy trying to remember how many people he killed. But creepypastas have not necessarily gotten better. No. But that's why we're going to do something a little bit different this time. And maybe there's a little bit more original works inside of this entire mechanism.

This year for creepypastas, what we're doing is we're going to surprise each other by gifting each other. Creepypastas that the other person doesn't know the contents of yet. And I don't think you guys have made it the minefield that I made mine. No. Who knows? I don't think so at all. I think I chose things that I thought you would enjoy reading or that it would be fun

for you to read. We didn't do the Zabrowski Christmas special where it's like you give a gift that's like $15 gift certificate to weight loss. And then you're like, thank you, mom. This is great. No, I've given you... No, Marcus, yours are fun. Okay.

All right. Sounds good. It sounds like a bit of a monkey's paw situation, but let's see what happens. You know, you get what you're asked for. You're creepy. This is creepypasta. It's spooky season, man. It's Sawan week.

Sawan week. Right? It's like a Zabrowski. Henry, that is. Why don't you start us off with a tale submitted to you by Marcus? Well, first of all, before we can even begin our story, do you not even fucking remember what we do on these shows? That's right.

Oh, I'm sorry. You got a good stove, Tom. The ears. The ears that we have spent. But guess what? I don't want you to smoke weed tonight. Whoa. What?

No. Why not? I want you to freebase fucking cocaine. All right? You're not going to be able to listen. You're not going to be able to listen to the episode. Listen, man. It's going to ruin radio.

We have a whole week of Halloween to celebrate, all right? Halloween's on a Sunday. We're not men, cow. We don't want our audience high on cocaine. I think it's important for this issue, because when it comes down to, maybe we're getting sleepy, we've been celebrating Halloween a little bit more hard than we did last year. So what I need you to do is, first of all, go to where the cocaine is, which is where you're going to want to go to your gay nightclub.

Sure. You're going to want to go find a pilot, because they always have cocaine, those types of guys. You're going to want to hang around with girls who sell cigarettes at bars. That doesn't even happen anymore. It does, yeah. In Vegas, yeah. Do you remember? Oh, of course.

Yeah, I used to always sign up for free lighter, free lighter, free cigarettes. Always. And then I still have my old driver's license from back in Texas, so my parents at their house would get just like mountains and mountain of camo light literature. That's great. You never know. I miss the old days in that way, because you used to get mail from cigarettes. I know people that dress solely in Marlboro products and had a kayak.

We had a raft. We had the raft of my family. The closest we went to upstate was Burlington. You know what I mean? Like up in upstate New York. We didn't do fucking anything. But guys, what I want you to do is go up to that cigarette girl and be like, you hold it, you hold it, you hold it.

And a lot of times they do. 99% of the times they have cocaine. But what I'm also going to need you to do here is I'm going to need you to pull out that fentanyl strip. Yes, it is the dental dam of drugs. It is. But you are going to need to test that cocaine for fentanyl first because I don't want anybody dying, right? See, this is why it would have been just easier to tell them to smoke weed.

We've already done it. They know to smoke weed. They actually should already be. So you're assuming they're stone. I'm assuming they're stone. Okay. You get that little packet of fucking, you know, when it's kind of yellow, you get it from the aluminum square.

And you take it out. The only way you can properly do it is behind a 7-Eleven. Okay. And you put the little flame underneath it and it's a little strong. You get the whistle, the little devil whistle. You see the fucking devil faces coming off and going like, fuck it. I want that inside of you. And then now sit and listen to a podcast.

You know what? I'm going to actually make an addendum to that because I'm going to, I think I know how to solve everybody's problems here. What you do before you buy the cocaine, start charging your Bluetooth headphones. Yes. That's a great point. Then after, after you swick-freebase the cocaine, put in your Bluetooth headphones, put your phone in your pocket and now you're able to just fucking wander around as much as you

want. Pace through the room, have fun, ladies and gentlemen. Also, I want to add, be home. Be home. This is a be home episode if you're on cocaine. And it's also what's kind of fun is that you could, or you could take your fucking, especially if you're on cocaine, put the podcast on speaker on your phone, put the speaker inside the bottom of a parking cone.

Sure. Stick your ear up against the hole. It's kind of fun. New way to do it. But I will begin with the selection from dog meat himself. All right. This is called the onerophage. Oh.

Onerophage? Onerophage. Onerophage. Onerophage. It means eater of dreams. Cool art. Oh my God. Let's go.

All right. They had a whole, one word for that. That's great. In the late forties of the last century, after a decade of private research involving experiments with binaural beat brain wave frequencies, excresensory cognition, and rare extracts of a South American vine, Dr. Tomas Rosner perfected a technique whereby one could actually intrude into the psyche and see another's thoughts. Oh my God.

It's called Twitter. I want a thumbs down button. Oh my God. He could find no institution that would even offer to review it. Forced to sell his invention. He found by word of mouth among those through whom he procured narcotics a prospective buyer. The Bette Noir of an old New York family, Mr. John M. Dunne, a voyeuristic connoisseur of the supernatural and the obscene.

Who had squandered his idol youth in the great libraries of Paris. Those skeptic homes depotted authors. That's not squandering your youth. That's hanging out, reading books and stuff and squandering it. Stupid. You should be going to amusement parks. You should be getting away. You should be going to the park.

I just don't know if that's the right message. It's better than jerking off in your mom's basement. Yeah, you are correct. Romagic. Among the hordes of dusty and obsolete works, a literary ghoul who disturbed with profane fingers the charnel houses of decayed philosophies. He readily agreed to the doctor's asking price without handling delighted at the prospect of exploring such a bizarre novelty.

Once adept at the operation of the apparatus, Dunne paid Dr. Restner off and under an assumed name, rented a shabby house within a view of sing-sing prison. In the timeless night, while the convicts fitfully slept, with the aid of a set of stolen blueprints and his new mind-reading device, he raided their memories cell by cell at liberty to savor the forbidden thrill of thefts, molestations, moonlit homicides, and in secret without remorse or consequence. Within a month, the prisoners, telling each other about the nightmares from which they had all began abruptly to awaken, discovered their shared striking similarities.

First, processions of alligators and tortoises, filed through a swamp crowded with faceless people and shrieking orchids. Next, a shadow man, at whom they looked directly but could never quite see, would watch them in utter stillness from an empty house while invisible hands probed behind their eyes as they had to stand naked, legs locked in place, unable to run away. What's happening now? They're compared descriptions of the house while identical, including its location just outside the walls.

By mutual agreement, it was planned that the first of them to receive parole would search this house out, define if it really existed, and investigate the source of their troubling dreams. A few days after being freed, their chosen spy was able to inform them with a smuggled message and code that it only was the house real, but he had broken into it at night and found a gaunt, moustached man, in a silk-smoking jacket, sitted boots upright, head thrust back, both eyes gaping, mouth stick open, in a stiffened gasp, clenched hands gripping the arms of his chair in front of a scientific machine.

Very intriguing, gaping eyes, huh? Gaping eyed, gapes wink at, I handwritten journal on the desk told the whole story of his adentials, prying on constrain through their psyches, plundering the haunted memories of criminal after criminal, seeking ever more shameful and audacious experiences until finally he wrote on July 7th of his overwhelming desire to witness telepathically the next execution in the prison's notorious election chair. Whoa! Yeah!

Ride the lightning! Ride the lightning, indeed! Yes, gaping eyes! Gaping eyes! That's what you get! Runnin' on empty, doctor my eyes are gaping! That's great! Fantastic!

It kind of brings a new feeling to the name Jackson Brown. Jackson Brown, double brown eyes! Full of shit! Do you like Jackson Brown, Marcus? Love Jackson Brown. I love Jackson Brown. Big Jackson Brown, especially as the songwriter. He wrote many of the best songs on Nico's first album on Chelsea Girl.

He wrote Ferris to the Seasons and These Days when he was like 17 years old. Jackson fuckin' Brown? Yeah. Listen to our series on the Velvet Underground on No Dogs in Space for more about Nico and Jackson Brown. And she was 17 and Nico was fuckin' him during the time. Cool. No kidding.

Yeah man, I tell you what, that's the best plug I've seen since Nadia White. There you go, Nadia. Lovin' you, miss you, Nadia, miss you. She's doing fantastic. I think she got to work with Bang Bros or something like that there, which in that world is a big thing. You were pretending like you don't know. You know what I mean?

