Mother’s Day Cameo from Bret the Hitman Hart Goes Underappreciated

Posted on by Dan Luberto

MADISON, Wis. — Local mom Helen Dupree is reportedly torn between feelings of disappointment, dejection and confusion after her son gifted her a Cameo message from wrestling legend Bret “The Hitman” Hart, sources close to the matriarch confirmed.

“I certainly appreciate that he actually remembered Mother’s Day this year, even though he said this counts for my birthday next month, too,” said Dupree. “My son’s a good boy and I love when he shares his interests with me, but I’ve never even heard of this Hitman. The guy seemed really agitated and sort of sweaty. He went on and on about how Vince McMahon is a scumbag and talked about Calgary wrestling history for about 30 minutes. I would have preferred just a card or flowers from Food Lion.”

Cameo, a service that allows fans to send messages through celebrities for a fee, has exploded in popularity in recent months, although this was son Matthew Dupree’s first time using it.

“This is the single greatest gift of all time,” said the younger Dupree. “Bret is one of the greatest technicians to ever step foot into the ring! I almost got her a message from New Jack but, come on, this is my mom we’re talking about. She deserves the best. I would have killed for something like this for my birthday but all my parents did was buy me a PS5, which is great, but didn’t exactly make history giving Stone Cold the Sharpshooter at Wrestlemania 13.”

WWE Hall of Famer Bret Hart admitted to feeling a sneaking suspicion that the gift wasn’t entirely for the benefit of the supportive mother.

“I definitely raised an eyebrow when I saw this come in as a ‘Mother’s Day Request’ but I figured maybe the kid’s mom had a crush on me in the ‘80s or something, and who am I to judge? I thought it’d be a nice change of pace from the usual marks in this app,” said the five-time WWE World Champion. “Once I saw a bunch of questions about the Montreal Screwjob and some invasive questions about my brother’s tragic death followed by ‘Can you also cut a promo on my boy Steve?’ I immediately felt bad for contributing to what I’m sure was a shitty Mother’s Day for her. I did my best to liven it up, but this isn’t really my thing.”

At press time, Mrs. Dupree’s husband Frank Dupree was hiding his intended gift: a Cameo from Roger Clemens discussing the finer details of the 2000 Subway Series broken bat incident with Mike Piazza.

‘90s One-Hit Wonder Doug Funnie Reveals Dark Origin Behind “Bangin’ on a Trash Can”

Posted on by Jay Chanoine

If you grew up in the nineties, the alternative rock radio hits of the day probably bring you back to things like eating Nic Nacs, bagging nematodes, and reading “Man-O-Steel Man” comic books. But for the artists behind those hits, the memories they represent can often be troubling reminders of difficult times, as we learned in a recent interview with Doug Funnie, the man behind the now classic “Bangin’ on a Trash Can.”

“I couldn’t believe how big it got. They played that shit in the mall food court like we were The Beets or something,” explained the songwriter. “But what most didn’t know is, I was singing about whoring myself out in seventh grade to buy smack.”

Funnie, now 47, still can’t believe the song made it on the radio at all. “The fuck did you think it was about? It’s called ‘Bangin’ on a Trash Can.’ You think ‘53rd & 3rd’ is just an ode to a four way intersection? It’s the label’s fault there was any confusion. They wouldn’t put the song out unless we changed the ‘cumming on a streetlight’ line.”

While the sudden success could have turned his life around, those close to Funnie remember it only worsening the situation.

“Just cuz he didn’t have to sell his tight, little khaki-clad ass for dope anymore didn’t mean things weren’t bad,” percussionist and former songwriting partner Skeeter Valentine recalls. “Things don’t get better when you give an addict Radio Disney money. When the wave started to crash, all he cared about was getting another hit. The Beets sued him for ripping off ‘I Need More Allowance.’ Few months later a security camera caught him beating the HONK-HONK out of his neighbor Mr. Dink. That was when we knew it was over.”

After the band walked away, Funnie made several attempts to reinvent himself and recapture his early success.

“I always liked the kid. He wrote catchy songs. But the banjo thing was never gonna last,” admitted former manager Beebe Bluff. “So we tried new looks, new styles. Scored a minor hit with ‘Wa Na Na’ under the name Jack Bandit, but by that time rock radio was dominated by west coast skate punk bands like Doctor Klotzenstein and The Klotzoid Zombies.”

As for where Doug Funnie is now, he’s back in Bluffington living a quiet life. He’s recently found some modest fame again with his successful independent comic series “Quail-Man.” He still enjoys playing the banjo and can occasionally be seen playing solo renditions of his classics at The Honker Burger.

