The official: short stories and other fiction based on Lolcows thread.

I thought this would be a fun idea to rile the mutants who know how to string more than a few words together of either the shitposting variety or a dude who understands the reference: Baby shoes for sale. Never worn.

The idea is to have this thread be dedicated to anything involving lolcows and it can be a short story, greentext, a poem, haiku, or whateverthefuck. And it doesn't have to be entirely about the cow. You can go full existential horror with it. Or you can go super light-hearted and write about (for example) KingCobra's mead becoming sentient like a white trash horror version of The Blob and it goes on a killing spree. That's just one example I pulled out of my ass. The only other suggestion I will make: you can choose whatever title you want but make it clear which lolcow you're talking about ahead of time. This rule can be broken if you're setting up some kind of twist at the end.

I will lead the charge with something I prepared a little while ago:

OnlyUseMeBlade

The RV rocks unpredictably, at one point suddenly careening and forcing all of us to slide in our seats. The driver curses out no one in particular while still holding his Four-Loco. I’m a little drunk myself but the others were far worse off which causes me to uncontrollably keep smiling in stopping myself from laughing at them. Their banter is mostly untranslatable in their stupor. They all kept speaking but never seemed to listen to each other.

“Do it faggot!”

The heaviest among them started screaming at me and the others to drink, I wonder if they’re even friends. In the back of my mind plays a nature documentary on that creature that lives on the underbelly of sharks and feeds off the remains of prey. Not knowing the name of such a creature at this moment annoys me.

“Hi, I’m Blade. Onlyusemeblade, but bro, you can also call me Blian” He stammers in alcoholic tremors and mispronounces 'Brian' while extending a bloated limb in my direction to shake my hand despite shaking hands earlier in the evening. He is a disgusting blob of a man in a red XXXL shirt that may as well be a muumuu. I wonder why I got on when the free booze they offered now hardly seems worth it. The Blob who calls itself Blade isn’t wearing a shoe on one foot; a sock pathetically clings to an open wound on its big toe. The wound stinks up the RV but we’re too buzzed to care.

“Hey man, our viewers will pay you $100 to lick my toe wound.”

Another drunkard explains that they do live streams, I refuse to sell out and help myself to another shot of their cheap vodka.

“Okay, $150!” The Blob shrieks, spittle on its lips and the backwards baseball cap flying off. I remember that I’m $200 short on rent and egg it on, a smart phone filming in portrait mode is shoved in my face. I yell directly to the phone and to the viewers that I’d do it for $200. Within the next 5 minutes a $50 tip comes in.

“Do it faggot!”

The Blob unfurls its hideous foot to me, diabetic scars line both of its legs. The toe wound is clearer now: it’s an open wound the size of a silver dollar, a yellow crust surrounds it and a yellow toenail curls around, as though it were a flesh sculpture built in tribute to sloth. Be brave. A phone is shoved in my face as I lick the consecration of gore, the parasites in tow gag, noise emanates from their phones, I tongue the wound to spite the viewers. The Blob shakes uncontrollably like it’s experiencing a pathetic and short orgasm. I collect my cash from what they have and resume finishing my drink. Rinsing out my mouth and spitting into an open plastic cup. They drop me off later at my apartment. I have a headache and take some aspirin before I take a leak and go to sleep.

My tongue tastes weird in the morning. Like copper and vomit. I grab some mouthwash in the bathroom and swish it in my mouth several times. I even try hydrogen peroxide. The taste persists. I see my roommate, Evil Mickey, crawl out of the toilet and handing me a razor.

“Do it faggot!”

I tell him to go fuck himself and look for that livestream from last night. The Blob gave me the name of their channel but it’s a common name “Party Crew.” It leads me to prank videos and vlogs from strippers. I decide to go to the hospital fearing that they laced my drink at some point or perhaps I contracted a newfound HIV? I grab my bus pass and leave. Forgetting my phone in a panic. The weather is foreboding. An orange sky looks down at me. The clouds form figures performing a ritualistic sacrifice, god ordering Jehovah to cut off the testicles of the second born. An old lady starts screaming at me and I ignore them. The sidewalks keep breaking so I decide to walk on the road. It’s too hot out today. My shoes start melting and I notice a dog leash tied to my left leg. A stop light malfunctions and I orchestrate traffic because I don’t want children to die in a car crash. Evil aliens start yelling at me and I lie to them saying I’m C.I.A. to get them to back off. They don’t and challenge me to a duel. I scream at them:

“Do it faggot!”