I don't appreciate that. I actually don't want to. Sometimes I'll stumble upon Nadia, but no, it's just, it's funny when it's a friend there. Yeah, yeah. And that's fun. Yeah, a lot of wires get crossed in there. Yeah.

All right, well Marcus, did you want to go next? Did you want me to go next? Sure, sure, I can go next. I can read, Ben, I can read one of yours. Okay. I can read one. One is a discussion and the other one is the horse. Let's go with the horse.

Okay, because I would like, do you have any direction for me as I go, as I launch into this? Well, all I know is, cool gun, cool gun. Here you go. Here's your gun. It's a prop gun. And you're going to want to use that for the scene. Very good.

Cool gun. Topical. Very good. Topical, topical. Wow. Okay, this is called horse. That horse marks you. You hear the name, more like gnawing, that horses note you.

The horse is the man of the house. You are the horse. Crop, crop. Trap about to your dingy office, little horsey. Your wife kisses her husband, horse when you can't see, and then again when you can. She buys it shoes, finer than any you'll own. It's metal feet crush your soul. This horse is now a man, it exclaims, I am defeated.

You cry. The horses beat you, soon you'll be in the stall, eating dry, bland grasses, while the majestic horse band ferries your wife about, oh, oh, the city folk shall say as they drop to their knees as their muscles fail them at the sight of such a couple, the horse is such a man. They weep as they tear out their eyes, knowing they'll never see such beauty again. Your wife and the horse guard shall laugh, and he go together, ha, and your tears shall be blood as you shrivel in turn to dust, forgotten in that stall outside the city where the

horse is now emperor of all and lover of one. The citizens were ginuflect before the great beast, paying whatever the hoofed one demands, be it of coin or flesh. The people were adjoiced to do so, as their great and benevolent equine shall make their crops plenty and their lives ever long. The rotten stall shall collapse on your worm-eaten bones, and none shall remember a wits about you except the ur-horse, the original horse who shall shed no tear but blink and bitter recollection of that brief time he had to endure you.

Do not let this come to be, shoot that horse with your glock, eat its meat, make a horse stew, turn its bones into glue and use it to glue the skull to your wall, use its hooves to make a tasteless gelatin to encase its eyes in, do it, be the man of the house, not the man of the horse. Okay, so this is an anti-, this is an antifa, but for horse fascism. Well, this is, be very careful, because once the horse gets autonomy and it's obvious you're a sentient bean, it'll fuck your wife and take your job. This is pro-killing horses.

It's pro-killing horses. Yeah, if the horse, if you do not make, if you do not fight back against the horse's many wiles, then the horse will not only take your wife, but it will also become mayor. This is what I've been saying about octopus. Well, yes, but they're not lay animals. But they have the capability. But we would have to live under the sea for them to rule us. Unless they find out how to build, like, oxygen tanks but filled with water.

I don't even, well, we can't handcuff them. We can't handcuff them. So they'll run amok. So they'll run amok. All right. Okay, well, fantastic rendition of horse by- Thank you for that story. Very good.

That was a lot of fun. No problem. All right. This one I'll read. It's from Henry. It's called Mommy. So this should be exciting. Yeah, yeah.

This is a simpler one. Do you like this one? Is this one you wrote? No, no. This is not the one I wrote. The second one's the one I wrote. This is one. Let me read that second.

This is very, this is Mommy. And you chose it because it's simple. Okay. That's great. Mommy and Daddy, this is the, this is this. You are a child. This is, I am the child and this is me telling you my story. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again.

They're shouting at each other. Mommy told me to stay in my room. So, so I do as I'm told, I love Mommy. It's so weird, man. I just did this because it is weird to imagine you with a big fucking spinny hat on and like like Ashgosh Bregash overalls. Oh, I did have those. And I love my mother.

We hung out all day, all the time. Yeah. Because you were a child. You had to hang out with her. It's not like you don't hang out with her now. She's going to school. Yeah. Yeah.

Remember? No, it was, it was to an unhealthy degree because she wouldn't let him go to, to school. No, she wouldn't let me go to school, but I would say I'm tired and I want to go to school. She's like, let's go to pay for the wiggly. And yeah. And then you breastfed until you were five. Mommy and Daddy, they are fighting again.

They're shouting at each other. Mommy told me to stay in my room. So, I do as I'm told because I love Mommy as I said already. I don't love Daddy quite as much. He hurt me once. Yesterday, I noticed Mommy had scars on her wrist. What am I reading? Good Lord.

She told me she got them at war. You made it too tall of a damn son. You made it too big of a son. He's 40 years old. I wish he'd leave. Yesterday, I noticed Mommy had scars on her wrist. She told me she got them at war. Any specific war?

Just read it. Okay. Keep reading. Mommy is so, okay. Mommy is so brave. Daddy once told me that he thinks Mommy is weak, but how can she be if she fought in a war? I asked Daddy this.

He didn't answer, but he got really mad at Mommy. And now they're fighting. That's very unheard of. It's because of you. Is it? Because of you. I'm just asking questions. Okay.

So, they're fighting again. After Daddy left for work, Mommy went to the garage, turned on the car and went to sleep. Oh, that's not good. Yeah. She's giving me fucking suicide. Yeah. She looks really peaceful. I opened the car door and sit next to Mommy.

I noticed she has bruises on her neck and arms. She must have got them at the war too, while I'm beginning to feel a little sleepy too. Oh. I think I'll take a nap next to Mommy. Right. Mommy will wake up soon. The carbon dioxide. And then we can both go visit Grandpa.

Yeah, that's what would have happened to Weird Al's parents. That's the story that you sent me. That's one of the stories I sent you, yes. We're going to go fucking visit Grandpa. I thought that you might act more. I did act. I pretended like it was my... This whole story...

It's about your mom committing suicide and you dying with her. And we're going to go see Grandpa. It's scary. That is scary. It's real life. It's scary. There's no clarification on what war she fought in. The war on comedy.

That's what she did. She's the first actual death in the war on comedy. Oh, that's bad. All right. Right from your play. All right. So now I'm going to read a story selected for me by Ben Kessler. This is so you...

I thought it was written by you for me. This is like so Polish. So this is a Google Translate version of a Polish written creepypasta. That's correct. Can I eat a grozbioj? Yes. Grozbioj. Unlike your story where it's just about going to see your grandfather.

That was... This is actually scary. I thought you would act like a child. I thought you would do a child's voice. I mean, dad, you're fighting. That's a character. That's a character. Can I go visit Grandpa?

Yeah, I mean, that's a fucking character. You imagine that you're in heaven and you're so happy and then all of a sudden you see your frickin' daughter and you say, Jesus Christ, didn't I die to avoid this entire family? Family. The creepiest. The creepiest of all. It was a Thursday.

Just priests left my house because them took Carol. After finishing the visit, gave the priest as much as grace and started taking orders for my VHS tapes. When connecting a VCR to power, I came across a problem because it does not display a picture. It is a pity that these materials are lost, I thought. But I decided to go to the rental BVD BD. What is this? It's Polish.

I know. I thought... But I decided to go to the rental place where they have a service ripping footage on DVD. Price-wise also. The owner of rentals scoffed and decided to rip me 15 cartridges, the price of leave for each other. I'm reviewing the materials the next day. I checked the recordings and felt nostalgia, fairy tales from childhood there and there.

80s movies die hard with the German softborn, except with the price of the woman. Nothing special. Also like to mention that on the day there was something strange and that as my request materials from the VHS tapes were converted to AVI, but reviewing the record I came across something that surprised me. The album was a 6 minute video, I thought it was a snippet from a cassette or something joked with me, because this video was the attribute hidden and by default have enabled the system to show all of the folders and files, a little strange thing.

In the video post it was a Polish stuff. But I have not seen it in his eyes even once when I was a pisser. I don't even know. The video lasts 6 minutes, at the beginning we see a girl with asymmetrical eyes, it looks like someone stuck on her eyes, cut out some niche newspaper for a woman for a lady of a house or friend. It also includes the larvae crawling, crawling something like the griptor, is also a scene which pierces the apple saying that consists of the land of mushrooms and paper.