Guy Who Doesn’t Follow You Back Must Want You Dead

Posted on by Jack Bravstein

SAN FRANCISCO — After liking, sharing, and commenting on his posts, it looks like your “new friend” from last week’s virtual open mic Chris Hardny is not going to follow you back on Twitter, you sadly confirmed.

“Things were going great at first: I sent him some private messages in the Zoom open mic, commenting on how overrated folk music was after this girl sang a song about her dead pet mouse,” you confessed, refreshing your Twitter feed with bloody thumbs. “I looked him up later that day and saw he had a Twitter account, so I followed him… but within minutes I knew something wasn’t right. This is how it always goes when someone doesn’t follow you back, you know? When I checked back several hours later, I knew he was lusting for me to be quartered by those coyotes down by the gas station.”

Hardny, who noticed that you followed him, believes you need to talk to a professional.

“I only follow people I know, and if he wants to follow me, that’s great… but he can’t be expecting me to reciprocate his manic obsession,” Hardny said, examining your extensive posts about Hentai and its legitimacy as a film genre. “I’m sure he’s a nice guy. I’m new in the area and could use some friends, but his aggressi… er, shit. I just liked one of his posts. I gotta go.”

Twitter representative Jason Fisk was ecstatic that the platform’s new algorithm was working so smoothly.

“We’ve been working hard to make sure our users accept and understand that when someone they believe they are equals with does not follow them back, it means they would rather see you flattened under an 18-wheeler after being ejected from a rolling vehicle instead of following you back,” Fisk explained. “The beta testing was superb with our lab chimps. Within minutes of not being followed back, the chimps went into a frenzy: erratic sweating and shaking was followed by intense social media stalking of the followee, and went as far as photoshopping their faces onto the other chimps’ profile picture. Again, huge success — I got promoted to head of R&D for that one.”

At press time, Hardny was filing a restraining order against you due to an impromptu visit you paid to his son’s soccer game to try to give the young boys apples and Capri-Sun.

“21 Jump Street” Gave Me Unrealistic Expectations About How Many Times a Chief of Police Gave a Shit About Anything

Posted on by Yancy Lee Crawford

I watched a lot of “21 Jump Street” when I was a kid, and consider it my primary motivation for joining the force. Because of that show, and many ‘90s shows like it, I grew up wanting a Chief in my life. I imagined myself working for a benevolent, slightly over-the-hill but wizened badass whose gruff exterior would almost, but not quite, cloud the fact that they cared about the wellbeing of wayward teens, young recruits, and veteran beat cops alike. On television, their tough love and sage wisdom always seemed like the thing that separated the cops from the robbers.

Well, that’s all Hollywood bullshit, because in real life you get some chewed up bureaucrat like Stan Witzniski, and he fucking sucks.

The only thing “Jump Street” about my job is all of my co-workers being way too into high school girls. Last week my partner beat up a homeless guy like that group of Satanists in the episode “Under the Influence” from Season 5. Since I’m pretty new, I expected him to be called into an office and told to shut up and sit down while the chief screamed about how we don’t do things like that anymore. Turns out, he just wanted to know if we were wearing masks while “interrogating” someone who was probably un-vaccinated.

I have given this motherfucker every chance in the world to drop some knowledge on me. Whether I’m ranting about lawyers getting scumbag clients back on the street, being way too hard on myself for a bust gone wrong, or opening up about my abusive father, all this dude says is, “What are you gonna do?” I don’t think he’s even listening!

Most of my fellow officers are guilty of profiling, discrimination, harassment or the use of excessive force on an almost daily basis. It churns my stomach to see these people abuse their power like that, but does my direct superior give me a heartfelt speech about how blue backs blue no matter what? Hell no! This guy is basically a shift supervisor with a gun.

Hell, half of this precinct was at the Capitol Riots in January. Everybody posed for a photo at Pelosi’s desk and hung it in the break room. What does Chief Witzniski do? He rolls his eyes and says, “You guys are wild.”

I can’t believe I was so indoctrinated by ‘90s cop shows that I thought my precinct could be a force of good, maybe even a surrogate family. I guess there’s nothing left for me to do but join the Air Force, where I will be given a cool name, partnered with a best friend, and learn that my disgraced father was actually a hero before banging some sexy older consultant.

