It has recently come to my attention that the world of hip-hop has been infiltrated by eldritch beings of horror and madness for many years now. The prime example of this is clearly Coolio. Due to sources I cannot divulge, I suspect him of being none other than dread Cthulhu. Aside from the obvious linguistic similarities in their names, there is the fact that both have tentacles on their heads (although Coolio's are on top while Cthulhu's are on the bottom).
Furthermore, I have obtained from illegal Ukrainian porn servers poorly-ripped but clearly recognizable MP3 copies of the original Shoggoth's Paradise, prior to its being altered for mass consumption. Fortunately for us all, "the stars were not right" for widespread release. I shall be gravely watching the heavens for any unexpected shifts that could presage a rise in non-Euclidean rap.
Remember, "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die." This is the only possible explanation for how Tupac Shakur, clearly an avatar of Hastur, can continue making so many movies after his death. Thanks to information provided by the Echelon project, world government agents from Majestic 12 were able to prevent the release of his infamous "King in Yellow" album cover by introducing a subtle printing error that bleached the colors, making him appear to wear filthy white instead. His lack of shoes on this cover was merely another sign of his ability to craft mind-altering music from beyond the grave.
However, by far the gravest threat is posed by the world altering spaces that are being smuggled into our reality inside cargo pants. The vast, cycoplean expanses surrounding each leg are perfect for the eventual army of invading Mi-Go that will burst forth from the Antarctic once the polar ice cap over Lake Vostok is shattered by the simultaneous vibrations of the majority of the world's cars with overpowered bass systems.
Our only hope is to popularize goth music with over 180 beats per minute, allowing us to raise a defending army of speed-crazy zombie warriors led by vampire overlords, made sun-proof via genetically-engineered CopperTone. You know what you have to do…
The number 4 hates you. It wants revenge for what your family did to it. If it ever teams up with the color green, you are so screwed.
You know how you're not supposed to get inside a refrigerator? It's not due to the danger of suffocation—there's vast amounts of air inside, because every refrigerator on the planet connects to every other, but only when they're closed and the light is out. Wait, did I say every refrigerator on the planet? There's quite a few I missed, then…
In a trailer park in Alabama, in a room with no air conditioning, there is a wretch of man. Before him is a typewriter, and every year he uses it write a new romance novel. The original, which he quit college in 1973 to write, was pathetically bad. The sequels keep getting worse and worse, featuring tentacle monsters and other foul things. He is getting old, and soon he will not be able to write any more. We need someone to take over his responsibilities, or else the unfathomably horrible will finally happen.
That other tab you have open in this browser window? Don't look at it. Just close this window and forget you ever clicked that link. For the love of everything holy and sane, don't look at it!
If you change your middle name to R. R., you will be a best-selling fantasy author.
Oh, and one more thing: Ever wonder why your body is built so that you can never quite reach that one spot on your back? Ever wonder why you always get an itch right there? I can reach that spot.
Damned aliens. I'd thought it was just another stupid fad, and so did a lot of other people, but none of us ever suspected it was a plot to take over the world. Bastards planting a spy among us to popularize some crazy diet they claim makes you lose weight while CRIPPLING YOUR BRAIN. Had to wait twenty years for it to take off, but it did. And next thing you know, the orbital mind control lasers are going off and no one has any carbohydrates in their brain to shield themselves. Punched right through tinfoil, but stopped dead by good old sucrose and starch.
Not everyone was on the diet, but enough. Overnight they have an army of loyal slaves, running around trying to get everyone else to let down their guard. No one even noticed it at first, not until they put two and two together and realized that all the random attacks on sugar mills and bakeries weren't so damn random. Those that tried to speak out got stuffed with meat and veggies, till they were drooling along with the rest of them. But not us, oh no. We've been eating rice every day and making our careful plans. We've got seven hundred tons of pixie stix and we're gonna make you alien bastards pay! Freedom!!!
Forgetfulness is the bane of memory, but I can't quite recall why. It slips away with each passing day, yet never stops to say hi. I'd like to invite it in for tea, but I don't think it would like that. Most likely it would want Earl Grey, and I'd have nothing but Orange Picoe and Jasmine Spice. I can just imagine it now, me standing there in the kitchen, fumbling about in the cabinet for various sorts of tea, with Forgetfulness tapping its foot irately and glaring at me over crossed arms. At just that moment, Memory would walk in, and, being banes, the two them would have to fight. It would raise an awful ruckus and probably bring the neighbors over to complain, while I would be forced to gesture weakly and mumble some explanation about how this could all have been averted with a small tin of tea.