The movie seems to be psychedelic made of restlessness, movement girls look like movements of puppets or marionettes. There's also a squirrel gretel, this is a squirrel gretel, the girl's name is Agatka. Interestingly you can see the girls left in sinister laughter, squirrels, it is not assembled materials, both sounds are superimposed on each other and looks like Sony, VEGESY, installation or any other programs. The rest of the content is confusing, it looks as if they film had the educational character but the installation itself may be shiver, the general was called the land of mushrooms

on YouTube, you can find this video as a re-upload because I tried to show it on YouTube but because of the number of notifications I blocked it out. Still looking for the person who was responsible for this material. There you go, it's a Polish tale, it makes no sense but you see he went to the video store right and then he got superimposed on that DVD. I think it's the griptor. He's talking about the griptor, the griptor was like an old school like YouTube trolling thing, the people would say have you seen the griptor, the griptor was supposed to be

some like either snuff film or a video that would make you go insane. Yep, that's basically what that was. But it was on the VHS, the old VHS that he got. DVD, I think it was a DVD. Was it DVD? Yes, he said he put a DVD in and then the files of it came up. Well no, first he was converting all of his VHS tapes to DVD. Two DVDs, that's right.

That's why he saw 80's movies, that's why he saw the German soft-core porn, die-hard, things from childhood and then it was this mysterious thing also on the DVD in a hidden file. And that was like the mushrooms and all that stuff. And that was the land of mushrooms and paper. Sure. Yeah, honestly that's a great thing, mushrooms and paper and a pencil, that's all you need to have a little of the fun.

You're right, you're right. You're right. You're right. We have not read a legit creepypasta yet. And it's also what I really appreciate so far of the three of us technically we have not read like what would be considered to be a traditionale creepypasta. I don't even know what that means anymore. Yeah, interesting.

I don't think it means anything. You're right. You're right. Maybe I'm being a trad, I'm being trad right now. Yeah, you're putting creepypasta in a box and you're not realizing that you can use a lot of different things to make a great pasta. You can use stuff. I've lost you.

I've lost you. It's over. This train is over. You can make chicken and spaghetti. You can make a casserole. You can make a casserole. What is chicken and spaghetti? What meal is chicken and spaghetti?

It's chicken and spaghetti. It's like a casserole that you make. There's a bunch of people out there right now that are saying, Henry, how the fuck have you never had chicken and spaghetti casserole in your life? You're all making shit up and I am here for it. You're going to get a million emails from people saying like, yeah, I've had chicken and spaghetti and you're fucking sucks. You're stupid.

You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. You're stupid. I got this one from Henry that is in all caps.

I gave you because you like these ones. I do like these ones. I have not read it yet. So if there is any questionable material, this comes from a listener. I checked this one. This comes from a listener and I checked this one. Okay. And the word is jupedophiles.

I know. Pinocchio and the jupedophiles. I got it. I get it. I fucking get it. I'm not kidding. It works actually. Okay.

All right. There once was a boy named Pinocchio, but he wasn't a boy at first. He was a doll, a sex doll that was created by the government to satisfy child molesters in government. And the president didn't like that it was a real boy. So the president said to the first lady, fuck, we need a real boy to molest you fucking bitch. And she said, fuck you, cock.

Why don't you call that genie witch lady that fucked you in the ass? So he called the genie witch lady that fucked him in the ass and he said, fuck you, genie witch lady. I need this sex doll to be a real boy so I can fuck it. So the genie witch said, why the fuck would you do that? You dumb fuck. I'll fuck you in the ass again, Mr. President. Then she fucked him in the ass again and said, I will make this stupid fucking doll a real

boy or whatever, but I can give him life, but he's still going to be a stupid fucking doll. You dumb cock. And then Pinocchio was still a dumb fucking fucking doll, but now he could talk and move around on his own. Then Pinocchio said, fuck you, you fucking pedophile. I'll fucking kill you. You dumb fucking cock.

And I'll kill the whole molester government and he killed the president and the whole fucking government and said, fuck you, I am every president now. And he said lies to people, just like every fucking president and his fucking nose grew every time. He said a stupid fucking lie and some stupid fucking reporter, bribed for fox ears, said to him, hey, you're gonna molest kids like the last president and he said, fuck you, no, I won't. And his nose grows, so he shot himself in the head and killed himself because he didn't

want to be like his dad. Fuck you. Whoa, that's amazing. I'm crying. This is on that is traditional creepypasta. That is good stuff. You didn't want to be like his father and it was so nice to have a politician that was transparent.

Candorous. Candorous. Wow. He killed the entire pedophile government. Yeah. All of them. One by one. One by one.

Cuck. Cuck. We start using cuck more, I think. You can. Cuck. I guess so. I guess. Technically that's like two years ago.

There was some guys that used cuck a lot and it just wasn't good. Yeah, but you flip it. You flip it. I'm taking the word back. Okay. Because you use it in times. It started with it. It started as a positive.

What? Yeah. It was a good thing. Well, not an Othello. The Othello and the Othello it wasn't. Well, a cuckold. It was actually a very bad thing to be a cuckold. Yeah.

Well, someone you love has sex with someone else. Yeah, that's what it is now and now that's a positive thing. If you like that, then it's a positive thing. Yeah. If you've been talked into doing that, then it is not a good thing. If it's too late for you and you're in the La Quinta and the guys are already going ahead on your wife and you didn't realize what you were bargaining for and then all of a sudden you're in the middle of it, you're fine with it.

Yeah. You're gonna have to be. I mean, you need to ride home. Yeah. Okay. Here we go. I'll go with a tale from Marcus Parks. Yeah.

Could you do, do Osaka. This one's subtle. It's subtle and I know Ben, you're the master of subtlety. He is. He's the most subtle of the three of us. I'm just gonna read it. We'll do this here. So this is, here it is and I will be doing my best Japanese accent if you guys want me

to clarify. I don't see what you think it is. I think it's American living in Osaka. Oh, fantastic. Oh, I didn't have to unleash because man, I do a great Japanese accent. I mean, there is a homeless man that is in this story who may or may not be Japanese. Let's just say, let's pretend he's not. Okay.

Here we go. It's a character. It's a character. I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day when I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in the corner of the subway station, muttering to himself as people pass by. He was holding up a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change. A fat woman pass by.

This is not my story. A fat woman pass by, a fat woman pass by the homeless man. I distinctly heard him say, pig, oh, I've actually read this one before. Yeah, it's a good one. It's a good one, actually. A fat woman pass by and the homeless man distinctively said, pig, wow, I thought to myself, this homeless man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money. Then a tall businessman went by and the homeless man muttered, human, human.

I can't argue with that. Obviously, the man was human. The next day I arrived at the, the next day I arrived early at the subway station and then I had a little time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings. A thin, haggard looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, cow, cow, I thought. This man was way too skinny to be a cow.

He looked more like a turkey or a chicken to me a minute or so later. That is actually what my thought process is, cow, it looks like a chicken. Yeah, or a turkey. I mean, but that's the chickens and turkeys are kind of plump, aren't they? Yeah, they are kind of plump. Yeah, either way, it's kind of plump. He has a thin woman, I'd say an egret. Yeah.

Why did she walk by and he's like, cow, and he's like, cow, dude, she looks like a chicken, dude. And then a minute or so later, a fat man walked by and the homeless man said, potato, potato. I was under the impression that he called fat people pigs. That day at work, I couldn't stop thinking about the homeless man and puzzling and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying some, I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he was muttering. Perhaps he was some kind of psychic.

I thought maybe he knows what these people were in a previous life. In Japan, many people believe in reincarnation. I observed the homeless man many times and began to think, I began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people rabbit or onion or sheep or tomato. I knew you'd like this. Isn't it naming all the different animals and vegetables? Yeah, I knew you would.

One day, Curia, you know, it was funny, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato, tomato. See how it works? Geez, very scary. I picked stories that I knew both of you would enjoy. So yeah, I know you enjoy naming things. Mm-hmm.

One day, Curiosity got the better of me. He's saying nouns. That's all he likes. He likes to say nouns. One day, Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him, what was going on? As I walked up, he looked at me and said, Brad, I tossed some money into his cup and and asked if he had some kind of psychic ability. The homeless man smiled and said, yes, yes, indeed.

I do have a psychic ability. It's an ability I obtained years ago, but it's not what you might expect. I can't tell the future or read minds or anything like that. Then what's your ability? I asked. The ability is merely to know the last thing somebody ate. I laughed because he was right.

