Oh God, I hope someone is reading this. Please help me, I've been taken prisoner by a devious pack of internet entrepreneurs, better known as the four young men who run this website. Oh god, I'm so cold" they have me locked up somewhere in their apartment building in Manhattan. Thank God I was able to make a primitive computer out of some old chicken bones, a Golden Grahams box, and the fifty feet of vacuum tubing that was lying around. Jesus, I wish they would loosen these restraints; I can't feel my feet. I never thought that the four guys that run this site, Ricky, Josh, Jakob and Zach could do such a thing. They seemed so nice and normal when I met them for the first time a few weeks ago. Why, I can remember it like it was yesterday"

It was just another summer's eve as I strolled into their new apartment in New York City's Tribeca. The building had an air of artistry and the temporary space they occupied was sparsely hip. I was welcomed with open arms and given a brief tour of the space. Everything seemed normal, but thinking back, Jakob did have a devilish twinkle in his eye. I assumed it was nothing more than slight astigmatism.

After the tour, we retired to the sitting area. With a sly smile, Ricky offered me a drink and I gratefully accepted. I should have left then because as Ricky rose to fetch my drink, he and Josh smirked to each other in the way only two people who know a terrible secret can. Of course, I wanted to make a good impression so I brushed it off as the reaffirmation of some old joke, or even a slight attraction betwixt the two.

The drink Ricky returned with looked as none I have ever seen before. The cocktail glowed an ominous green and was held in a massive glass and gold chalice. In the forefront of the glassware was the collegehumor jester but instead of being a devious trickster, the jester was nothing more than a smiling skull. I began to shiver with fear and tried to excuse myself. Zach slammed his hand down on my shoulders; "Why don't you stay a while" a long while," he said as Ricky poured the libation down my throat.

The room began to spin and I sat helpless as the four looked on, each of them grinning ear to ear. The last thing I heard before I succumbed to the powerful sedative in the drink was Jakob. "Get the restraints," he bellowed as feet shuffled and metal clinked.

The next two weeks are a blur. Ricky and Josh kept me on the edge of copiousness with more and more cocktails. I tried over and over to break free from the leather restraints that kept me solidly stuck to the medical examiner's table which they had strapped me to, but to no avail. Like mad scientists, they would enter my chamber each day with some new, horrible implement of torture. Groggily, I would protest their sick experiments, but my position did not lend itself to negotiation. One day, my face was covered expletives written in sharpie, touting my love for African-American genitalia. Another day Jakob poured an entire bag of flour about my face and body, treating me no better than a piece of chicken ready for frying. I had my body hair shaved into patterns that represented penises. I was placed under a sun lamp with the word "fag" written across my chest in sunscreen and was left with the sexist term temporarily scalded on my skin. Through all of these sick experiments, the four laughed as if my shame was entertainment to them.

Like all evil geniuses, the four revealed their grand plan to me after some time. They sat in four plush, velvet chairs as I was hoisted to an upright position. Each wore a cloak and held in his hand a scepter. Though I was not of full comprehension, I managed to retain that I was being held in collegehumor's secret Shaming Laboratory. Here, the four devils test and photograph new shaming methods for distribution to the wider world. They expressed regret that I had to be used for such a degrading purpose, but also insisted that I was doing the world a great service by involuntarily volunteering my body for the science.

Since then, I have sat here cold and alone, always awaiting their inevitable return to test their sick science on me. I can only hope that they will tire of this pursuit and free me, but maniacal geniuses are notoriously dedicated. Please" please, help me if you can. I fear I will my constitution cannot stand any more marker ink or flour and I have a sneaking suspicions that somewhere on my lower back is written an invitation to men to enter my hind-parts. I can only solemnly hope that you hear this cry and come to my swift rescue. Oh god" I think I hear them coming" Josh just said something about putting his buttocks near my face as I sleep" Oh god" Oh G"