Biracial Punk Can’t Even Name Three Origin Stories or Whatever the Fuck This White Person Needs to Walk Away Satisfied

Posted on by Krissy Howard

BEND, Ore. — Alleged “biracial poser” and local punk Liz Watson disappointed white stranger Dana Fields yesterday by inadequately naming three origin stories deemed exotic enough for Fields to walk away satisfied.

“As a white woman, the most important thing to me in the universe is making room for marginalized folks… which I make sure I’m doing correctly by grilling anyone who’s race I can’t immediately place, for extended amounts of time,” said self-proclaimed ally and part-time yoga instructor, Fields. “I mean, if she really is so mixed, she should be able to name who the president was in her mom’s home country in 1953, or at least have some super sad story about a grandparent living in a shack and working their way up from nothing, or something. We’ll just see.”

Fields’ dissatisfaction with Watson dashed all chances of developing a solid, self-serving friendship.

“Well, first of all, she only speaks one language, and she doesn’t even celebrate any weird holidays or anything. Which was a super bummer to find out,” Fields explained, of the less than exciting answers given to her string of unsolicited questions. “The final straw was when I asked her if she had any ancient remedies for a stomach ache, and she just told me to try Tums. How in the fuck am I supposed to Instagram Tums?”

For their part, Watson was neither surprised by nor unfamiliar with Fields’ interrogation.

“This definitely isn’t some isolated thing, and it generally looks the same every time,” Watson explained. “It starts with some white person looking visibly confused by my face, which is sometimes accompanied by a squint or a lean in to get a closer look. Then it moves into them just naming countries to see if something lands, before finally watching all the hope drain from their faces the second I say that my favorite food is mac and cheese.”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve gotten so good at memorizing the names of every song from every band,” she added. “At least when scene dudes push you for that, it does eventually end.”

At press time, Cleveland native Watson was bringing disgrace onto her family by acting ‘too American,” cementing her status as a walking disappointment to everyone she meets.

Wow: When a Historic Movie Theater Was on the Verge of Shutting Down, These “Rocky Horror” Re-Enactors Swooped in to Finish the Job

Posted on by Tom Peters

Of all the businesses and institutions affected by the COVID-19 pandemic, movie theaters were among the hardest hit. When the historic Odeon Theater in Duluth, Minnesota finally reopened after nearly a year, it didn’t seem like the slow trickle of returning moviegoers would be enough to sustain the vaudeville-era treasure for much longer.

That’s when a local theater company called The Hot Patooties decided it was time to save the day by staging a series of interactive “Rocky Horror Picture Show” screenings, singlehandedly and inadvertently ensuring that the theater would be shuttered for good.

“What better way to get people excited about the movies again than by giving them a break from the same old boring movie theater experience?” said troupe leader and de facto Dr. Frank-N-Furter impersonator Sal Padis, describing the traditional act of watching a movie without people acting it out below the screen and throwing trash at each other.

There was just one problem: the customers were all buying tickets to new movies showing at a reasonable hour. That’s when Padis decided he’d bring the show to them.

“I wanted to provide a completely immersive experience from the moment you entered the building,” Padis said. Theater guests were pelted with handfuls of rice in the lobby, and people waiting in line for concessions were encouraged to compete in the fake orgasm contest. The Hot Patooties were willing to do anything to save the Odeon!

“I went to an 8:35 screening of Minari,” said Duluth resident Carl Borgman, who was visiting the theater for the first time since last March. “Right when the movie started, a bunch of nerds in feather boas paraded down the aisle and started yelling at the actors on screen. They dumped my popcorn on my head and called me a slut. It was very upsetting.”

Released in 1975, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” eventually garnered cult status as the first ever “midnight movie,” so it was only fitting to screen the film at 12:00am, long after the Odeon’s staff was used to being home in bed.

“The movie is only an hour and forty minutes long,” said longtime projectionist and usher Burt Nicolaou. “But with the dance party and the costume contest, it’s about twice that. By the time we’re finished cleaning up the confetti and toilet paper, it’s after 4:00am, so it feels kind of like we hosted the world’s saddest rave.”

In the end, Padis and company may have sped the collapse of Duluth’s oldest business, which is scheduled to be demolished and replaced by one-plus-five condos. But there’s no denying that The Hot Patooties left a lasting mark.

“Oh great,” Nicolaou said. “Someone threw a hotdog and got mustard on the hundred year-old curtain.”

House Sitter Not Sure How Long They’re Expected To Go Without Masturbating

Posted on by Rob Steinberg

BERKELEY, Calif. — Local house sitter and frequent self gratifier David Baker is currently debating how long into his job he is expected to go without masturbating, sources who are having a ton of trouble sleeping report.