He said, Brad, the last thing I had eaten for breakfast that day was toast. I walked away again, shaking my head of the psychic ability someone could have, but that one must be the most useless. But, yeah. Yeah, he's a human that one time. He's a human that one time, the guy a human.

That one time, that one day a human. No, yeah, that's the thing, but he didn't say that. No, it's something. That's why he said it's something. A human, cow, pig. Next time we do creepypasta, we're just gonna give Kissel a bunch of nouns to say. No, I know, I got the creepypasta.

I got the creepypasta, but the guy in the story didn't get it. No, of all the psychic abilities someone could have had, that one must be the most useless. This guy didn't even fucking get it. This is the story. He's not real, right in that guy's head. You know what I mean?

But this is for us to understand. Yeah, it's on the reader. So, and for those that want to know, again, that it was the tall businessman who was eating human beings. Human. Oh, yuck. That is disgusting.

Yeah, yuck-o. Well, I guess we're not gonna go see the three colors, the rouge and blanc together, which is a subtle recreation of what it's like to live through war. What? Nevermind. Wow, so it's just a bunch of different colors

and it goes from color to color. It's some of the foreign movie. I don't even fucking remember the name of it. Eight colors. All right. Well, here we go. Thank you so much for that one. It's Roy G. Biv is the name of the movie.

Okay. All right, here we go. I'll read now a selection from Marcus. Ah. This is called darkness in the rearview mirror. Man, this one's classic creepypasta here. Yeah, it's classic creepypasta. It's a real crack, a classic creepypasta.

I thought you might enjoy a classic creepy creepypasta. Okay, creepypasta. In the summer of 2013, I found myself driving home alone on Highway 902 from a party. It was almost midnight. Humble brag. Yes, I was invited, yeah.

I go places. And I did a crash on the couch. I was the janitor. It was almost midnight. And needless to say, it was pitch black. As was usual at night. I was on edge. I had the radio off.

I could hear nothing but the muffle roar of tires on pavement and the dull hum of the engine. Long on some highway. She's Omaha. So this is just Bob Sieger. I stole a glance into the middle rear view mirror and saw nothing but darkness through the back window. You don't steal a glance at a mirror that's in your car.

You steal a glance at like a gal across the road. I'm on the road again. I know that I look backward and saw nothing. I'm sure of it. Just the seemingly endless blackness of the night. I remember it so clearly because not 10 seconds later, a car passed me to the left, headlights on. I had one of those sudden adrenaline rushes.

Like when you think you see a person outside your bedroom window. When it's just a tree. Or when you start awake at night with the feeling of falling. 10 seconds earlier, nothing had been behind me. Suddenly, a car. I drove the rest of the way home,

shivering and knowing something was off. The next morning I found two sets of scratches near the back of my van. One was on the left rear, one was on the right. The car was pretty old. They could have been there for months, but it was the first time that I distinctly remembered seeing them.

In hindsight, there are two possibilities for what happened that night. Possibility one. By some glitch in reality or something paranormal, this other car had somehow appeared behind me within 10 seconds of me checking my mirror. Like some weird ghost crap or something. However, the second option is what makes my blood run cold

whenever I consider it. It didn't even occur to me until months after the fact, but it makes me dread driving alone at night even more. Because possibility two, the car was normal. It had approached me from the rear and passed me to my left. However, something large and wide and as black as the night had been clinging to the rear of my car,

obscuring my view through the window and leaving deep scratches on the side. And I had inadvertently driven it home with me. It's gold dust! Whoa! WWE's gold dust! Good luck telling that to the insurance company. It was gold dust!

It was gold dust! It was a ghost, man! You sure you weren't drinking and driving after that party you were bragging about going to? Whoa, yeah. I was the janitor. I only drink it because it's my job. Oh.

Whatever it takes to be a janitor. We love you. You're right. Very good stuff out there so far. The next thing that I got is something that was sent to me by Ben. It's from the Creepypasta files. Oh, this is just more of a discussion

based on our live show. I thought it was kind of fun to go into a little bit of detail about this weird cryptid. Yeah. I'm not sure if this is a cryptid. I think this is a character in a Creepypasta. This is a character in a Creepypasta. This is a lot.

I mean, you and my children, there's a lot in here, though, but this is interesting. Yeah. I mean, we can go through the different... Okay, so first of all, Pigman. Pigman. His real name being Stanley Johnson. Okay.

Because cryptids normally have real names. No, normally they don't have aliases. Yeah, he is a 59-year-old man who suffered severe psychological damage due to the death of his wife, later losing himself to excessive alcoholism, and then finally killing the last living people who loved him.

That's how it goes! He dons a mask entirely made out of a pig's flesh in head. Is this a weird alter like the people that pretend to have multiple personalities on TikTok? Kind of, but he also goes by the hog and pig head, which I think pig head is actually a little bit scarier than Pigman. I think so, too. Yeah, but we covered because the Pigman was a cryptid

that was supposed to be Florida-centric, correct? Yeah, yeah, Florida-centric. Yeah, he said, yeah, the Putnam Pigman. Let's go through some of the... Okay, the occupation of the Pigman. He's got a full character sheet here. But honestly, he's a cryptid. Why do we got to make these cryptids got jobs?

Can't we have some kind of UBI for cryptids? No, you will. They should be allowed to just exist. They can get a Patreon. If Sasquatch has a Patreon, I'll give him five a month. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Does he get a shout-out?

Just whatever. Thank you for the shout-out, Sasquatch. The occupation of the Pigman is military veteran. Okay. Yeah, powerful skills, or powers slash skills, powerful strength, and hand combat. But he's just a man. He's a 59-year-old man.

He's a Pigman, or pig head. He's a man who puts on a pig head in order to kill. Sure. And he doesn't shower. Yeah, he's got experience with weapons. He's got murder skills. Sure. Tracking, evasion, aim and accuracy,

endurance, high pain tolerance, and he can imitate wild animal noises. Isn't that cool? Most likely the... Remember fun animal noises with the boys? Yeah. Fun noises with the boys? It's easy to do animal noises.

It's not that easy, man. Yeah. What? Why are you looking at me like I'm... That was a dog in pain. Because that was a dog in pain. That's a dog interested. That is a dog interested.

Well, let's go through his personality. He's hot tempered, aggressive, observant, mercurial, crafty, mistrustful of others, territorial, and easily agitated. Absolutely. He's got a pig... He's got a, like, decimated pig head on top of his own head.

Yeah, I bet he's agitated. Well, he's also, don't forget the... He's divorced. He's tall, overweight, yet muscular. His daily outfit includes dirty, stained undershirts that express his beer gut. He also wears a camouflage jacket and pants regularly, which he obtained while in the service.

He is dirty, but he's got laced-up combat boots. This feels like a character sheet for role-playing games. Yeah. I think it's kind of fun. Do you want to know his pre-pigman likes? Yes. This feels like when I used to create comic book characters as a kid. It's just there's so much to the pigman.

I really can't. I didn't know that until I... Well, I think it's if you... Like, it's a character from a recurring character from a creepypasta, from many different creepypastas. You know, like, you know how Slender... Like, he's like a Slenderman-type character. But no one's killing in the name of Pigman.

And why not? You should. I honestly feel like... Why not? It's not a real crypt unless you kill for it. Or try to anyway. Yeah. Well, his likes pre-pigman.

We're hunting various woodland creatures. Okay. Rasslin. We're looking... We're looking into the man right next to me. Bonfires. Who doesn't love that? Pigs and cows.

Well, this is my question. So that's just a pre-pigman-like... There's a list that actually says... I'm looking at it. Parentheses pre-pigman. Just so you know that this is... Because he doesn't like anything as pigman. He can't like anything.

As pigman, he's done with liking. He can't like... He lost his wife, man. She went away from him. Yeah. There's no such good... There's no such thing as a bad divorce. That's not true.

Yeah. That's not true at all. I mean, you don't know. But I mean, there's a reason why you're breaking up in the first place. Move on. Grow. Find new things about yourself. That is true.

Yeah. That is true. He also likes practicing his writing. Although he's not very good at it. And springtime. See? And of course that would make sense because he's a pig. He's a pre-pigman.

