The Inner Monologue of the Flappy Bird

I’m a descendant of dinosaurs. That’s right, asshole. Dinosaurs. While your ancestors were burrowing around in rodent shit, mine were ten tons of bad attitude. Do not fuck with me. I am the Tyrannosaur’s roar. I am the silent strike of the Deinonychus. I am the Pterodactyl’s beating wings. I am the Flappy Bird, and I am not fucking around right now.

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I know what you’re thinking. “Look at that little shit bird! What a chump! There’s no way he’s the progeny of the greatest goddamn predators to ever walk the Earth!” Well, well, well. Think again, fucko. Inside my feathers and hollow bones, I hold the secrets of monsters. My kind used the femurs of your forefathers for toothpicks. Watch me soar, you rat-fuck.

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Oh, that’s right. I can fly. You have airplanes? That’s cute. Next time I’m cruising along the Gulf Stream, I’ll remember to think of you, waiting at some dipshit security checkpoint with your thumb up your ass. You better just take your shoes off, again, for the millionth time. You disgust me.

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Heh, heh, whoa. A little bit of turbulence right there. You wouldn’t understand that, though, would you? No, you wouldn’t. You can’t fly. And I can. I fly a lot. All the time. Way more than you ever will. You suck.

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…what the fuck are you staring at? I, uh, just decided to see how miserable it must be this close to the ground. Yea, that’s it. I had to see for myself. I wanted to laugh at the terrible view. Wow. This is what it’s like all the time? Christ. 

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Okay, joke’s over. Ha ha ha. Very funny. You got me to come down to your level. You suckered me into landing on this pathetic waste of dirt you call a home. I’ll be honest. It’s the worst fucking place I’ve ever seen. It’s a real shit hole. It makes me sick. No lie.



Wait, what’s that? Did you just say something to me? DID YOU JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING TO ME? Of course I can fly away. A few flaps and I’m out of here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? I’m just staring at the ground so I remember this moment. I want cherish it forever. It will keep me going long after you’re six feet under. Want to know why? Because you are not me. You are the weak. I am the tyranny. I am the Flappy Bird. And don’t you ever forget it, you mammal fuck.

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I want to raise $6.5 million to build and grow my new company: TheBoostle.com

During the last millennia, many popular new media properties have launched, most aiming to attract corporeal beings, like The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, The Economist, and Gawker.

But with few exceptions (Deadspin, this commercial, and the-magazine-formerly-known-as-LIFE), the number of high-revenue publications aimed at ghosts is much smaller.

This is despite the fact that ghosts account for 100 percent of all dead people and every single person who will ever exist.

Supernatural publishing has long served as a symbol of “old media” lifelessness. Most of these publications, including the likes of The Undead Monthly and Haunter’s, have under-invested in the hereafter. Their ethereal audiences are far smaller than one would imagine, given their dominance in the paranormal realm. The New England Journal of Spectral Studies had fewer than 1 million unique visitors in June, an absolutely disgraceful number, given their brand efficacy.

Furthermore, publishers have completely lost sight of which dimension their readers are not-living in. This is a territory where spirits are doomed to roam without purpose, yearning for a divine closure they will never, ever find. They have nothing but time on their (formless) hands. And, in many cities, they out-number their living counterparts! But magazines like GutsWeekly talk to ghosts as though they were children, and they fail to connect popular culture with any form of social commentary about what it’s like to spend eternity trapped in a necromantic feverscape.

Isn’t it time for a publication that puts spectral news and politics alongside tips to avoid ghost hunters? What about a site that takes an introspective look at the afterlife, while also having a lot of fun covering it? How about a site that offers career advice and book reviews, while also reporting on scare tactics and popular memes to distract you while you wander aimlessly in perpetuity? 

Maybe we need a destination that is powered by the recently deceased, by those who currently occupy the freshest graves at major cemeteries.

We have an opportunity to completely transform publishing, and today I’m announcing my new company — Boostle.com — which aims to do just that. 

And today we are also announcing that we need to raise over $6.5 million, to be split between in-house parapsychologists and the costs of requisite proton packs. Who knew that backpack-sized particle accelerators were so expensive?

[Author’s note: And, now, watch as this fundraise announcement turns into an entirely useless conversation with myself.]

What will your role be with Boostle?

My job, as CEO, is to make this website sound awesome. Knowing the difference between ghoul, goblins, and phantoms is not my job. 

Seriously, who’s ever heard of a content website asking for $6.5 million pre-launch? What the hell is going on? This is unreal…

No. It’s unworldly.

So how is Boostle really different? It can’t be that different, can it?

We’re different, because we recognize how many diverse interests are shared amongst the curséd souls condemned to an everlasting nothing. 

And, more importantly, we are pulling it into one place. 

Do you want to invest in TheBoostle.com? Leave a comment below!

“Pacific Rim is the sort of movie where a grown man smiles knowingly at a dog, and then the dog barks happily in response. Where people still live in cities along the Pacific Coast despite a decade’s worth of evidence that there’s nothing a kaiju loves more than stomping around San Francisco, Hong Kong or Sydney. Where the only thematic consistency is an extraordinary reliance on cliché, and characters are about as emotional as blocks of wood.”

No need? No knead.

Great Falls

A courteous murder, all things considered.

A courteous murder, all things considered.

I pity the editor who ends up checking The New Yorker’s nifty new tool.