editorial

Even typing these words is difficult. The memory of this tragedy grows fresher with every passing day, like the hard-on of a virgin whose smokeshow of a GF won't bang him because of religion or some shit. And yet, there is a slight solace in recall, so I press on.

Perhaps I should begin by stating that while I once viewed myself as a staunch proponent of "outrage culture;" the events that unfolded two weeks ago at my now-deceased friend Jeremy's stepdad's lake house have caused me to reconsider not only my stance on "trigger-warnings" and PC Culture, but the entirety of my life and its inherent purpose in this world. With that in mind, I must insist that readers who might be troubled by my unrelenting depiction of some truly fucked up shit avert their eyes now.

Fifteen days ago, my three main dudes AKA "The Crew" AKA "The Mid-Day Dirty Dippers" AKA Jeremy Blutstein, Vinnie Torino, and Marshall "Fuck Ape" Peters all died suddenly in a freak accident resulting from a loss of oxygen via vaginal asphyxiation. To put it in the terms that now chill my very spine, they literally "drowned in pussy."

It is a moment I will never forget.

It was Mountain Weekend, so you know we were all getting mad play. I walked out to the kitchen to grab a gatorade and some of Fuck Ape's leftover chicken fries. It was then that I heard the rapturous screams of my dear friend's dates. I would like to tell you now, dear reader, that I ran to their aid, but in my foolishness, I did nothing but pump my fist in silent reverence for the prowess of my squad. Hours later, the EMT would tell me that my bros had simply gotten their dates "too wet" and that the resulting gush flooded each of their lungs almost instantly. I didn't sleep for two days, except for a thirty minute nap after Vinnie's ex sucked me off, I was just that devastated.

So now, as I prepare to attend a funeral for three of the rowdiest motherfuckers in all of Northern Pennsylvania, as I calm my trembling fists and attempt to stare my fallen bros' mothers, fathers and super-hot sisters in the eye, I implore you. Please, PLEASE think twice about the power your words hold. Guide your tongue with respect. Respect for yourself, for your romantic partners and first and foremost, for your friends. And if you must laud your companion's oral achievements, please, do it with a phrase that empowers all involved, like "Slammin' Mad Gash" or "Getting Lit on Slit that Won't Quit." It is small gestures of cultural awareness such as these that will pave the way for a better tomorrow.

Thank you for your time.

Bradley "The New Fuck Ape" Stevenson