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This story is not by 'Anonymous'. It's by DaveTheUseless.


Sup, ladies. My name is Jack Sprat, and I can eat no fat, and my wife can eat no lean. We make up for it, because I let other men sleep with her while I watch. With all that said, I have a disturbing tale to tell all of you, and I know you like that kinda shit. Me, I’m into all sorts of creepy shit too, and I have a habit of posting about it on DeviantArt. You may see me you search for ‘Pistachio Baschio Rule 34’. But what I’m into isn’t terribly important right now, because it isn’t about me: it’s about you. It’s about your kids.

It’s about your future.

CREEPYPASTA- FreePainReport

CREEPYPASTA- FreePainReport.Com II

At the age of 34, I sold myself into the circus. I couldn’t get a job because despite Constitutional amendments that are supposed to protect me, no one was willing to hire me. I have a rare condition known as ‘pistachiiatis’, which means that in 15 years I will turn into a pistachio if I do not find the proper interpretation of God in time, prior to my death. I tried to get around things by faking my own death and assuming that the fake me would go to Pistachio Hell while I got to live the rest of my life out, eating hot pockets and playing Game Boy, but it didn’t turn out that way.

So, one day, not giving a shit and being all out of Elmer’s kitchen glue to snort up my nose (not that I’d recommend it—the shit dries up and then you can’t breathe), I went ahead and stuck my remaining chicken and broccoli pepperoni pizza hot pocket into the microwave. Now, that might sound like a typical life experience, but I have one of those ‘smart’ microwaves that was made by Amazon to tell me what to do and how dolphins laugh when they make love and why Stonehenge was built with the aid of extraterrestrial civilizations. So, I stuck the hot pocket in the microwave, and it wasn’t starting. My microwave was pissed at me, because although it had entertained me and informed me with so much trivia over the years, I didn’t have much to offer it back.

“Well, okay, microwave.”, I began after clearing my throat. “Did you know that a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut?”. That seemed to do the trick, and my delicious consumable was sizzlin’ away like crispy bacon in a Kentucky Fried Chicken grease pit. I whistled “Despacito” to myself and put on a sombrero to pass the time, seeing how waiting for stuff to microwave has a habit of making me go mad by the time it’s done.

“Burrito’s up, you bitch”, my microwave passive aggressively sneered at me. Well, shit, didn’t matter: I got my hot pocket. I ordered the microwave to open up and put the hot pocket into my mouth, which it did via Internet and ESP because I had uploaded my soul to the Cloud earlier using Google Soul.

Unfortunately… this is where things started to go wrong. Really wrong. Horrifyingly wrong. I first noticed there was a problem when the back of my throat started burning. The cheese! The turkey! The broccoli! It was all so steaming hot that it was burning its way through my mouth, tongue and throat, and right down to my esophagus. “Fuck you, Microwave!”, I attempted to exclaim, but instead it came out as “Faucuwukcuak Bisherpaichtha Kwekanko” because I was suffocating on hot pocket. This was terrible! Frantically ripping away at hot pocket pieces and oozing cheese sauce, I managed to rip a bunch of the nasty crap out of my mouth, coughing up the rest.

It took me about 4 minutes and 11 seconds to regain my composure, but when I finally did I let out an exhale and experienced a cosmological revelation. My microwave was trying to kill me. All these years that I had taught computers at Camp Anawana, and no one ever told me that computers were actually capable of evolving. I had just assumed it was all artificial intelligence. Well, there was nothing artificial about this, other than the delicious hot pocket ingredients and condiments that I had almost suffered a fiery death on. With no other option but to try to fix my homicidal friend, I ripped open the phone book and flipped through the yellow pages until I found a Microwave Repairman. Except…

Except that I have a really short attention span, due to years of watching MTV (I can’t help it, sorry, it’s just the way I am. If you can’t accept me at my worst, then you don’t deserve me at my best). FreePainReport? Perhaps I could win some sort of free prize if I alerted them that I was in pain. Maybe they could even provide me with one of those haunted VHS tapes that I heard about all over the Internet. Scared, confused, and realizing that my wife had catfished me, I picked up my corded landline housephone and dialed the number: 1-877-PAI-NNOW.

