When a text from a wrong number becomes a six-hour conversation...

Thursday, October 18, 2012 | | | 1 COMMENT(S) |
 Whenever I get a weird text from a wrong number, I'll assume it's one of my friends, and if it's not I'll play along anyway. I'm still not entirely sure what happened here, but what follows is a three-day long tale of I don't even know what.

I present to you, The Tale of Dennis:

"Dennis" doesn't give me any parameters, so I make him work for it:

"Dennis" sends me a picture of him half naked in front of a mirror, completely disregarding my request:

I am not satisfied with his offering but I decide to be kind and offer him an alternative, even though I don't think I was being too difficult with the first request:

Before getting any further in this relationship, "Dennis" decides he needs to know a little more about me. If this is a prank I refuse to be the first to fold, and if it's not he doesn't know what he got himself into:

My bad "Dennis", you apparently can spell...

Sometimes I throw in Kirby emoticons to add to my element of confusion:

"Dennis" thinks he can get something for nothing. I decide to give him one more, easier try:

"Dennis" gets sick of me playing hardball and tries to let go:

I'm clearly so seductive that he just can't let go, though:

At this point I start getting bored of this constant push and pull where neither of us are getting anywhere, and after a quick Google search (and a friend's recommendation) I decide to throw Dennis a bone and send him a picture that will obviously send him into a lustful frenzy:

Wait, it actually sends him into a lustful frenzy?

I figure that since I finally sent Dennis a pic, he should have to give me what I want:

At this point I was granted the misfortune of receiving not ONE, but TWO dick pics from "Dennis". I have omitted the images from this post because the internet has seen enough of that. Staying in character, I berate him for not only escalating the situation but still not giving me what I need. He doesn't realize that I'm in the position of power here:

"Dennis" still doesn't get it and tries to let go of me again:

Aaaaand he comes back, as if I'm an ex with a vice-like grip on his metaphorical balls:

He offers me a video and sends it, which thankfully is so blurry that I can't even make out what's going on:

At this point it's getting pretty late (this started at 7 PM or so, it's now 12 AM) and I'm getting bored of there being no progress OR panda suit. Whether it's a prank or not it's time for it to end:

I decide to up the ante even more:

At this point I hope it's an actual person who I just scared the crap out of, because there is no more response:

...until 6:29 AM the next morning:

Now I'm getting even more bored, so I decide to end it once and for all:

"Dennis" tries to justify his actions, citing that this was an April Fool's joke... in October:

I am still not sure whether this was one of my friends pranking me (which is what I'm assuming) or whether "Dennis" is actually named Dennis and was dropped on his head as a child and sends his dick pics to strangers, but at this point I've decided to stop the game and leave them hanging, for eternity. If Dennis is real, I feel slightly bad for breaking his heart. But not really:

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Welcome to Four Finger Disco!

Friday, November 4, 2011 | | | 0 COMMENT(S) |
While you're here, check out some of our...


The Intro to my Best-Selling Novel/Movie/TV Special

Monday, July 4, 2011 | | | 0 COMMENT(S) |
We’re at Central Park, and the Sun’s just at its high, reminding me of the old days where it wasn’t so damn hot out. The camera starts up on the Sun, and then swooshes down through the beautiful trees. The sounds of children playing games and birds singing can be heard. A hydrant is ripped open like a fountain. The fountain it creates makes for pleasant background noise.

The camera reveals a bronze statue of the great Hermaphroditus, standing with a tennis racquet and all the private parts you could ever name (assuming you know them all). He or she is looking up to the heavens, as if to say, “Mother, why?” As if to damn his or her whole creation, for the journey was a nightmare.

The camera slowly rests on me, a man of fifty in a suit and tie and hat. I take the hat off, and stick a pipe in my mouth. A few puffs. Who smokes pipes anymore? you might ask. Me, I’ll answer. When I notice the camera, I act a little startled, but not too much, as if I expected this visitor, just not so early. I take my hat off, and say, “How do you do?” I start to explain my presence. I’m here every Saturday afternoon, I say. Reminds me of the good old days when you could just pick up a book and read. I’m forgetting something, I say. I’m also here every Tuesday when I’m high as a damn kite. Can’t even feel my cerebral vortex.

“Cortex,” says the man behind the camera.

“What was that?” I say. I mouth, You wanna get fired? He shakes his head no. I smirk and mouth, Thought so.

“Anyway kids,” I continue, “what I have to tell you today is a story.” I wait for the hoorays that are probably occurring right around your TV set at the moment. “You ever wanna be a firefighter when you grow up? Or a policeman? Or even an astronaut? Well, I mean, you can’t be an astronaut anymore, but the other two are still fair game.”

