Hypersphere Anonymous This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. ISBN 978-1-329-78152-8 First edition: December 2015 Fourth edition Part 1 Slice of Life Adventures in The Hypersphere 2 The Hypersphere is a big fucking place, kid. Imagine the biggest pile of dung you can take and then double-- no, triple that shit and you s t i l l h a v e n ’ t c o m e c l o s e t o o n e octingentillionth of a Hypersphere cornerstone. Hell, you probably don’t even know what the Hypersphere is, you goddamn fucking idiot kid. I bet you don’t know the first goddamn thing about the Hypersphere. If you were paying attention, you would have gathered that it’s a big fucking 3 place, but one thing I bet you didn’t know about the Hypersphere is that it is filled with fucked up freaks. There are normal people too, but they just aren’t as interesting as the freaks. Are you a freak, kid? Some sort of fucking Hypersphere psycho? What the fuck are you even doing here? Get the fuck out of my face you fucking deviant. So there I was, chilling out in the Hypersphere. I’d spent the vast majority of my life there, in fact. It did contain everything in my observable universe, so it was pretty hard to leave, honestly. At the time, I was stressing the fuck out about a fight I had gotten in earlier. I’d been shooting some hoops when some no-good shithouses had waltzed up to me and tried to make a scene. “Fuck you bignose whiteyman no playin de ball on my turf,” shouted the halfling who I assumed was the leader of this pack of apes, a man who ironically had a nose significantly bigger than mine. Seriously, it was comically large. This guy looked like a melanin-rich version of a banker drawn by Ben Garrison (if you catch my drift). I walked forward and asked him if he had any Wojamba to spare. “NA NAA FUCK YOU BIGNOSE1” he replied with anger, then began hooting and hollering as if he were performing some sort of tribal mating ritual. I tried to leave, but I guess the fuckwit got a bit overexcited and started kicking the ever-loving shit out of me, thus breaking several of my bones. 1No need to read into this at all. 4 After my skull was crushed and I opened my eyes, I was - once again - in the second room of the Hypersphere… “HA! I told you not to go with the Wojambas, kiddo!” said Juan, a large skeleton, prime usher of the second room. “Last time I went there it wasn’t so bad, but with the new Wojamba prohibition this thing has gotten… well… spooky!” The second room was surprisingly small, being one of the most important rooms in the Hypersphere. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe for those of us who weren’t skeletons. The room seemed to get smaller and smaller as time passed, but since this was Hyperspace all possible times existed all at once. This meant that the room was every possible size. So while I was getting squished to subatomic exotic matter as the room went nega, I was also at the very creation of the room. And the whole time I could hear some fucking awful rapping in the background. The skeletons that had masoned the room were an ancient species of Hyperspace, they had come at a very disadvantaged time as the identity holder had not yet been invented, and they could, due to this zemblanity of theirs, not hold on to their form as they passed through every possible time. The identity holder had been invented some forty odd Hypermoments before I first took an incalculable jump into Hyperspace by a group of post-skeletons. They had managed to keep their identity despite the massive non-passage of time. No such luck for the skeletons that had constructed this room. (Author’s Note: One2 of the previous two paragraphs is non-canon, you decide which one!) 2Or more. 5 Tyrone say his wojamba supplier aint treat him right. Jamal and he come round to my home and he say, Tyrell, lets go shot some wojamba m’man my supplier aint treat me right i need to shift this a man gotta hustle nomsayin and i did nohimsayin an we hopt in his lowtop an we cruised down to the playgroun at the school an we got out on a mad hustle and som no good honkey ass muhfucka was playin bball on our turf an tyrone poined out that he had a big fuckin nose i tell u man i went fuckin ape it was a full chimpout mufucka we grabbed our dicks like they was bout to fall the fuck off man fo real. so after we knock this punk ass whitey the