ATLANTA, GA – The invisible hand of the free market has responded again! In lieu of any form of gun control by our elected officials, Osh-Kosh B’Gosh will roll out Kiddie Kevlar® beginning this fall. Just in time for back to school. “Our customers keep getting shot,” says Osh-Kosh’s parent company – Carters Inc. – CEO Michael D Casey. “And since it doesn’t look like guns are going anywhere, anytime soon, we thought we’d offer a safer alternative to traditional children’s clothing. The kind of outfit you can wear into, but more importantly walk out of, a Wal-Mart.”
After this week’s shootings have turned 5 (and counting) innocent people into lifeless, rotting, corpses, the adorably named Osh-Kosh B’Gosh has responded quicker than any politician to help keep our children safe. “As a company, we pride ourselves on looking out for our customers,” Casey says. “We already carry a wide range of clothes that are perfect for pint-sized funerals. Now, we want to do what we can to help prevent those funerals.”
“Dead kids don’t need back to school clothes,” he added.
LOS ANGELES, CA – After becoming the third movie ever to break the billion dollar threshold during its international theatrical run, the genie community across America is up in arms over the use of blue face in Disney’s Aladdin remake. “This kind of treatment is unethical, unfair and un-American,” says Saladin of Carpathia, 26, local chapter leader of Metaphysical-American Against Prejudice. “Genies are not here just to serve humans. And these stereotypes are hurtful.”
“They couldn’t have hired a proper genie as the lead this time around?” asks Jinn Jinn – a 6000 year old genie who came into being during the Akiyan reign in ancient Assyria, but now calls Santa Monica, California, his home. “There are a ton of genies out there more qualified than Will Smith,” he asserts. “He can rap and act and all that, but has he ever granted a wish? I know nobody wished for a follow up to Gettin’ Jiggy With It.”
Jinn Jinn says considering the abilities of the film’s stars to draw at the box office is just another sign of racism. “See? It just goes to show you how Hollywood really feels about beings of color. If you’re blue, you’re through. All they care about is the green. Genies gotta pay rent, too. You can only get 6-12 months out of a landlord by granting him wishes for jewels and power. They wanna get paid. And we gotta eat too.”
“We don’t all sing and dance and make carpets fly,” Saladin continues. “I can’t go in public without grown men asking me for harems full of virgins, in front of their own children. Or their kids harassing me for mountains of ice cream,” he says. “This film treats our kind like a joke. You don’t get to walk up, rub my lamp and start making demands just because I’m a genie.”
“I don’t even like when I hear people referring to us as genies. We are Metaphysical Americans,” says Jinn Jinn. “It’s okay if we call each other genies, but it’s not cool for others to just throw around that term,” he added.
FRESNO, CA – Brian McAlister, 63, – and great grandson of some greasy, Irish, immigrant that came to the United States, uninvited, to leech off of our system – wants somebody to do something about all these fucking immigrants. “When my grandpa came over here from Ireland, it was different,” McAlister tells himself. When in reality, no country wants an illiterate drunk with too many kids to come take advantage of our social safety net while they beg for low skilled labor positions. Especially if they’re as disgusting as the Irish.
McAlister continues, “There’s just these people that come from these backwards countries, mired in corruption, with rampant disease and starvation and lack of first world resources,” he says, probably about his useless Irish Great Grandpa, who came from that shithole of a country, Ireland, and brought his shifty, questionable, Catholicism with him.
“All these people want to do is come here and steal jobs,” he reminds us, we assume, about his Great Grandpa who settled into a disgusting shanty in the greater Little Rock, Arkansas area during reconstruction when we had MILLIONS of American-born, newly-minted citizens looking for honest work and didn’t really have the bandwidth to absorb a bunch of people too dumb to know potatoes will literally grow in shit.
McAlister’s inbred drunk of a grandpa came with a bunch of other dumb Irish drunks and drove labor prices down almost below slave wages so people had to live like animals. “And nobody’s gonna be able to get a decent wage without a high school diploma any more,” he sharted out of his ugly, fucking, Irish face that wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for his dumb, fucking, alien Great Grandpa.
“They come here, they bring their families, they live in their own neighborhoods and don’t try to learn the language,” he says, as if in a country of 350 million people that spans two oceans, we really all need to be speaking the language of this hemisphere’s 4th largest colonizer.
“Someone needs to do something, or next thing you know we’ll all speaking Mexican,” the grandson of immigrants continues, as if this stupid child of illegal aliens should even have the right to speak in this country without showing me some identification to prove he isn’t some whisky-pounding, folk-dancing, brogue-slurring, half-human, ginger, piece of shit.