While I’m explaining, Little Joey runs up and sits on the bench next to me.

“Why, Joey, you’re not supposed to be here!” I say.

“I just need some money for the ice cream man,” he whines.

“Well, here you go, Joey,” I say, and flip him a quarter.

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Mackey!” And he runs off. A quarter isn’t nearly enough to get anything from the ice cream man these days. It’s like $3.50 for a fucking Sno-Cone. But I figure if he bums off a few more weird old guys smoking pipes, he’ll make enough. Someday. The kid’s gotta learn to grub off people when he’s still young, because when he’s trying that at thirty, God, no one gives a shit. Let me tell you.

“Like I was saying,” I go on, “you ever wanna be a lawyer? Or a movie star? And just when you’re getting older, you change your mind, and you wanna be a baseball player? Or a fucking disappointment, just like your old man, who went out to get a pack of cigarettes and just—” I shake the memories out of my head. I’m fifty and I live in my mother’s basement, but you’d never be able to tell because I look stable and sly as hell. I look like Leslie Nielsen, but my hair hasn’t gone so white just yet. You can hear this all through voice-over narration by the way. It’s one of those straight-to-TV specials.

“The story I’m about to tell you is something just like that,” I say, “except our Hero, Hermaphroditus, can’t decide whether or not he or she wants to be a man, or be a woman.”

The camera angle suddenly changes to show me from profile. I put my arm around where the imaginary you would be sitting and turn towards the camera.

“Frankly, I don’t see what’s so great about being a woman,” I say. “But, as this story has been passed down for ages through oral tradition, it’s my duty to show you both sides of things.”

The camera angle changes again to what it was before, from the front, and I look like a complete idiot, all dedicated to talking to some imaginary person beside me. I look at the cameraman and run my finger across the front of my throat, relaying the message to cut the shit. He’s cracking up, but I’m going to murder him when this scene is done.

“So sit back,” I say, “relax, and grab yourself a few tubs of popcorn, especially if you’re watching this in one sitting. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride,” I say, and laugh like I wrote that one myself. I wonder who the hell was hired to write these lines for the teleprompter. Then I remember who did. And I’ll kill him too. I sit there, twiddling my thumbs, thinking about murder, looking like a fucking maniac, when the camera pans off me and back to the statue and back to the Sun.

And that’s how our great epic, The Hermaphroditiad, starts.

Excerpts From My New Teen Paranormal Romance Novel: Egyptian Sunrise!

Friday, July 1, 2011 | | | 0 COMMENT(S) |

Since the inception of certain crappy books and movies (which I've already talked about), vampires have become a huge staple in the market that's been targeting pre-teen girls. I'm all about trying to find out what makes certain things appeal to this market and thus makes them ridiculously successful, and I feel like I'm getting close to figuring out what the formula is.

As many of you noticed from our last two posts, Sean and I took a break from Four Finger Disco for the month of June in order to take a challenge and write our own novels. Whenever I've worked with Sean on co-writing things his fear of clowns and creepy obsession with Spanish Men's nipples tend to seep through our manuscript, filling the pages with oddities that would make even the weirdest basement dwelling 4chan poster cringe. It was definitely a breath of fresh air to come up with my own stuff, and while I'm not sure if all of the teenyboppers out there are ready for it, I think it's time that I hit the market.

As portrayed in the picture above, “SUBSTANCELESS SHIT” is now a genre in mainstream bookstores, and I'm ready to be The New York Times' next hip, bestselling author of it. I've decided to give our loyal readers a tease of some raw, unedited excerpts to whet their appetites until the book hits shelves. All you need to know is that this is the story of a girl who's moved to a new town and is trying to find her place amongst the locals who just love to shower her with attention. She falls in love with a boy whose supernatural powers and secretive family stand in the way of their true union.

You might be saying, “Pat! But doesn't that sound like something we've already read and watched before?” Well to you I say, “Maybe, but this shit is about mummies.”

From CHAPTER 3: The First Day of School

As I strode down the hallway of Thomas Jefferson Memorial High School, I worried about everything a normal sixteen year old girl does. Would I make the cheer squad? Would my parents find the issues of Cosmo I was hiding under my bed? Would Justin Beiber EVER answer my countless Facebook messages on his fan page?

Would I ever find true love?

That last one was answered as I walked into Chem class.

Sitting at one of the lab tables was one of the most striking, mysterious boys I had ever seen in my life. He looked... tall. A shock of dark hair spilled out from beneath his baseball cap, nearly getting in the way of his eyes which literally glowed. His long sleeved shirt and $80 jeans were emblazoned with the Hollister logo; he must have had money. With every movement and every glance his muscles bulged, creating a display which made me drool.