He's six foot three, 379 pounds. Oh, God. He's got a scar on his back that was caused by a bullet wound in combat. His crossbow he received. That's how he kills people. He got that as a gift from his father. Yeah. I mean, this is just...

The guy is unbelievable and I just feel like we need to, you know... Really? And he's dangerous because he's 100% not afraid to get dirty. He will mask his scent the old fashioned way. Animal feces are urine. Mud? Yeah, yeah, of course. Yeah.

But now his weaknesses, they do exist. Yeah. Yep. His mask affects his overall vision. He's used to being a well-protected hunter. So all it takes is a group or individual with knowledge of booby traps and intent to kill to hunt him. Yep. He also has a theme song.

This theme song is by concrete blonde. That's interesting. By concrete blonde. Can we play this? I guess we can, but yeah, it's... Can we play a chunk of this? What is Jesus, please forgive me by concrete blonde? Concrete blonde is a...

I mean, that's a deep cut, man. That's a... Here we go. This is off the elbow Mexican moon, I guess. It's a good album. This is for Pigman. This is for Pigman? This is for Pigman?

I mean, I can see his little pigs now looking up to the moon. You can see the shadow. Bitch, get some lunch before I start killing. Oh, now this is Pigman. Now I get it, actually. Because at first he's just like a little pig boy, and now he's Pigman. Sons are in a round looking for some mud. He'll roll in mud.

Covered in feces. All right. Well, that's great. Yeah. I had figured you guys would like concrete blonde. No, that was great. Okay, well, there you go. So anyway, that's just more of a little conversation about Pigman, and he is hydrophobic.

He does not like water, apparently. He does like killing people when they're alone. Yes, and he will not hunt during a storm, and if he must wash, he's extremely afraid, and will only do it with his clothes on. Oh, he's a never-nude. He's a never-nude. And the reasons behind that, being in the water makes him feel vulnerable. Oh, I love Pigman.

Anyway, all right. Thank you for entertaining my Pigman fascination. I was just like, that is the most elaborate breakdown I've ever seen of anything that's not human. Yes. All right, here we go. I'll read a tale for Mr. Henry Zabrowski. This is called I Can Fix Him, and I think you wrote this one. I wrote this one, and I'm excited.

So in this one, remember, you are a single woman in this. I was a lonely single woman, but I finally caught one. Do you want me to do it like, I was lonely single woman. No, no, it's better for you. Yeah, it tells, because you really shouldn't get into the atmosphere here. Yeah, I mean, and women can sound like me. I was a lonely single woman, but I finally caught one. I knew as soon as I heard about him, I could fix him.

He was just my type. Too tall to be in an airplane, but also big. Not athletic, but very loud. He got clots the size of grapes. This is actually just very offensive. No, it's very offensive, actually. Not athletic, but very loud. He's got, he's got clots the size of grapes, and he farts into a big paper bag and puts it on his head for fun.

Okay. I knew I can fix him. I can fix him. First thing to go, first thing is to go to the worst sports bar I've ever seen. I know he'd be there screaming about the Tennessee Tiger Bears, how they didn't beat the spread. It's not a team. I handed him my business card and it read, come to this address for, and it said, come to this address for free titties and wings. At first he seemed skeptical, but when I purchased him his ninth Bud Light Line,

he was following me like a spitz on a leash. When we got to my own personal wing zone, he couldn't be happier. He got an order of 12 hot buffalo style and he just gobbled them up. On your flyer you said something about boobies. He said between bites, oh boobies will come my dear. Then he ate his second round of 24 hot and spicy Jamaican jerk wings with a special Halcyon rub. Oh man, I'm getting sleepy. Must be all the wings, the big man said.

I can fix you, I told him as he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, I showed him how much better his life will be. His legs were removed. Who needs these clots anyway? No, he can't leave. I put two keg lines through his nose and into his stomach. He'll never run out of BLs now. That's nice actually, thank you.

His arms are also removed. His arms I removed them just to make him even. Because apparently that was... And on his chest two ample new triple de-bress that he can look at all day. Now he's in a tiny room with a 95 inch screen TV playing football all day. I'm not even fucking with you, he seems legit happy. I'm not even fucking with you, he seems legit happy. I told him I could fix him.

So I have no more arms or legs, steady stream of BLs and 24 hour football. Honestly, it could be worse. It could be worse. I'm not even upset. I don't like the drugging part. There's no reason why I had to lose my arms. No, no, no, that was just because I needed to add another dimension. It's fun, it's like a combination of a misery, audition and tusk.

Yes! I could fix him. Well, that was very nice, thank you for taking the time to write that. Yeah, I did, I did do for taking the time to write something. And it was nice because you corrected it, because you said Bud Light Line, but then the constant stream will be Bud Light because I actually don't like Bud Light. Yeah, the Bud Light Line was just, you know, for the fans. For the fans, yeah, I know.

That's for the fans, some fans. So this one that you have here, it's quite long. This is long. But it is fun. I just want to start off by saying if you want an answer at the end, prepare to be disappointed. Just as in one. Okay, I like that.

Be prepared to be disappointed. That's how I like to start off, most pitches. I was an intern in Nickelodeon Studios for a year in 2005 for my degree in animation. It wasn't paid, of course. Most internships aren't. But it did have some perks beyond education. To adults, it might not seem like a big one, but most kids at the time would go crazy over it. Now, since I worked directly with the editors and animators,

I could have viewed the new episodes days before they aired. I'll get right to it without giving too many unnecessary details. They had very recently made the SpongeBob movie, and the entire staff was somewhat sapped of creativity, so it took them longer to start up the season. But the delay lasted longer for more upsetting reasons. There was a problem with the Series 4 premiere that set everyone and everything back for several months. Oh my goodness, what could it be?

Me and two other interns were in the editing room. Me and the other two interns were in the editing room, along with the lead animators and sound editors for the final cut. We received the copy that was supposed to be Fear of a Crabby Patty, and gathered it around the screen to watch. You remember this? I love it. Fear of a Crabby Patty.

Is that a play on Fear of a Black Planet? I don't know. No Crabby Patty. That's what they eat and squid in the seat. He's saying the opposite. But it's a play. It's like a parody. Like a play on words.

This is a creepypasta. This is a creepypasta. We just got Chuck D on the brain. I don't know. Yeah, you know. Now, given it that it isn't final yet, animators often put a mock title card, sort of inside joke for us,

with phony, oftentimes lewd, titles such as How Sex Doesn't Work instead of Rockabye by Valve. And SpongeBob and Patrick adopt a sea scallop. Nothing particularly funny, but work-related chuckles. So when we saw this title card, Squidward's Suicide,

we didn't think it was more than a morbid joke. Okay. One of the interns did a small throat laugh at it. The story begins with Squidward practicing his clarinet, hitting a few sour notes like normal. We hear SpongeBob laughing outside and Squidward stops,

yelling at him to keep it down as he has a concert that night and needs to practice. SpongeBob says, I'm done! And goes to see Sandy with Patrick. I don't know. I honestly have never really seen

a lot of SpongeBob. Sandy's the squirrel in the space suit and Patrick's the starfish. Patrick's the starfish. Patrick's the starfish and Sandy's the squirrel. Okay.

Yep. Patrick is kind of funny, but he's also shy and he's like a little bit like, oh, I can't believe I made a mistake again. That's cute. Sure. I once saw a really interesting documentary

that had skin diamond as Sandy. I remember this documentary. Documentary? And it was very illuminating in the private lives of Squidward. Wow. Now, this is where things

begin to seem off. While playing, a few frames repeat themselves, but the sound doesn't. At this point, it's synced up with animation. So yes, that's not common. But when he stops playing,

the sound finishes as if the skip never happened. There's a slight murmuring in the crowd before they begin to boo him. Not normal cartoon booing that is common on the show, but you're going to get very

hear-out in the malice in it. Squidward's in full frame and looks visibly afraid. The shot goes to the crowd with SpongeBob at center frame, and he is to his booing. Very much unlike him. Mm-hmm.

That is in the oddest thing, though. What is odd is everyone had hyper-realistic eyes. Yeah. Like a doll's eyes. Very detailed. Clearly not shots of real people's eyes, but something a bit more real than CGI.