NORWALK, CA – As the queue begins to overtake the seasonal aisle, people grow impatient waiting to buy their laxatives and ointments. “The pharmacist said someone should be up any minute,”says Jennifer, 31, taking her place back in line.
In an effort to keep prices competitive, CVS has instituted an employment policy of one cashier per every three retail locations. “It’s how we’re able to stay competitive in the market. Our overhead is just too high,” says regional manager Alex Reyes. “Half of our gross profits go right back into purchasing receipt paper,” he continues, referencing the 9 mile ribbon of coupons customers receive with every transaction. “After that, we’re pretty limited on how many people we can hire. Luckily, there’s a CVS location on every other block. Once our associate clears the queue at store number 317, he or she can shoot around the block to store number 323 and start chipping away at the line over there. And then the next store. And then- you get it. If there weren’t so many wonderful CVS locations for you to choose from, we might have to start closing stores.”
“It’s not that bad,” says Damon McDougal, the only CVS cashier for six miles. “The stores are pretty close. They pay for my gas. And it’s cool because, like, they don’t drug test here either.”
“We, unfortunately, do not have the flexibility to pay for our associates gas at the moment. But it’s a program we are looking into,” Reyes makes clear.
“Oh. They pay, for my gas,” corrects Damon, with a smile, as he pats his front pocket.
So far the the public has had mixed responses. Hector Avila, 41 of Santa Fe Springs says, “Do you work here?”
Norma Morales, 67, asks “Hello? Can I get some help?” She is here hoping to have some photos developed in time for a funeral and having a hard time getting the attention of a CVS cashier.
This is a new format we are testing. Short form fiction. They did it in magazines a lot, up until the mid-1960’s or so. Then, the short story kinda went underground. But short stories, not novels, introduced us to the best literary minds of the 20th century. Folks, here at The Nuclear Unit, believe there’s still room in the 21st century for short stories. Even if all the best minds are dead and fiction only counts if it ends up on Netflix. Let us know if you’d like to see more short stories. And share it if you dig it!
-Adam Hammer, Editor in Chief
The Monster On the Bed
by Adam Hammer
“Nope,” I answered, again, for the 31,829 time. “I’m not a demon either.”
I filled the small disposable plastic basin up with a solution of acetone, salt and warm water. Why do I even bother trying to get to know my victims? People do it with sex. We should do it with murder. It’s the same level of intimacy, being inside someone. I’m just inside their chest cavity, not their birth canal.
“So where do your powers come from?” he asked, tied to my bed posts. The oversized blindfold frames his button nose parked just above his boyish smile.
“Yeah, don’t you Monsters have powers or whatever?”
“Ooh! Are those real too?”
I stick my hands in the solution and the nail polish falls off my long nails in sheets, exposing my true nails: razor sharp, long, black, not to be trifled with.
“Woah. I was not expecting that.”
“Nobody ever does. It’s weird. You’d think one person would recognize what they’re about to get into. With all the monster stories out there and what not.”
“I guess you kill everyone who can warn the rest of us, huh?”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s right! He laughs too. We’re both laughing. This is strange. Nice. But strange.
“So what’s the plan?”
“I’m gonna pull your beating heart out and eat it.”
“You still have room after that dinner? Ooof. I am stuffed.”
“Why’d you order dessert then?” I hear myself flirting.
He bites his lip. He hears her flirting too.
I laugh away the awkward moment. Then, I realize I’m still full too. Dinner was pleasant. Unusually pleasant. He was excited to share food with me. “Try this,” he’d say. Usually they get irritated with me when I either ask for, or sneak, a taste. It’s just a taste. Why is it always an issue? I dry my hands off. My long, black nails shimmer under the hotel lamp like well-oiled steel.
I look at him on the bed. Humming like an idiot. It’s sweet. Tonight, victim 31,829 is my first sweet one.
“Monsters gotta monster,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Victims gotta victim,” he says, interrupting his humming.
Smiling, I walk across the room. I let my nail travel lightly over his splayed feet as I cross the bed towards the closet. I recognize the tune, but can’t place it. Never mind.
I pull on the complimentary tarry cloth robe. Some time around the fourth or fifth time I used a hotel room (maybe 19,000 victims ago?), I learned that the concierge doesn’t just let you walk through the lobby dripping blood down the front of your dress. The ones that aren’t petrified with fear try to stop you somehow. It just makes things difficult because then I have to kill them. And if they’re gonna make things difficult, I won’t feel bad for ruining the robe. Is he singing?