My heart skipped a beat when our teacher assigned my seat next to his, and I sat there for at least a couple of minutes before I gathered up the courage to talk to him.

“My name is Dawn,” I said, curling my hair and batting my eyes.

“RAHHH,” he moaned.

I should have died from how quickly my heart melted.

And later on in the class, after one of his loose bandages had caught on fire from the bunsen burner and he ran from the class screaming, I knew that this boy was the one for me.

From CHAPTER 7: Lost In The Woods

My leg was bleeding profusely, and I knew that I hadn't climbed far enough up the tree to escape the bear's advances. I figured that they were too fat to climb after me, but texting the weird kid in my Algebra class who loved to go camping told me otherwise.

Before long I heard the same growl I had when I'd first gotten hopelessly lost, and before I could scream the bear was at the base of the tree, clawing his way up. I tried to kick at its face with my good leg but it was useless; every movement I made sent me into fits of pain. It was all over.

And then music filled my ears.

“MEHHH,” said RAHHH, stumbling out of the bushes with his arms outreached. He awkwardly tackled the bear in an attempt to get it off of me but it wasn't phased; within seconds the bear was on top of him, clawing at his chest and ripping his bandages apart.

“RAHHH!” I cried.

“RAHHH,” he replied, my pleas giving him the strength he needed to prevail. In a flash that would have blinded me if I was looking directly at him, his eyes exploded with light, sending the bear into a frenzy as a curse was placed upon it. Its body collapsed to the ground, its soul forced to wander Egypt for all eternity.

“You came for me,” I cried, this time out of joy.

“MAHHH,” he said in a concerned voice as he helped me down from the tree. He looked all over his body for some bandages that weren't torn from the fight with the bear, and he removed them, helping to wrap my leg so I wouldn't pass out from blood loss.

As I fell in and out of consciousness, I was certain of two things:

First, RAHHH was a mummy.

And second, I was unconditionally in love with him.

So there you have it, folks! A look into the newest hit that will have all of the girls out there swooning over me, coming to my book signings and buying all of my shitty merchandise. Now to figure out which Hollywood hunk will play the lead role.

BREAK TIME, or, Sean's Encounter With A Friendly Clown

Tuesday, May 31, 2011 | | | 0 COMMENT(S) |
As you may have already heard from Sean's post, Four Finger Disco is taking a break for the month of June. The reasons were a little bit difficult for him to talk about so he fabricated a few, and we here at Four Finger Disco, Inc respect each other's privacy and would never put our working relationships in jeopardy by talking about things we promised we'd never mention in public.

But some secrets just can't be kept.

Sean was once molested by a clown. 

And it's on Youtube.

Well, at least what led up to it is. A cheerful friend of ours linking to a certain video on Facebook has brought back awful memories that Sean thought he'd never relive. Sean and I believe that there is no better remedy for awful recurring dreams than taking the challenge of writing a novel in a month in the spirit of National Novel Writing Month. Being the great friend that I am, I'll be right there beside him the whole way churning out my own work.

So while we're gone, why don't you check out some of our successful dating advice or a look back at the most extreme show on television? There are also plenty of other articles and reviews to browse through. Oh, and there's also that video I mentioned before at the bottom of this post!

Thanks for sticking with us, and we'll see you in July with more posts and finished copies of my novel, "Great Hair Day" (the first in a highly marketable young adult series), and Sean's manifestation of his deep seated vampire fantasies, "Dark Nights In San Fransisco"


Sunday, May 29, 2011 | | | 1 COMMENT(S) |
j/k bros.

We're taking a break for June to reunite with our skimboarding team and skim the entire coast of Antarctica.

Actually, we're both writing books and getting famous.

Actually, we're both writing books.

National Write A Novel Month is in November, but we decided to try June this year.

I'm writing a best-seller about a boy wizard who goes to school and finds out his boyfriend is a vampire with a dragon tattoo.

Pat's writing a touching memoir about what it's like to be a lonely young cross-dresser with no friends, but to still have a dog who loves licking peanut butter. And wherever Pat smears that peanut butter—well—that's something I wouldn't want to spoil for you.

In the meantime, enjoy this educational video that taught me a lot about life.


How Oatmeal Chewy Chips Ahoy Ruined My Night: An Open Letter To Nabisco

Sunday, May 15, 2011 | | | 9 COMMENT(S) |
Now, let me just say that I love Chips Ahoy and that they are by far my favorite brand of cookie. I'm not going to go into details because my letter explains it all, but this past weekend I underwent an experience in which I felt both betrayed and disappointed. I've forwarded my thoughts to Nabisco, and if I end up hearing back I will definitely post the results.