fuck down he fades into the Hypersphere an som fuckin raciss poh-lees man com along and say he detect Hypersphere activity an we unner arrest just fo cuz we be black. racial profilin man it jus aint rite i tol that raciss muhfucka to suck mauh dik and firet my gat at him real fast like but yo my shit was stuck bullets caught up in the chamber he draws a piece an i entet up ded on the flo bcos he 3 shoot me fo bein black… din even do nuffin 3Skeezy-Stee’s account: “Tyrone say he Wojamba dealer ain treenum rie. Jamal’n he come rowmy hows’n he say: Skeezy, less go shoo summada Wojamba mamayy, dis nigga ain done is due diligence rie. Needa shiff dis, a man gotta hustle nowwamsayin. An I de, nohimsayin, an weez hopt ineez lowtop go cruiz’n dow t’da play’ngraw at da skoo awwe gone ow mad hustlin, n’den sum nogoo honkyass muhfuckaz playbaw on aur turf’n Tyrone goz poken attez noz likit sum fatass juisee watameloww. I tella mang T’n I wenn fukken ape twas sum fooh Woowstaw chimpouw sheei muhfucka, n’we groppin aw dicks like deyz bouta fawda fuck off maa, fo reah. An wez wipe dafloo wi’whitey hea bu’all a sud he fadenta Hyp’sfee, anden sum porkchop cum strutt’l long, say he cawt bisum freenj bizniss. Allo sud w’uner aress jussfo cuz we black, laik, rachael profil’n, man. Jusaint rite. Ani tole da rasee muhfucka t’suh ma uuj blaq coc and firet magatat eem rea fass, lie, bu’ yo ma sheei wuz stuq bulless imma chaymba he drawsa peas, ani entup dedon daflo cuz he shoome f’bean blaq… Din even do nuffin.” This was only the first sign of Skeezy’s mental illnez. 6 == The previous paragraph was brought to you by David Foster Wallace4 == We degenerates see a commercial for Yoplait, in which a sinewy- pretty pilates MILF lovingly prepares sack lunches for her school-aged children —one boy and the sweetest little lolita. When the nymphets sit to eat at the cafeteria with Walter (that disgusting booger-faced fuck), they discover a pithy love Post-It stuck to their yogurts: “Have a good first dayyy! Love, Mom :3” [It is 2169, and Mom is a reformed post- weeaboo.] The kids’ friends’ moms clearly don’t love them because their lunches are noteless. We shitposting degenerates see this on TV and retch, disgusted that millions of NORMIES REEEEEE see the same commercial and don’t retch but smile, [:3] feeling warm and good about themselves, their aging potato mothers with many-colored bruises, their children, their hot cheese pizza. More disgusting than the sentimentality of the hugsandkisses horror is the fact that its daily multimedia ubiquity is suggestive of sentimentality that is largely unquestioned. W e shitposting, fapping degenerates piss into 2-liter bottles never to leave our comfy NEET spaces and have nothing but time to think, question, and fap, but the masses… REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Sure, the cultural effects would likely not be as auspicious were the sinewy mother a heroin aficionado, nodding off in a dirty corner, while her kids catch the bus with bignose Tyrone and the Cuckbois on a corner littered with police tape and shell casings, still warm. Hey, at least they have their yogurt —that kind of message. But what is this… The Voice comes on. Onstage a blind, black, quadriplegic faggot —Nick Canopy, has to hold his microphone the whole time [N.C. kept alive by state-of-the-art fedora techniques all this time, having left America’s Got Talent since Howie just would not take No for an answer]. The gay, black, quadriplegic kid starts singing, and what comes out is the voice of Chocolate Rain Man. Absolutely mesmerizing. 4A white male. 7 A college-aged man, not a day over twenty-two and a half years — the pinnacle of a grown man’s’ futile pursuit of Happiness and Co.™, turns 360 degrees and walks away. While cuddling on the couch with his needy, chubby girlfriend, exclaims: “Wowza, that is inspiring. He looks like the waiter at Cheesecake Factory that served us last weekend, only without limbs.” “I wish I could sing like that,” growls the fat bitch, her banal statement echoes, resounds. College-man5 laughs. “Go to fuck!” We shitposting degenerates fap and ask: Is this what you want? Just covered in it. Nietzsche, slumbering for aeons, raised from the dead by execs who offer him 80s hair and a microphone: “With a little autotune— maybe a short skirt, heels, penis pastie—people will love you.