The pupils were red. Some of us looked at each other, obviously confused, but since we weren't the riders, we didn't question, we didn't question its appeal to children yet. The shot goes to Squidward

sitting on the very edge of his bed, looking forlorn. The view out of his porthole window is that of a night sky, so it isn't very long after the concert. The unsettling part is at this point there is no sound, literally no sound,

not even the feedback from the speakers in the room. It's as if the speakers were turned off, though their status showed that they were working perfectly. He just sat there blinking in the silence for about 30 seconds, and then he started to sob softly.

He put his hands tentacles over his eyes and cried quietly for a full minute more. All the while, a sound in the background very slowly growing from nothing to barely audible. It sounded like a slight breeze through a forest. The screen slowly begins to zoom in on his face. By slow, I mean it's only noticeable

if you look at shots 10 seconds apart side by side. His sobbing gets louder, more full of hurt and anger. The screen then twitches a bit as it twists in on itself for a split second, then it goes back to normal. The wind through the trees sound

gets slowly louder and more severe as if the storm is brewing somewhere. The eerie part is the sound and Squidward's sobbing, it sounds real, as if the sound wasn't coming from the speakers, but it's as if the speakers were holes and the sound were coming through them from the other side.

As good as sound as the studio likes to have, they don't purchase the equipment to be that good to produce that kind of fucking sound quality, right below the sound of the wind and the sobbing. Something sounded like laughing. It came in odd intervals and it never lasted more than a second,

so you had a hard time pinning it. We watched it show twice. Now after 30 seconds of this, the screen blurred and twitched violently. Something flashed over the screen as if a single frame was replaced. The lead animation editor paused and rewound frame by frame.

What we saw was horrible. It was a still photo of a dead child. He couldn't have been more than six. He couldn't have been more than sex. Sex is old. The face was mangled and bloody, one eye dangling over his upturned face, popped.

He was lying down in his underwear his stomach crudely could open and it's in entrails, laying beside him. He was laying on some pavement. It was probably a road. The most upsetting part was that it was probably a road.

If I had a guess, where a dead kid was lying, it would probably be a road. It gets pretty scary though, doesn't it? It wasn't a chair. It wasn't a field. It wasn't a couch. The most upsetting part

that there was a shadow of the photographer. There was no crime tape, no evidence tags or markers, and the angle was completely off for a shot designed to be evidence. It would seem the photographer was the person responsible for the child's death.

We were of course mortified, but pressed on, hoping that was just a sick joke. Sure. Can you imagine? Wasting this much of Nickelodeon's money to animate a fully real version of a dead fucking viscerated child

and then putting it into SpongeBob. All of these hours spent, everyone watching it. They do, man. I don't think this is a joke. Millisecond stuff. They do, but I don't think this is a joke, Kissel.

Okay. The screen flip back to Squidward. Still sobbing, louder than before, half body and frame. Now there was blood running down from his face, from his eyes.

The blood was also done in a hyper realistic style. Looking at it, if you touch it, you get blood on your fingers from the TV screen. The wind started now. It was like a gale.

There was even a snapping sound to branches, then laughing at deep baritone. Laughing. Laughing and longer intervals, coming more frequently, and then they showed a single frame photo. The editor was lucked

and go back, but we all were, but we knew we had to. This time the photo was, we had to fucking go back. Had to, yeah. Because this time the photo, we had to fucking go back,

man. We're here, man. We're in the screen. This time the photo was that of what appeared to be a little girl no older than the first child. She was laying on her stomach or brass in a pool of blood

next to her. Her left eye was too, was popped out, and she was naked, except for her underpants. Her entrails piled atop of her from above, crude cut from her back.

You chose this. I know. It's gross. Again, the body was on the street and the photographer's shadow was visible, very similar in size and shape to the first.

So it had to be that guy. And yet, choked back, vomit. And one intern, the only female in the room, she ran out, she screamed.

They kept watching it. I mean, the guys could also run out just because it was like they ran out. Good Lord. Also, it is said that there was only one woman in there. Good point.

After five seconds after the photo was Spongebob. It's also weird that he pointed out that there was only one female in the room. Why would he point that out? There was only one,

and she could handle it. Yeah. This is Spongebob. All right, we do pranks on each other, okay? Like rap hit. Yeah.

And the other guy, handsome guy. George Washington. Army hand. George Clooney. Oh. He put his tentacles down. His eyes are now in hyper realism,

like the others in the beginning of the episode. They were bleeding and bloodshot and pulsating. He stared at the screen as if watching the viewer. Yeah. After about 10 seconds,

he started sobbing. This time, he's not covering his eyes. The sound was piercing and loud, almost fear-inducing of all the sobbing was mixed with screams. Like, oh,

Squidward. That's sad. Did you ever cry aggressively at someone? Oh, yeah. Once or twice, yeah. Tears and blood were dripping down his face at a heavy rate.

It is longer than I expected. It is. The wind, it came back. The photo lasted for five frames. The animator was able to stop it on the fourth, and he backed up.

This time, the photo was of a boy, but same age. But this time, it kind of repeats itself. It kind of repeats itself. No, you didn't. The end trails were just being pulled

out from a stomach wound by a large hand. The right eye is popping, and it was dangling. But this time, it's the right eye, not the left eye. Then he made sure to say

that both were the left eye, but this was the right eye. This was the right eye. Oh, boy. When I was reading this to Puffin, I think it went by quicker. Yeah, I mean, I think you were saying,

oh, I'm sure it was. What? Well, I'll tell you what, these Nickelodeon animators need to be fined. Yeah. All right. The animator proceeded.

It was hard to believe, but the next one was different. But we couldn't tell what. He went under the next. It was the same thing. It was another boy who's dead. He went back to the first. He played them quicker,

and then he lost it. He vomited all over the floor. The animating sound editor's gasping at the screen. Why didn't no one just go home? I really, I should have. That's just to check, please. I gotta go.

The frame frames were not as they, as if they were five different photos. They were played out as if they were frames from a video. We saw the. Up to the last one. Slowly lift out the guts. We saw the kid's eyes.

Focus on it. And he was blinking. It gets blinking. The sound editor is like, why don't we stop? And he had a call in the crater. I think Mr. Spongebob. His last name is legally.

He changed it legally. Mr. Spongebob. And the crater showed that the showrunner was like, what's fucking going on here, bro? And they showed all this kind of bullshit. I'm just gonna, yeah, I'm gonna go to the end. There was an investigation due to the nature of the photos.

There was like four more paragraphs of it. Yeah. But it's basically all the same thing. So I kind of added that too. When I was reading that, I kind of skipped around a little too. Yeah. Yeah.

It's never a good idea if you're reading it and you're like, wow, this is boring. Let me skip around. No, it's not boring. I thought it was very exciting, but it's just the final three paragraphs are just like the other three paragraphs. Yeah.

Yes. There was an investigation due to the nature of the photos. Yes. But nothing came of it. No child scene was identified and no clues were gathered from the data involved

nor physical clues on the photos. I never believed in an unexplainable phenomena before, but now that I've seen something happen and I can't prove anything about it beyond anecdotal evidence, I think twice about things. Huh. Well, you didn't really stick the landing there.

But it is scary to think about what happens in an editor's room. Yeah. That is scary stuff. Yeah. It takes something into SpongeBob. What's that? What's that fucking amazing horror movie?

Evil Ed. Evil Ed. Yeah. That was great. Here's also that other sound one. Airheads. Airheads was a fantastic feature. All right.

Well, there that was. Thank you for indulging me. I love it. Yes. They probably could have done a little edit on that. A little bit. But yeah, I did. But he's over and over again.

You got to make sure. But that's the thing. At the end, he said they never identified the boy, but didn't he say there were about four or five boys? Yeah. There was five total images. Here's five boys. And one girl.

Yes. They described five and four boys and one girl. Oh, maybe it was them. Nickelodeon? Maybe it was the editors. No, they're saying it wasn't them. They're all like, I don't know what this is.

They're all like, oh, not me. Okay. All right, I got another story. This one is another one that Henry has sent me. Henry, where did this one come from? This comes from all the way from the past, my friend. From the very, very beginning. Is this written by you?

No. So you think you're not going to roast him? No. No, no, no. I'm leaving Marcus alone. Thank you. It's been a hard week. Your bread is buttered, I guess.

Theoretically, you and your romantic partner, who is most likely of the female gender, are accompanying each other when the cellular telephone, of which you are the legal owner, abruptly emits an audible tone, which is highly likely to be your default sound that will play when someone from another location, usually within your country, for residence.