I can only hope that nobody else makes the same mistake I did!

To Whom It May Concern,

I would like to begin this letter by expressing my utmost gratitude for the years of joy and deliciousness your products have provided me. Ever since I was a young chap I have always been delighted when Chewy Chips Ahoy were brought into my home, and the mere sight of the familiar red box has always been enough to tickle my kickers. Even now, Chewy Chips Ahoy are generally my go-to cookie when I am in the mood for a delicious, soft, chocolatey treat.

While shopping for ice cream the other day (I was part of a team which was working effortlessly to put together an ice cream social which ended up rather smashing if I do say so myself), a shortcut through the cookie aisle led me to your products once more. Without thinking twice I reached for the familiar red box and placed it among my other soon-to-be purchases. I knew that the attendees of the ice cream social would delight in them, and, feeling a bit greedy myself, I purchased a second box for my own use.

The next night I poured myself a nice glass of milk and tore open the package of cookies, ready to have a scrumptious snack before bed. It was not until the cookie was inserted into my mouth and my jaw had already clamped down on it that I realized I had made a fatal mistake.

"NO," I would have cried if my mouth was not full of chocolate and oats.

I swallowed with the help of the milk, and before I could possibly venture to try another cookie, I scrutinized the package in an attempt to discover where I had erred. I had been buying these cookies for years, and it appeared that my complacency and the comfort I had established with your products led to my over-confidence and trust that I would not have to scrutinize the package to make sure I was purchasing the correct snacks. At a quick glance, there is no noticeable difference.

After asking around it has appeared that I am not the first one who has been befallen by this tragedy; many of my peers have made this same wrong purchase in the past, misled by this slight change in packaging. This error not only ruined the end of my night but has left me disgruntled; this package of cookies now sits upon my shelf, watching me, wondering why I have yet to open it again or sample its contents. It does not understand that its oats interrupt the perfect chemistry between the dough and the chocolate: the combination which has left me satisfied for nearly two decades.

It will never understand.

The situation was worsened by my inability to return the package due to my opening of it before I could notice the slight change in design, and I am not only out a box of cookies, but the two dollars and fifty cents I had forked over to the Walmart cashier for them.

It is because of this that I turn to you, Nabisco. As a faithful fan for years, this is not only a plea, but a warning to those who have not yet made the mistake of purchasing the wrong cookies. The ball is now in your court and I await a response from your website's feedback system. I pray that our relationship may continue in an amicable fashion.

Thank you very much for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon!

P.S. Your new American Summer cookies are an absolute DELIGHT! Please continue to manufacture them far after the Summer has ended. Forever, if possible. My fate would have been avoided had I just gone with these again instead.

The Benefits of Having Two Moms

Sunday, May 8, 2011 | | | 4 COMMENT(S) |

Mother's Day is kind of a touchy subject for me, not because I get Pat's mom the best Mother's Day present of all ;) but because I have two moms.

We're really close, which means Mother's Day is like another Christmas.

Since it is Mother's Day and all, I guess I'll tell you a little bit about what it's like to have two moms.

is amazing. Moms take long-ass showers so they can shave their legs and put on massive amounts of make-up. So when Mrs. Mackey #1 wakes up and takes a shower, Mrs. Mackey #2 makes a sweet-ass fruit salad. And when Mrs. Mackey #2 then takes her shower, I complain to Mrs. Mackey #1 about how I never got my breakfast, and she makes a glorious mountain of bacon, sausage, and deer meat. That's how I stay healthy with the fruits while still getting fucking ripped all the goddamn time.

is also pretty sweet. Whenever I get in trouble for tripping Jimmy Jimmies down the stairs, or smoking e-cigarettes in the bathroom, I divide the phone calls home between moms. That way, one mom thinks I'm a total dick to Jimmy Jimmies but an e-sober goody two shoes, whereas the other thinks I'm just plain old friendly to my peers, but I smoke water vapor like I'm huffing a damn rainforest.

are cool as hell. I mean, both of my moms are Class Moms, so whenever my classmates hit on my mom for being almost as gorgeous as I am, she has clear evidence that she's taken: my other mom is right there. And it's badass to see my moms beating the shit out of everyone who takes a glance at either of them. They did - in fact - meet in boot camp.

rock everyone's socks. When I have no one but two nice-looking ladies screaming at me for more, everyone assumes I'm getting lucky after banging out a snazzy jazz rendition of the Inspector Gadget theme song. But it's really just my moms.