“I guess it’s a weird thing to do in a stranger’s home, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to work this TV, it’s raining all the time, I’m just kinda stuck here,” David Baker said of the two-night stay at his cousin’s neighbor’s home. “I’ve never gone this long before without jerking off. Keeping my hands out of my pants takes way more effort than walking his dog. I feel like seeing how long I go without jacking it is what he’s really paying me for, like one of those night-in-a-haunted house stipulations to get some rich uncle’s inheritance or something.”

The homeowner, Darren Nieves, reported having received several text messages from Baker inquiring about “house rules.”

“I’m not sure why in the fuck anyone would ask a stranger whose bed they’re sleeping in if something like that is OK, but I wish he didn’t,” Nieves stated. “I wouldn’t have even known if he did, and if he texted me about it it means he already has, probably more than a few times.”

Masturbation etiquette expert Dr. Harriet Swanson vocalized her opinion on the issue.

“Proper jerking off etiquette states that if you stay at the house for less than a week, you should hold off your throbbing urges and release them somewhere like the middle of the woods or a restaurant bathroom,” Dr. Swanson explained. “However, if the house sitting goes over the 10-day mark then it’s all up for grabs. Behind the TV, over the couch, into the fridge, all over the shower, wherever your heart desires. It’s the unwritten rule of house sitting.”

At press time, Baker was convinced that the stuffed animal set on Nieves’ mantle had tiny cameras for eyes.

Sorry I’m Late, I Was Thinking About Chicago-Style Hot Dogs

Posted on by Dan Luberto

Hey guys, I know I’m running a little late but — I know, I know, I’m trying to get there. I’m just super behind right now ’cause I can’t stop thinking about Chicago-Style hot dogs.

I know I could’ve been late for any number of reasons, but I wouldn’t lie to my closest friends. It was just this fucking hankering for a piping-hot hot dog slathered with yellow mustard, diced white onions, bright green relish, sport peppers, a whole pickle spear, sliced tomatoes, and some celery salt, all on a fresh poppy seed bun. Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Believe me, the idea of tomatoes on a hot dog sounds crazy but you gotta trust me. I’ve thought about it a lot.

How about this? When I get there, I will acknowledge that I should have left earlier and planned ahead. But can you all admit that time waits for no man who is swept with thoughts of Chicago dogs? No? Seriously, have you had these? No?! Dude, holy shit, you’re missing out. I haven’t had one in a while, but I remember them being fucking GOOD.

The colors, the textures; all at odds with the rest of the world’s views of what a hot dog should be, yet so delicious. So beautiful. Like a work of art. Well, more like a child’s idea of art. But who knows hot dogs better than children?

I’m only human. I know I could have at least gotten dressed and showered, had I only known I would have been so late. It’s just the thought of the cold snap of the pickle with the hot snap of the dog was all I could think about this morning. It’s not like I’m a firefighter or an EMT rushing to save lives. I’m coming over here to eat what appear to be regular fucking hot dogs. Maybe if you traveled a bit (specifically to Chicago) and put some culture in your dogs, more people would show up on time.

So while I’ll admit my lateness isn’t a good look, it’s not like anyone died, except maybe that pedestrian I tapped while I was mulling over which brand of hot dogs I wanted to buy. I’m thinking either Nathans or Sabrett, but I’m still undecided.

Ya know, if we lived somewhere with good Chicago-style dogs — not even Chicago, just a place with a Chicago ex-pat or something running the place, maybe a guy named Chicago Mike who gets the real shit shipped in from Chi-Town — I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Sure, googling sport peppers and that bright green relish could have waited until after the interview. Oh, and I also missed my exit trying to remember if I had celery salt. So yeah, I’m an additional fifteen or so minutes late ’cause of that. But I can’t stress enough that it’s the little dash of celery salt that really makes the whole thing.

In summation, thank you for the opportunity, and I look forward to hearing back about my future with the company. I promise that, if hired, I will not let my love of regional cuisine get in the way of my ability to perform this job, unless I get really sidetracked with one of my Nashville Hot Chicken kicks.

Guy In Faith No More Shirt Talking About Faith No More

Posted on by Mike Civins

SCOTCH PLAINS, N.J. — Local software engineer and Faith No More superfan Duane Morsman left his residence this morning wearing a Faith No More t-shirt only to spend the next several hours talking about Faith No More, confirmed sources that are the furthest thing from shocked.