Depending on your telephone carrier or provider, inputs a finite pattern composed of numerical units into their legally-owned cellular telephone, which will send a wave that goes through a complex process that includes radios and telephone towers. Yo, am I learning here? Yes. You've got a trigger warning.

It's about cell iPhones. You walk over to the area that the cellular telephone is physically placed and you translate the telephone receiver from its resting area, where it is mechanically constructed to fit into, all the way in the direction toward your eardrums and then place the northern part of the device to your ear and then place the southern part near your mouth,

most likely onto your cheek, a voice that resembles that of an adult male, proclaims, What activity are you currently in the process of completing that involves having my female offspring attend? You immediately notify your female romantic companion and she educates you on the objective fact that the paternal guardian that she normally refers to as father has stopped living some time in the past

and is also currently deceased. If the details of this story are in fact the truth, then it is now your duty to answer the question of who was calling you and your romantic companion on your cellular telephone? Who's phone? Who was phone? Who was phone?

We ran it all the way up. We brought it all the way back around. We got a ratchet up of who was phone. Yeah, man, fancy. Yeah. You have a bunch of ten dollar words in there. Ten dollar words. Super fancy shit, man.

Man, hey man, it's been a long time since I even thought about who was phone. Me too. Get a bet. Okay, here we go. Except for that movie that still hasn't, I believe it, I don't know if it's already come out, the movie that was called Who Was Phone.

Huh. All right, we just have two more creepy tales. This one, to me, given by Marcus, it started as a leak. The rainy season began in early summer and June had been no exception. It did not surprise the man when he discovered rainwater dripping from his dining room ceiling, shrugging it off.

He placed a tall pot beneath the leak and expected it to stop on its own. However, it continued to rain. And before he knew it, the pot would threaten to overflow. I'm gonna overthrow him, overflow. Come on, overflow. He had to dump the water out first thing in the morning

and straight after he returned home from work. Eventually, he began to notice water damage at the source of the leak. The white ceiling had discolored, turning a dull shade of brown. He checked the weather and realized that it would continue to rain sporadically over the next ten days.

You need a molding remediator in there. They'll charge you whatever, man. Especially because they're the ones dealing with the insurance companies. The insurance companies, they also will... they try not to pay out no matter what. That's the real fucking horror story here. This is about home insurance. Absolutely. The man was worried that the ceiling

was gonna mild you and become an expensive repair. So he called a local handyman. Unfortunately, the man could not sign... the man could not sign to have the repairs done. Only his landlord could. He must be a renter. It was a frustrating policy. The man called his landlord, but could not reach him.

He let him... he left him a few voicemails detailing how the damage was becoming progressively worse. The man was clueless to why his landlord would not return his calls. They usually kept in touch, speaking at least twice a month. Finally, he reasoned that he would not be held accountable for any damages sustained.

That's fucking landlords, right? That's right. One night, the man was startled awake by a massive thump. He quickly turned on his bedside lamp, and just vaguely, he could see an overturned table and a large shape lying across it. He sprinted out of his apartment and called the police, gagging at the smell.

The man sat in the police station with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and coffee mug resting in his hands. He did no one thing. There had been a dead body in his ceiling, and the water had saturated it so badly that it caved in under the weight. So far, the body was unidentifiable, due to the rainwater, and was being autopsied.

Well, the man walked. He called his landlord and finally reached him, panicking as he explained the situation. His landlord was just as alarmed, and the man pleaded for him to come to the station while he made his statement. The man paused as the detective crossed over him, and he lowered his phone,

wondering if the body had been identified. His blood ran immediately cold, and he shook his head with terror. The body belonged to Richard Thompson, his landlord! Yeah! And he had died over a year ago, but that's not what disturbed him the most.

If the landlord was dead, then who was pretending to be him? Oh, it was me! Oh, my God. You imagine that killing somebody and taking their job, but you kill a landlord. What a nightmare. Yeah, you became a...

you chose landlord to become a super? Yeah, why are you pretending to be a super? It's one of the worst jobs. You're the most hated person in the building. We all hate you! I have one final story. Now, I asked, I requested, right? Because we said,

I've read Erotica over and over again, and we've requested it, and I told you there was one cryptid that had never gotten its erotica due. That's a Flatwoods monster. Alright. No one wants to fuck him. We're gonna get into it right now.

This is written by Libby Hawker. Thank you for sending us this. Thank you, Libby. Everyone has a dream, a life's goal, a passion that gives shape and substance to a life. Some people collect precious objects, the beautiful and the rare. Some are driven to climb mountains,

to some of the deadliest peaks, to stand unconquered on a hostile summit, looking down on the tame world far below. We all have our dreams, our obsessions. Sure. We all need bird pocket, and I fuck cryptids. I can't tell you where my particular passion began.

All I know is that even as a child, the thought of a monster under my bed never filled me with terror, but rather a delightful sense of anticipation. I used to deliberately hang my feet off the edge of my mattress, hoping to feel the grasping claws of the creature I'd imagined in the darkness below me.

Hopin' for some confirmation that it wasn't my imagination at all. I wanted the shadow man in the closet to be real, wanted to actually hear the werewolves howlin', to see the slanted black eyes of an off-world visitor looking through my bedroom window, not just pretend

to have seen. And now as I grew, my dark imaginations took on a different tone, actually. Naturally, perhaps, or perhaps my desires are completely unnatural. I don't care either way. I am what circumstance has made me. What God has made me, if you prefer.

Oh, I have tasted the pleasures of human-on-human coupling with every conceivable gender. I've engaged in every legal paraphernalia from BDSM to sampling Travis Moringstar's TikTok algorithm. Oh! These are carnal desires! To be found anywhere one looks, but no erotic dish

can match the savor of copulation with the cryptid. Bigfoot was my first. A female, a gentle and unself-conscious creature, easily tempted into playful experimentation with a handful of dried beans, and a few encouraging kisses. After her, I engaged with many more Bigfoots.

For they are singularly horny species. Though at first, their whole concise and wild dangerous flanneling gave me just the right balance of concupessence and titulating failure. Concupessence. Concupessence. That's a new one for me. I do like it.

I soon came to know there were ways all too well, and the Bigfoots became as commonplace to me as ordinary women and men. My desires became insatiable. My thoughts constantly preoccupied by the lithe, slinking bodies of chupacabras, the firm asses of dogmen, the alluring

flukes of the Loch Ness monster. The fever had settled deep into my bounds. But then I knew I'd never rest until I fucked every cryptid on the North American continent. Wow! When I reached the age of 30, I inherited a modest fortune from my father, Philastus H. Birdpocket.

I found myself unencumbered, free to wander it with. It was then I began visiting the locations of famous cryptid sightings that were hopeful for an encounter. And the more hopeful still that such encounters would lead to new, erotic delights. In the deserts of New Mexico, I was probed by Spaceman.

And probed their strange anatomy in turn. In Kentucky, I engaged in veritable orgy with cave goblins. I waited through the murky shallows of Boggy Creek deep in the Arkansas wilderness until I met the folk monster and spent several days in his company giving and receiving pleasures that cannot be

comprehended by the mind of an ordinary man. He was on the journey back down Boggy Creek that I began to suspect a greater purpose behind my obsession. Something about those days and nights and folk's lair had settled deep into my psyche. And I was left with a nagging certainty that I wasn't just a malingering pervert

wasting the birdpocket fortune on an ex-files version of BangBus. Some outside force was compelling me to engage so intimately with these beings. There was something I was meant to learn from them. Some lessons, some deep esoteric knowledge which I had been tasked with finding

and revealing to humanity. And as I splashed down the dismal mire of Boggy Creek, I told myself it couldn't be true. I like this Jody Foster you're slipping into. Yeah. Ah, he's a big fat man. Was it somebody else? There's big fat crook crook crook. Yeah, she didn't say that.