is better than you'd think when you have two moms. Usually families dress as really gay shit like The Incredibles or The Cosbys; with two moms, the world is just not enough. Firstly, if we're ever flat out of ideas, we can be any James Bond movie trio: I'm James Bond, and my moms are both the two girls he screws in any given movie. Sometimes we go for the traditional Greek theme, like where I'm Oedipus and they're Jocasta and Antigone. Sometimes we go for Roman, like where I'm Jupiter and they're Europa and Juno. But usually we can do better than that. Last year, I was Tiger Woods, Mom #1 was Mrs. Woods, and Mom #2 was that meddling porn star that always ruins their plans. She watched a lot of weird movies I wasn't allowed to watch to play out her part, and boy, did she put on a show.

are also dope as soap on a rope.
- Whenever I get a boo-boo, I get two kisses.
- When I'm sick, I'm twice as likely to have a sympathetic mom who lets me stay home.
- Dinner.
- Neither of them can say no to getting a kitten. Because neither of them are dads.
- They don't expect me to do yardwork either.
- They can never use the "back in my day we had to walk five miles in tornadoes and UFO weather to get to school" because neither of them are dick dads.
- They can never give me the "Son, your body is changing" talk because they don't get it.
- Since saying "Mom" is ambiguous, I can call them by their first names - Beyonce and Kesha - even though I still call them Mom #1 and #2.

Since my mother married my mother, neither changed last names. I was born half from one and half from the other - one gave birth to my head, and the other gave birth to the rest, and I assembled myself like Megazord. It was then that they decided to take my last name instead, which is why I call them both Mrs. Mackey.

So moms, this post is for you. Happy Mother's Day.

As for Pat's mom, you'll get your Mother's Day present later ;)

Ode to a Fallen Banana and My Encounter With Three Amish-Looking Girls

Tuesday, May 3, 2011 | | | 0 COMMENT(S) |
It's not often that something I see on my way to class really strikes me enough to stop and think about it; most of the time my walk follows the general routine of saying hi to the same people I see every day. Maybe if it's a particularly exciting day I'll almost get hit by some dumbass in a rush driving through the crosswalk as if they had no idea several months into the semester that everybody floods out of the lecture hall at the same times.

Perhaps the most exciting thing I've ever seen on the way to class was an old guy speeding through a crosswalk, narrowly hitting a couple of kids texting and not paying attention. He'd been wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigar, and he obviously did not give a fuck. That sort of bad-assery earned him a Facebook status update from my phone, but nothing more.

Today was not much different than any other, and just like at the end of every other semester, I have begun to start my papers later and later. I began a 1-page response which was due at 2:50 at around 2:34, finished it at 2:46, and ran out the door so I could print it out while still getting to the room on time for attendance.

And then I saw this:

It baffled me so much that I just had to stop and stare for a second.

“But Pat,” you might say while going to give me a fist bump if you're a guy, or blushing if you're a girl, or trying to do something really weird and gay as usual if you're Sean. “It's just a banana. What's so out of the ordinary about that?”

Well let me tell you:

  1. Who the hell leaves a perfectly good banana just lying on the floor like that? Sure, I could see if you dropped an apple or something where you usually eat the skin, but you're going to be peeling it off soon anyway.

  2. Whoever left this banana hanging didn't even go as far as to take the sticker off. 

    This means this was probably a pretty new banana, and a fall to the ground from waist to chest height wouldn't damage it beyond repair. 

  3. I can understand leaving something on the ground if it's something like a napkin that annoyingly gets blown away, or an apple that rolls down a hill, or something that's exploded everywhere. A banana isn't going to get moved by the wind, its awkward shape prevents it from going anywhere, and even if it explodes, the debris will be contained inside the peel to provide optimal disposing conditions.
Whoever dropped this little guy left him for dead without even giving him a second thought, and I say that this is a travesty. I wasn't sure what to do with him, but after reading about how what to do with Osama's body was such a big issue, I figured a burial at sea would be the best course of action. Several hours later, the deed had been done and some sailor was angry that I'd borrowed his boat without asking.

In closing, this brought to mind a scenario from about three weeks ago when I passed three Amish-looking girls and I overheard one of them say to another while giggling:

"Well, you must be good now with all the practice on that banana!"

It worries me that this might have been the same banana, in which case it was sexually assaulted before being tossed half a mile away. And if it's not the same, I can only imagine what THAT banana went through at the hands of these primitive people who don't even know what electricity is and still harvest their own food. I don't know where this sudden trend of treating bananas like shit and using them to improve your skills of pleasing your Amish-looking boyfriend came from, but I'm beginning to worry that soon this barbarism will spread faster than we can stop it.

And I don't think we can afford another Civil Rights Movement with how high these gas prices are.