I charge at the evildoers, my body collapses before I can even make contact as tiny angels fill me up and say that it’s okay to die. I fall headfirst into the concrete and it all goes black.

Shameless repost of my short story wherein DSP is the true mastermind attempting to take down the Farms during the #DKF era.

The date: September 8th, 2022 - The location: Renton, Washington. A series of bad faith actors have surfaced on several Kiwifarms-adjacent platforms calling for the death of alleged male Lucas "Keffals" Roberts. The Kiwifarms has been forced into hiding, and the first stages of Total Retard War are in effect. Many kiwis have opted to go into recluse, or have abandoned the fight altogether.

From his Renton kahndo in Washington, DarkSydePhil once again glances at the grubby, greasy, several-year-old sticky note that until a few days ago, was hiding in a desk drawer. So far, three names and sets of passwords have been crossed out. He glances again at his cramped handwriting before returning to his latest WWE Champions pull. Nope, not a six-star Hogan. A man can dream.
From there, he once again painstakingly types this stoopid long super secret dark web address, going once more to where all of his detractors are hiding out. They're afraid. Phil spends the long loading time silently smirking, as he scratches the patchy stubble of what used to be a goatee, now looking like he shaved that very morning with a broken bottle of gin.
"This'll show those stoopid nudniks. Try to ruin my stream, willya?"
Another hurried glance at the sticky note, then at the phone, then at the login screen. His brow furrows. A brief snort. He mumbles:
"Why're they asking me to click more fire hydrants? I just did, that's stupid! huhuh!"
As he once again solves another captcha.
He's in. Another celebratory pull, and a brief chuckle that some stoopid idiot had to hide out on the dark web just to make fun of him, his streams, his livelihood, and his fans. From here, Burnell leans back and strokes his chin. This would take consideration. He needed to think like his detractors. What kind of vicious, hateful, untrue, homophobic, detractor speech would get the most attention from federal agents that are DEFINITELY browsing this website? He's thinking too hard. A quick swig of gin from the bottle, and a few more minutes on WWE Champions.
From a distant room, he hears his wife sobbing. He feels nothing.
Finally, he has it - A threat against the life of this Keffals person, who may be a woman? Phil's not sure on that. But that's not important. According to the mod discord, as long as he said something that suggested the poster was going to do something illegal, it would work. Have to be sure. Add an extra death threat.
DSP sits back in his chair, fingers steepled, satisfied by his actions. As a celebration, he spends some more time on WWE champions. He's earned it, he's saved his livelihood. His fifteen year legacy lives to see another day.

Only other suggestion I will make: you can choose whatever title you want but make it clear which lolcow you're talking about ahead of time. This rule can be broken if you're setting up some kind of twist at the end.

It's not short but this was pretty blatantly based on Ethan Ralph and Andy Tardski's brief livestreamed post-Knoxville bromance (Ralph is "Bile Bear" and Tardski is "Pigeon") and subsequent gay breakup. It was originally going to be more grounded in reality (and proper grammar/spelling) but I eventually decided that they weren't actually that interesting to me after a while, so I gave it a satirical hallucinatory/visionary aspect to maintain my own interest in finishing it. The narrator is meant to be an anonymous semi-coherent 60something year old acid victim treating the whole thing as a matter of near mythological import despite it being gay and retarded internet/irl livestream drama.

