transcript [approximate]:

c/o The Editor

OK look, shithead, [burn mark] fp’s going offline for a lil while. You and your red-eyed, sweaty palmed readers should try it, if your legs still work.

Point is fp had to divest some intrests ’round DC, so me an’ the Blue Meanie (it’s my bike, you sac) are takin it to the nice, offline, untracked road for a minute.

Now I had some more eloquent, creative [burn marks] methods of effective mass trolling, but right now me an’ my Louisville gotta go bash the head in on whatever fuckwad is [?] a movie in his goddamn trailer.

So go put a warning on your shitty little site. Tell ’em fp’s comin to their hood. [crude drawing of the finger]

fp

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break something

You oughtta be pissed the fuck off. Stupid as you basement-dwelling e-baboons are, you can’t be okay with the legions of McMansion-bred husks wandering our world, leaving a sticky yellow discharge of ignorance and axe products in their wake. It’s not hard to troll the deserving, yet here you sit. feeling superior. on the internet. fp isn’t impressed.

So outta the goodness of my big ol’ bleedin’ heart (seriously, it’s real swollen…shoulda done a smaller line before writin’ this shit) I’m gonna help ya enlighten these fucks by making them a lil’ more uncomfortable in their own world. And I’m even gonna make it easy on you, with fp’s patented five step troll, illustrated by the night some pranksters and I made 30 pieces of glittered-up trash piss themselves in a hip dc bar.

 

Step 0) Target. Find a place where large numbers of deserving, self absorbed pricks like to spend their parents’ money. Ya need to get offline, go where they congregate and feel safe. Remind them that douchebags don’t get to hide amongst the herd.

For our example, I draw your attention to a trendy little outdoor bar that cropped up in the U Street area a few summers ago. By the time a garish sign had been erected with the teeth-grindingly vacant name “Tiki Bar,” I’d decided this place would suffer. Sand floor, umbrellas in drinks…these assholes had they heads so far up they asses they had flip-flops for you to fucking rent. Now,

 

Step 1) Weakness. Locate the squeeze point of the bar – the spot with the most people wishing they were somewhere else. Look for lines, crowds without drinks, or bros without ladies to pose for. fp’s go-to weakspot, and the focal point of our story, is the bathroom.

The owners of this hawaiian-themed hell-hole didn’t realize that if you’re gonna pull in a couple hundred pretty faces to get piss drunk in your bar, you want more than two single-person bathrooms in a shitty trailer, stuffed into a dark corner of the lot. Before we showed up, both lines were already 15-20 miserable motherfuckers long.

 

Step 2) Victim. Who deserves your wrath, and who’s in a position to receive it? This should be pretty easy, even for you dipshits. Find them. Observe them. Talk to them. The better you understand your victim, the more difficult you can make their life.

In our case, the whole bar deserved a wake up, it’s true, but only those in the bathroom line were in a position to receive their punishment. That meant whatever the troll, we were gonna need to get these bathroom lines stretching all the way back to the bar. This leads to,

 

Step 3) The Set Up. Do whatever is necessary to get people in the right place for their trolling. This varies by your ‘event,’ and is best taught through example, so wipe that chipotle grease off your face, sit up, and pay some fucking attention.

To ‘enhance’ the lines, a prankster and I patiently waited half an hour to get to the bathrooms. Once in, we locked the doors and slipped out the back windows. By slipped, I mean smashed with a rock…but the noise from the bar was enough to cover us. It was barely ten minutes until makeup-caked biddies up and down the line were doing the time-to-piss shuffle.

Unseen in the shadows behind the bathroom trailer, pranksters had begun piling in through the windows. With each bathroom as full as all those unfortunate bladders, it was time for fp’s favorite step,

 

Step 4) The Turn. Step 4 is when pumped-up frat boys weep and peroxide-scorched sorority girls flee. Step 4 is when you unleash cackling hounds of prankster hell upon the placated masses. Take one last deep breath, smile, and then show them how you really feel.

With a quick knock on the shared bathroom wall, the floodgates opened and my band of madmen flowed from our sweaty hiding spots. Pranksters ran down the lines of cross-legged khaki shorts and ass-flashing skirts, delivering swift and merciless punches to the bladders of the unsuspecting. By the time the rest of the bar began to notice their vapid revelry was under attack, nearly three dozen grown, useless adults lay crumpled in the piss-soaked sand.

 

Step 5) The Escape. You never want to stick around long enough to find out if you’ll be banned or charged with assault. No matter what you just pulled, act like it wasn’t you. Walk slowly, look at the chaos but keep moving away from it. But, uh, if a big guy in a black t-shirt makes eye contact, bolt.

As we backed away from the chaos, pranksters pulled off into the crowd, adopting looks of doe-eyed confusion. Someone would spot us soon, though, so we all kept moving toward the back fence. With everyone ready, I gave the signal, and using whatever barstools, tables, and patrons were necessary, we hurled ourselves over the wall and into the black freedom of the alleyways beyond. I doubt they heard us laughing as we ran, concerned as they were with all the acrid-smelling sand and soggy egos…

Want more from the Fallen Prankster? More misadventures here.
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posted 6.28.13

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Shortly after softcorigami went live last year, a yellowed, crusty envelope smelling strongly of pot and unlicensed strip clubs arrived on our doorstep. It contained only a blurry picture and this note:

Listen, fuckheads,
     Im’a bout to do you a big damn favor, so get your hands off your junk and pay some goddamn attention. Tits, tattoos, THC, I can dig this kinda shit. But anyone looking at this bullshit ‘blog’ has clearly spent way too long staring at a bunch of fucking blinking lights in a box, ‘stead of taking a minute to make some deserving sack of shit in a pink polo and greek letters doubt his sexuality. While you’re in here filling your gym socks, masses of humanity are just yolo’ing their way through life, totally unassailed by reason and decency.
     And, since I’m low on scotch and blow, I’m gonna teach you drooling husks how to deal with these meathead fucks. You’re going to send cash. Weekly.
     break something.
          –thefallenprankster

Naturally, we assumed these were the words of some deranged madman surviving on dirt and his own feces in a well-armed bunker in the woods. We still haven’t ruled that out.
Nonetheless, we’ll be bringing you the angry ramblings of the Fallen Prankster.
We’re sorry. He made us.

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