“I can show you the world–“
“That’s what you were humming!”
I cinch my robe and turn to marvel at number 31,829. He continues, louder, “Shining, shimmering, splendid. Princess tell me now when did–“
“–you last let your heart decide!” I join in.
“I can open your eyes.”
“Take you wonder by wonder.”
“Sideways and under”
“On a magic carpet ride!” we both sing. And that’s where we end the song. We are laughing too hard.
“That’s a first.”
“Yeah? Never sang with a victim before?”
“Usually they’re over here telling me suck it in their own words. Or how they hope I like it rough, too. And every other thought that goes through the mind of a blindfolded man as he’s tied to a hotel bed.”
“Yeah. That’s Tinder for you.”
“It’s made my job 10 times easier, and 100 times more irritating. Where do these guys come from?”
“I don’t know! I can’t imagine any of my friends or family are rapey like that, but then, like, every woman who goes on Tinder meets these guys so they gotta exist, right?”
“Oh yeah. They’re out there.”
“Like, me,” I sigh.
“You do realize you’re not really a monster, right?”
He’s trying to make me feel better before I kill him? I think before saying, “Alright. I’ll play along.”
“You’re not a monster. You’re a metaphor. Well, more of a cliche. Something like, a beautiful woman can only let you down. You can never impress her enough. You will never be her only option. She isn’t a trophy that can be won. She’s the finish line of a race you’re in and the race won’t end until her beauty does. You can’t expect to tame her. You can just exist in her presence until she rips your heart out.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” I say, looking down at my claws.
“Any other monsters out there singing Aladdin with their victims? Probably not. My guess is you stand out.”
Am I blushing?
“Doesn’t matter what I think though,” he interrupts. “I’m the one tied to the bed. And I’m quite embarrassed I’m wearing my Spiderman underwear.”
“Oh my god, you’ve been thinking about those underwear the whole time we’ve been here, haven’t you!”
He sighs before continuing, his prepared remarks, “They were a joke gift. I forgot to switch my underwear to the dryer this morning and — ugh — What I’m saying is, after you feast on my beating heart, can you take these underwear out of the room and get rid of them and make like I showed up commando?”
I smile. I take this all in. The duet. The saddest, cutest last words I’ve ever heard. The fact that he didn’t just throw the underwear away when he got them. Will it be another 31,000 victims before I get another like this?
“I really wish I didn’t have to do this,” I say for the first time, ever. “But I need to eat your soul, or I die.”
“Yeah. Monsters feed on souls.”
“I didn’t think monsters existed either! Shit. You’re out of luck if you need a soul. I sold mine.”
“You sold your soul?? How could you do that?”
“How could you eat the heart of someone you just harmonized with?”
We laugh hard.
“When you put it like that–” I laugh. I’m not sure what to do; not sure my face muscles were ready for this much laughter. I’m cramping.
“I sold it on eBay for $100 like 7 years ago.”
“Tonight is full of first,” I’m able to say while my lower jaw is resting on the floor.
“I wasn’t using it,” he explained. “Didn’t feel the need for it. I was in a bind. The sperm bank limits you to 3 donations a week and I needed to get creative to pay rent, and look at me now! Tied to a hotel bed with a hungry monster and nothing to offer! I’m sorry I don’t have a soul for you.”
“A heart’s nothing without a soul. It’s empty. Its like eating shipping peanuts.”
“Or anything made by Hostess?” he says, while I untie him. Woah. Am I untying someone? I think as I double over laughing.
He sits up and rubs his wrists. He pulls off the blindfold to look at me, the monster on the bed. He doesn’t run. I look up at him. I look down at my claws. I try to hide them. He smiles. I smile. He puts his hands on mine. My hands melt into the comfort.
“Well this was weird,” he says.
“Can I call you again?”
“You’ve been my least crazy Tinder connection.”
“Yeah, it’s a bitch out there,” I say. “You’re the first victim I’ve granted mercy to.”
“What?? Nice! I never win anything.”
He sits back on the bed and turns the hotel TV on. We watch and laugh at infomercials cuddled together until the sun rises. Our next date is tomorrow. I’ve scheduled a manicure for this morning.