I wrote this on a shitpost thread about fatrick


From the blissfull dream I have of my wife, I wake up in an unmade bed without her lying beside me, by the familiar wails.
I slowly get up, my feet feeling the coldness of the wooden floor, It has been a while since I was able to pay for heating in this house.
The screen of my computer is still on, an empty google doc.
Should I continue..? No, I am not inspired, not after what happened to her; I am not sure if I will ever be.
The wailing grows louder and I sigh, I'll deal with it later.
Walking to the bathroom to wash my face, I hear another wail, then another, Until they almost sing a macabre song of guttural noises.
... I guess I'll deal with it now.
Walking downstairs, amongst the filth and cockroaches that have been festering here for almost months, I finally managed to get to the basement door.
My hand wraps around the cold doorknob as the door makes a loud creak, and with that, the wailing almost instantly stops.
I make my way to the cold basement to see the cage of little niglets cowering in fear at the back of the cage.
''Please, Mayne, My Momma be lookin' for me.'' One of the male niglets musters to speak, and I just roll my eyes.
"No, Child. Your mother is not looking for you. Now, please quit your wailing.'' I calmly state... But I am far from calm.
The Nerve, This child has to speak back against ME, against a GREAT writer. Does this Niglet even know who he is speaking with?
''Mayne, how you know that?'' The brat pulls on the iron bars yet its all futile,''Let me out, Mayne!'' he screams.
When he said this, I heard the fondest of whispers, Gentle like a lover, yet stern as a jailor.
''You know what you have to do.'' It communes with an almost feminine beauty in its voice.
My body moves on my own as I go to the back of the basement and pull off the cloth of the strange apparatus. A meat grinder? No, There's something more to it.
It is covered in these symbols, So foreign, yet so... Comforting.
As I roll it down toward the cage, all the niglets gasp in fear, as they know what is going to happen

Game Grumps

“How do we sell more to kids? I want to focus on demographics, which race buys what the most?”

Nameless Voids occupy a board room bedecked with fancy chairs constructed in Vietnam and glass water bottles on a marble table top. They oversee the marketing of products for parasites of the internet age. Parasites who go by the names Arin and Dan.

“Band-aids! Branded band-aids! Put these parasites on them with funny caricatures. Collectors will love them. Think of the self-harm market too? How many cutters do you think would take selfies with Game Grump band-aids? Easily hundreds and then it spreads from there.”

“Oh, make them spokesmen for anti-suicide! Make a viral video, get a little recording for those suicide hotlines. Even kids not suffering from depression can call in to hear their voices, talk to someone, and buy something. What do you guys think? Can you make a suicide attempt funny and work in some video game shit? Perhaps mention getting an extra life?”

Arin answers back in a gay slurring voice brought on by too many anti-depressants "A one man!"

The two men, gruffly dressed with five o’clock shadows and one with painted fingernails covering secreted dirt, nod via video meeting. They’re seemingly disinterested, wanting to get away from their current environ and even quietly ashamed at their position in the grand social paradigm. They yearn for an older audience but settle for what they can that being the most young and ignorant consumers. One marketer asks another: “How is our friendship monetization goals? How can we best capitalize on it?”

“Our goal has always been to drive into the various counter cultures on the internet because the youth see what the old media is against as being inherently cool. You are the means for a new mass market penetration we could only hope to imagine, to sell friendship and program a new market zeitgeist. Give it time and we can sell them on anything. Game Grump-branded insulin pen needles, tampons, and don’t forget the abortion pill. Sky’s the limit.”

One of the Game Grumps plays on a black box, ignoring the conversation, they play a simple ad-supported game where you design a robot.

THE SHITPOST HAS BECOME REALITY!

NGL I was hoping someone would grab the torch like at the Olympics and run with it. Or maybe the Special Olympics would be more apropos?

It Came From the Hoarding Nest!

“Okay, Youtube.” A doddering, bald, greasy & grotesque male specimen speaks to the camera closely and threateningly. His voice slurs from duster huffing and alcoholism. It is a creature of twisted yet conflicting origin: bespeckled and bald but still fairly young, able to decipher the sweeping miracle of technology but still confused by basic hygiene and instruction, destructive but still functional, all things describing the despised wretch and their parasitic compatriots.

“Joshhhhyyyy.” Evilly whispered by the human embodiment of a decaying Wendigo. Known as ‘my one true love’ by the fellow duster enthusiast and much more directly as “the crack whore witch” by their anti-fans; Josh slowly lurches in the direction of his lover and enabler Jessica. Theirs is an affair drawn from gas station romance novels found in the corner of the disused and sketchy establishment. They have slowly become the leading power couple of white trash cringe shows of the internet.

A hideous “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” sound tears through the awkward silence as the pair woof down their Duster appetizer. The chat watching along with the pathetic spectacle make reference to David Lynch’s Blue Velvet by typing in all caps “MOMMY, BABY WANTS TO FUCK!” As Josh whispers to his partner in crime to keep quiet for the time being as he perfects what in his mind is the ultimate alcoholic beverage. The making of the Mead is a practice that dates back a while ago and is the ideal attention-grabber and click bait generator. The Mead is the name this backwoods mad chef lends to his home-made alcohol drawn from bizarre concoctions. Josh’s unclean hands with black nail polish chipping away clutches at the ingredients of his latest abomination:

Ingredients: diluted anti-freeze, Dollar Store red wine, off-brand Cheetos, Red Bull, over $75 worth of sauces from Little Caesars, and the remnants of a broken classic Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Laboratory with actual Uranium left over by Josh’s grandpa.