“What other band has had such a profound impact on numerous musical genres by defying those very genres?” Morsman rhetorically asked several people just out of earshot. “They’re less a band and more a sonic friction generated by Mike Patton, Roddy Bottum, Billy Gould, Mike Bordin, and newcomer guitarist Jon Hudson. Sure, Hudson’s been associated with the band for twenty-five years now, but he’ll always be ‘the new guy’ after Big Jim Martin if you ask me.”

Morsman’s infatuation with the alternative metal act is no surprise to friend Jeremy Krempecki, a self-admitted casual fan of Faith No More who discovered the band, like many others, after hearing the 1990 breakthrough hit “Epic.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like Faith No More just fine. I owned a couple of their CDs and occasionally I’ll stream a song or two on Spotify,” Krempecki confided. “But for all the genres this band combines or doesn’t combine or whatever, Duane’s conversations ironically seem to have only one genre, and that genre is Faith No More. And please, for your own sake, don’t bring up the Red Hot Chili Peppers around Duane. It will make him lose his fucking mind.”

The signaling of Faith No More fandom with a well-worn t-shirt was described by Erik Steiglitz, host of the “Thanks for the Faith No Memories” podcast, as a “courtship display of great natural beauty, not unlike that of the calliope hummingbird or ‘little star.’”

“You will often see a Faith No More fan sporting their original ‘Angel Dust’ album t-shirt over a long-sleeve waffle knit thermal. These fans are a singular, shameless species that are unafraid to wear multiple layers of band merchandise at once. Short sleeves over long sleeves, shorts over pants, winter caps over baseball caps,” said Steiglitz. “You’ll often overhear a lonely fan hoping to elicit an approving head nod from potential passing fans by loudly discussing topics such as the band’s eclectic catalog of cover songs by The Bee Gees, The Commodores, and GG Allin, or the possibility of weaponizing frontman Mike Patton’s multi-octave vocal range for the U.S. military.”

Witnesses reported that Morsman grew agitated as he listed the band members’ numerous side-projects. He was last seen furiously arguing with a fellow fan in a department store mirror.

These Cops Were Offered the Chance to Commit Murder Now or Have Two Marshmallows Later and You’ll Be Pretty Unsurprised by the Results

Posted on by Anna Walsh

Here at The Hard Times, we’re always trying to push science into new frontiers. We thought the Stanford marshmallow experiment was cool, but wanted to try it on a group slightly more mature than children. The obvious step up from kids is of course cops, sort of the halfway mark between kids and adults.

Equipping them with guns secretly filled with blank rounds, we offered three police officers a real Sophie’s choice between two of their favorite things: unprovoked murder immediately, or two fresh marshmallows in 15 minutes. We found delayed gratification is not the strong suit of a group of guys trained to be a reactive, militaristic street gang.


Officer 1: “John”
John specifically mentioned how patient he is, citing his habit of waiting at least 30 minutes after his shift starts before sleeping in the squad car. Based on that comment, we figured he could probably wait 15 minutes for two marshmallows, but boy were we wrong. When he saw the back of the guy in a hoodie across the room, he shot him after just 4 seconds.

John cried for nearly an hour after the shooting, not because he had taken a life, but because we told him the murder he’d just committed was an illusion pulled off with blank rounds and squibs. Eventually we gave him one of the marshmallows just to shut his ass up.

Officer 2: “Bobby”
Bobby had a real sweet tooth, often eating 4 or 5 donuts before needlessly taking the safety off his gun in the morning. We got word that he’s actually an untreated type 2 diabetic, so we kept him waiting extra long to get his blood-sugar low and desperate. Technically that’s cheating a bit, but we thought for sure he would opt for the marshmallows. Yet again, the chance to murder a random citizen was just too enticing.

Bobby is down two marshmallows and his vision is blurring, but he seems truly gratified to have upped his body count.

Officer 3: “Wanda”
We wanted to make sure we included test subjects from multiple genders. Unfortunately, Wanda was the only woman in the entire department, and is actually an administrative assistant. It was the best we could do. Our hypothesis supposed that, since murder is really a specialty of male cops, and Wanda is neither, she’d have the marshmallows in the bag. But hypotheses are built to fail, aren’t they? Wanda ended up shooting the teenager we had sitting across from her after he tried to pull a pencil out of his bag. We’re not even sure where she got a gun. What we are sure of is that she did not use blanks, and that actor, if he lives, will probably sue the fuck out of us.

We were hoping to go through a bag of marshmallows, but even the coroner wasn’t surprised that they had to bring multiple body bags. At least this was more successful than our original plan for an all-cop Stanford prison experiment. That one descended into fascism in less than five minutes.

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