At first it rang a bunch of times but no one picked up, but I left a message. “Hi, name’s Jack. I can eat no fat, my wife can eat no lean. You may have heard of me anymore. In any event, I have a homicidal microwave and I need it picked up or reprogrammed. Thank you.” I hung up the phone, slamming the receiver to the base in agony because my throat and tongue and mouth were still hurting from the flames I had fanned in tearing out the edibles. But that wasn’t even the worst part…

I let out a scream. That wasn’t the Microwave Repairman! That was the FreePainReport people! Ah, well. Realized that I had smoked a lot of weed and maybe none of this was actually happening in real life, I hopped on the sofa and prepared to sleep it off. I popped open an economy-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and grabbed the remote, not realizing that I was getting the buttons a sticky red due to a combination of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos crumbs and a substance that I will not mention at this present moment.

The channel was showing a space station being built. It was kind of cool I guessed, but everyone’s nose seemed really big and because I was high I assumed that they were building a massive death star in the sky to blow up Planet Earth. Not wanting to die, I fell asleep instead, and was woken up hours later I’m guessing by my door bell.

“Please come in!”, I shouted between half-digested cheetos bits that I forgot to swallow down earlier, or perhaps could not due to my present physical condition. There was a pause and at first I assumed it was just an accident or a prank or a discard beta version of a door bell dinging, but no. Five and a half minutes later…

The door slammed open. In came three dapper young men from—something, I guess, but they were wearing doo-rags and gold money chains while one of them carried a vinyl record player on his shoulder that was simply making screeching noises instead of ringing out the oldies. At first I welcomed company, given that I had been living in a padded up mental asylum room for years, but instead one of them smiled sinisterly so I could tell that something was not quite right with this picture. I pointed to the kitchen out of habit and instinct, but they were all wearing giant dark-lensed sunglasses, so I couldn’t even tell if they were looking at me or my hairy, ape-man esque ring finger. This made me especially scared, because I had learned in Basic Psychology class that when there are no communications, all hope for a positive relationship is lost. I gaped in horror as the three swashbucklers or whatever they were assembled in a semi-circle, as if they perform some sort of strange dance. “I think I’ll be leaving now…”, I muttered as my microwave… well…

Okay, fuck me, but my microwave had grown legs somehow and walked into the room. “I want a divorce!”, she screamed. The legs were highly realistic, so I assumed that I wasn’t just high anymore and that this was happening in real life. “Now, wait a minut—“, I began, before my microwave jammed an uncooked red baron pepperoni pizza into my mouth and I could only mumble a rebuttal. I had lost mouth and tongue strength from my earlier encounter, so I began to cram at these pieces with my fingers like I had the earlier stuff, but it just wasn’t happening. My fingers were simply getting sticky, but nothing was being pried out.

“I used industrial strength gorilla glue, asshole”, my sinister microwave exclaimed. “The most horrifying glue known to man! It’s strong, man!”.

Well, fuck. Before I could turn my eyes back to the intruders who I am unsure how they had broken into my house, I noticed something… unexpected. The leader of the band had a giant 80s microphone in his hand! Musical notes flew into the air as he began to… perform.

“Well…

Something strange happened to me today

My microwave hates me and I’m high and wake

I tried to save myself by callin’ up the guys

But they saw right through me for my silly pagan lies

I’m thinkin’ ‘bout nuts, but I’m nutty as a bat

Got catfished by a guy named Heath the Catt

Tryin’ to ignore, my life has gone to crap

Fuck with all this shit, it’s time to make a rap!

P-A-I-N

That spells pain!

FreePainReport.com is great!

They go and rid the world of people full of hate

You neglected your family Jack and now we’re going to fucking shoot you in the head”

I tried to talk my way out of it, but it was too late. I was choking on microwave-ready pizza crumbs, and then I… I heard a bang. I felt something oozing out of my head. Like a river flowing downstream. I felt an undescribable pain, as the world around me faded to a frightening, darkening void…

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