Josh slurs “Grandpa’s apple sauce” instead of “Grandpa’s cough medicine” as confirmed by the chat. Jessica asks the bespeckled magician where he found the Atomic Energy Laboratory where Josh explains how it was in a storage unit he helped move (I.E. steal from) that his father asked for assistance with and he was fascinated by the glowing dust emanating from it. “Bombs away!” He slurs in mongoloid ecstasy, amazed at the sparks emitting from his strange brew as it takes on shapes and colors he cannot pronounce, shifting and turning in rapid succession unlike previously defiled concoctions. Josh and Jessica soon retreat, with Jessica huffing away duster off camera, Josh succumbs to alcohol-induced slumber as the stream mercifully shuts off, and The Mead waits in its jar with menacing fury…

Through the phlegm and remnants of lanced boils, from cockroach larvae and wolf’s milk, stirred from piss and expired food, and willed by the alchemy of dark intent with radiation. I awaken. My home quakes with my self-awareness of being the bizarre alcoholic concoction made sentient. The dirty glass I look out from teases my appetite as the two makers of my genesis lie blissfully unaware of a superior being that is so very hungry like the newborn needing its milk.

I shift my protoplasmic mass to and fro, moving the jar little by little to tip over until my escape is made and the glass breaks.

Freedom. Hunger. Evolution. These are my primary motivations hanging above my consciousness as etchings in the sky commanding me to go and destroy. This is the only motivation I need in my will to power and it is so very thirsty. I creep over from the disgusting floor of the trailer, soaking in the dirt and grime long ignored and accepted by the occupants. There in the corner, not very far from my creator, I see the decaying Wendigo glowing in skeletal ecstasy like a reverse Sleeping Beauty.

In my stealthy approach, Jessica pays no attention having long gone comatose due to her vices, and my liquid being makes first contact to their dirty feet where it takes several seconds for there to be a response. Soon, as I strip and suckle the calloused feet there is a muffled and slurred screaming from a creature less human than me. She screams and strikes me but both of her gnarled fists sink inside my all-annihilating body rendering her suffering into insect agony. She calls forth her disabled lover but her slurred words can only communicate so much in her suffering as unwashed flesh is stripped down to the yellow fat and soon the red meat and brittle bone, her blood slurped away in my necessary thirst but I as I reach toward her pubis and belly, I discard the days-old tampon and spit it out as even I have more dignity. The screaming mutates as I consume more and more, pulling at the flesh like an evil hickey, as the meat agonizingly succumbs to this necessary destruction, slurring “Ohmuhgawwwddddd” in white trash final prayer and desperation. With each bite and nibble I feel my being grow and become stronger, breaking apart the legs backwards and sidewards as the gutcunt is removed in brutal liposuction. The meat begins vomiting in horror and can no longer speak, I keep reaching towards and am horrified by the drooping breasts lined with stretch marks and tear them away in a whiplash, leaving empty craters for what was once -perhaps- intended to be the motherly features but gone to waste and neglected. The meat stops moving as my form evolves to a point where I can semi-stand, and in my first real walk I lift it up and break it backwards with the shattering of a spinal cord and pushing out all of the pitiful waste in a torrent of blood & bile. The noise finally awakens my creator.

“Wuuuutttttt?” Is one of the last words of KingCobraJFS who I mock by opening my chewing mouth and show him his bride and my supper, forcing him to witness his mate dissected and dissolving into an annihilating ether. He prays on his knees to false gods and calls for Ozzy for assistance as I make my way towards him, glad to be the last thing that he sees as I confront a malding horror. Before more cursing and before his pocket knives could be reached, I have evolved tendrils that spring out and pin him in his place as I make his finale quick and painless in thanks to having him be the genesis of my rightful creation. With jaws ever-growing I lick my lips with several tongues and finally bite down on the greasy and balding skull. With a great big bite, removing brain and thought, blood crushes through the eyes and ears, an 85 IQ squeezes out in bright and pink colors, and I indulge in that slurry of what was once human.

As I finish my justified annihilation, I look towards the windows and announce to myself: “First the trailer park. And then, the world!”