I don't know why it's weird though. They were the same in my mind. I was merely just trying to justify what seemed to be dark and excusable compulsion and yet the certainty remained. I got close once to discovering the true heart of my life's purpose. I found myself wrapped in the leathery wings of the Jersey Devil. The pines of the lonely barons

reeling around me as I teeded on the precipice of orgasm. And in that moment I thought that the Jersey Devil was trying to speak to me, to torture its horse-like grunts and squeals into human language, into English. And later in the darkened damp of the TNT plant with my own cries echoing from

cold cement walls, Mothman's insect-like mandibles seaming to form words I almost recognized as he grazed my feverish skin. But no matter how many creatures I fucked no matter how I tried to connect with them on the deepest possible level, I could never understand the words they attempted to speak. I could never hear

their message. Time was running out for me. I had fucked almost every cryptid on the North American continent and still the message from beyond space and time remained elusive. I had but one more creature left to bang. The cryptidhood eluded all human contact since its first signing in the summer of 1952.

The Flatwoods Monster. That was how I found myself entrenched in a secret bio-vac deep in the forest at the edge of a farmer's property in rural West Virginia. I'd remain there for weeks, living off MREs I'd sourced from an army surplus store, passing the days

in camouflage clothing among the leaf litter and the brush. I'd obtain the father's permission to camp on his land, and so I was forced to remain silent as still as possible waiting for some sign, some faint indication that the creature was near. The last one on my list. My last chance

to comprehend this great wisdom, this knowledge for which I alone been chosen as messenger. Okay. December was almost over. Cold weather would soon set in, and then I'd be forced to give up the pursuit. Released until the following spring. The ancient Appalachian mountains seemed to watch me day and night

with patient and hostile eyes. But I was determined not to be thwarted. I would fuck the Flatwoods Monster. Got to. And if it adds a message for me, indeed for all humanity, I would carry its words faithfully to the widest possible audience. Else, what had my life been for? Absolutely nothing. You're just

fucking a bunch of cryptos. I just fucking strange. Finally, the night of the first frost came. I huddled in my miserable camp shivering with dejected certainty that the elements in the monster itself had won this round. I would be forced to give up this chase until milder weather came. But just as I rose from my hidden blind

to make my way to my sleeping bag, a brilliant fire streaked across the sky illuminating the tops of the trees. My breath seized in my throat. Time itself seemed to halt in its tracks. I watched a lot descend into a clearing not far away, and when I could breathe again, I smelled the distinctive bite of

sulfur in the air. Yes, I told myself, yes, this is it. These are the very signs that were recorded by the Flatwoods witnesses almost 70 years ago. The moment had come and soon I would come too. Whoa! I hurried through the woodland. No longer careful to disguise my presence

for time I'd run out, and this was my very last chance. Yes, yet I shouldn't have feared. When I reached the edge of the clearing there, the creature was gazing at me with its large, luminous eyes as if in expectation, it was magnificent. Alive, majestic being at least ten feet tall.

Although it hovered slightly above the ground, its upper body was trim and appealing with a bare, green skin. Its shape was almost humanoid, though the arms were far too long and articulated strangely, with far more joints than any man's skeleton contained. Okay. At the ends of its appendages

were dozens of long, slender fingers and they moved ceaselessly like the antenna of some blind, searching insect. The lower portion of its body was hidden by a flowing, metallic skirt, rippled over the scorched grass as it moved slowly in my direction. I could see that nothing of its face, for

light from its round, red eyes obscured all shape and form, save for the suggestion of a spade-like structure through which I found the hood, the culture war, some feature of its anatomy I couldn't tell. The monster's eyes flared and traveled down my body to the evidence of my unrestrained excitement.

I made a sound along burbling hiss. I thought I could hear the beginnings of words and the creature's vocalization, words that I might understand, if only I could get closer and closer still. Yes, I said to the monster, you see me, you know what I want, I've come all this

way, waited here for you, ready to give you what you've come for and now all you've got to do is take it. Alright, well let's get on to the sex. The creature extended its arms. The many jittering fingers found me surrounded my head first and moving slowly down to my shoulders

and lower still. I held perfectly still allowing the beast to explore. Each small appendage tapped and prodded, mapping the shape of my human frame, so small in relation to the monster, so vulnerable, weak. The sensuous tapping of its countless fingers aroused me to such a state

that when it found my cock, I could barely hold back a groan of aching desire. Oh my. And it hissed again, once more. The words were not words whispered along the edge of comprehension, to come so close to understanding the message and yet to never hear the words themselves.

That was the greater tension than any other need, the baser need even to plunge myself into this unfathomable mystery and fuck it until we were both drowning in the gush of all the worldly goo. What I whispered as it went on caressing my junior bird pocket. What are you trying to say to me?

What message do you have? Only tell me and I'll make it sure everybody knows. Sure. Maybe we need to get closer, I suggested. Maybe I need to get inside you before I can understand. I lifted its flowing skirt, probing with my hands and found a likely opening. When I prodded and rubbed, the creature writhed and delighted. Oh my goodness.

So I kept on until it grew a long, thin probiscous from somewhere unseen. Clawaka. The new limb bumped impatiently in my arm and writhed its way towards me, seeking me with an urgency that mirrored my own. I know what you want. I said teasingly, you want me to get right up

in old Phineas' guts, don't you, Flatie? You're a bad, dirty monster, you sick fuck. My taunting made its long green probe lash all the harder. Evidently, you could understand English well enough. I guess. I was close, so close to my goal. If only I can get the creature to speak.

Okay, I said, fumbling with my bell buckle. Here it comes, you dirty fucking monster. I hope you're ready to fuck me good and hard, because I've been fucked by Sasquatch. I've been fucked by Slender Man. I've been fucked by a black-eyed kid who just reached the age 18. That's good, yeah. Are you monster

enough to fuck this ass? Are you? The creature contained itself no more. All its groping fingers seized me and turned me about. I found myself bent double, staring down at the burnt grass. And a moment later, its rambunctious probe plunged deep inside.

The combination of surprise and pleasure ripped a horse cry for my throat. Ah! I called out again as the creature began to thrust. And soon I could hear dogs barking at the nearby farm. I didn't have much time left. The farmer would come running to investigate my cater-wallon, and then he would find me

Inflagranted Delicto with a 10 foot tall monster in a skirt. My secret obsession would be known. The good reputation of the bird pocket family would be ruined forever. And worse, I might never know the secret all these fine-ass cryptas have been trying to impart. So tell me is it throbbed or is it pounded away my throbbing hole?

Give me the message! Give it to me now, Flattie! The creature emitted a rage and hiss, which turned into a series of clicks and then a moan that was almost a word. I could hear men shouting in the distance. The dogs baying as they came closer. You have to tell me! What is it you've been trying to tell me all this

time? Again, it struggled to speak. The hissing was so close to human language I could almost understand. The excitement was too much to bear between the lively member deep in my ass and the thread of imminent discovery. I was almost ready to spill over in a rush of heat and triumph. I could tell the monster

was getting close too. It's dozens of fingers tightening around my hips. You tell me! Tell me! I was almost sobbing as I pleaded for the pay off, the thing I'd come for. I felt the Flattwoods monster bend over me so close to heat from its glowing eyes, sear the back

of my neck. Its mysterious face was just behind, but was just beside my ears now as the monster and I came together and hissed. Alcatraz means pelican. That's a fucking shit! That's the end?

The Flattwoods monster said Alcatraz means pelican. It's a Easter, that's the end of it. Fucking, we'll do it next year. We'll do it next year again. That's great. Thank you so much for submitting that. Would you like to explore the themes of this story? For I have many things that I could say for example, the main character of the theme

is that he wants to hear some sort of communication with the monsters because in communicating with the monsters he can communicate with himself and learn why exactly does he have these strange and wonderful provisions toward these creatures? I can't! Also the New Orleans pelicans

it's the New Orleans Alcatraz. Huh. The New Orleans Alcatraz. The defining silence. It's like throwing a gun that you murdered your family with down a canyon. That silence. Well, thank you

so much for listening. Hope everyone has had a great holiday. We got this creepiest fuck, huh? That was creepy. I think that we really did great. We really did. Okay everyone, thanks for supporting everything that we do here on the last podcast network. We got the comic, we got the weed,

you know where to get us the coffee. Keep on going out there and supporting all the small businesses that support us. Thank you all so much. And yeah, alright everyone that's about it. Good work, fuckers Hail Satan. Goodbye Helgeen. Oh, do I say it on side stories too? Do I also say Helgeen on side stories?

Yeah, you went from guest to just co-host. You shifted from guest to co-host at some point during this episode. Right around the time that I was screaming about Pinocchio fucking the president to death. Yes, that's when you You cuck! Because technically that's how I got on the show.

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