When my wife’s Chinese doctor delivered these two perfect little angels into my life, I knew that little Ronnie and baby-girl Reagan needed a strongman to fix this Land of Freedom for them. I had to stand up, turn off the Xbox and do what I could to help save this Great Country – the greatest country ever. I knew I had to do more than make their first words the pledge of allegiance. I knew I had to help make America great again. NOT THAT IT EVER WASN’T! But, more Greater. Again.
WE SHOULD STAND UNITED–
I know this isn’t a popular opinion these days in America but God is Love. I didn’t make that up. You can read that anywhere. From in The Bible to the painted mirror hung over our couch. Is it so hard to unite behind Love? Do we even want the kind of people who can’t stand behind Love to be in our country? Amongst us? Come on. Not liking love is like not liking Christmas. And I don’t know anybody that doesn’t like Christmas. Well, other than Ahmed in the Engineering department. Or whatever his name is.
If we could just come together under one common purpose – LOVE – then all this bickering between the Righteous and the Libtards will go away. We can join together and stand against the inherent evils in this world like racism, murder, gun laws and China. It’s a great feeling, being united, in a group, where everybody agrees.
Look, God didn’t make America so we could spend all our time arguing over which person is more racist versus which person hates America the most. God made America to save the world, and if we could stand together – like we did on September 11th, 2001 – under the twin banners of freedom and love – then those transfellas that wanna become girls, and share a toilet with my daughter, Reagan, will see the light. They’ll say Look! Look at how awesome it is to be a soldier of christ!I don’t know what I was thinking back there about hacking my manhood off. I’d rather wear the breastplate of righteousness than a dress!
I won’t need to shame them into repentance. They’ll be overcome by the combined awesomeness of God and Old Glory. They’ll take “pride” in standing up for something that doesn’t involve which pronoun they answer to. These poor ladymen aren’t oppressed, they’re bored!
Nobody’s thinking about butt-fucking when they’re in a foxhole fighting for the greatest country ever to exist . If they ain’t sinning, they’re winning and I’ll take one of those reformed queers on my side any day. I would love to ask one of them how they stay so fit. And I would love to see each and every one of those Fruits in Heaven. I truly would. There is no hate in my heart. Hate the sin. Not the sinner.
Now I don’t want you to get all like this sounds like forcing religion on people. No. I respect the United States Constitution. I carry a copy in my front pocket everyday to remind myself I am in the greatest, most powerful, strongest country ever to exist. Not like North Korea. Ha! That shithole. I wonder what those people say about their country.
No. Unlike North Korea, this country has freedom of religion. Which is the ONE area in which I am pro-choice. There are so many different flavors of Protestant Christianity, preaching all different forms of the one true Truth, that people should be free to make a choice. You don’t have to be a Lutheran! We got all types of denominations. Even Non-Denominational! There’s like 8 or 10 translations of the one, true, Word. So that makes it easy. And if someone tries each one out, and nothing fits, they can always go Catholic. We have plenty of normal religion options the come with acceptable levels of superstition. We don’t need more. Don’t tell me you want a Scientologist on the Supreme Court making selling your stem cells to aliens mandatory. That’s not the America I wanna know.
Once our focus is off of each other, and on The Lord, it’s time to dig in and fix this Greatest Most Bestest Country in the History of Measuring the Greatness of Countries. And we gotta act now, before Bernie Sanders dumps his colostomy bag all over it.
Let’s stand together and stop the bickering.
NO MORE NAME CALLING
Stop calling everybody racist. It’s getting tired. You might as well be calling everyone a witch, like that Ocasio-Cortez tramp. The name calling has to end. I honestly do not even know what “racist” means anymore. The definition has expanded so much to include every white person.
Like when I say, “We gotta build a wall, now! Otherwise, these immigrants are gonna get in here and before you know it we’ll all be speaking Mexican!” Everybody tells me how racist I am. I ain’t racist! Mexican ain’t a race. It’s a country, and a language. I don’t think I’m better because I’m white. Race ain’t got nothing to do with it. I’m better than them, because I’m American. America is my team. I’m better than Mexicans, Indians, Arabs, and Africans but I’m also better than Canadians, English, certainly the Germans definitely those pussy French and ain’t no way I ain’t better than a Jap. Heck, even Barack Hussein Obama is better than them because at least we’re pretty sure he was born here.
I am sick of having to say this over and over again: I am not racist. Even my last car rental was Japanese. I don’t hate anybody. I preach love. Acceptance of Jesus. And a tolerance for me standing to salute my flag. Is that a crime in this country now?
That’s what’s wrong with this country. Everybody’s looking in the mirror, concerned about how many retweets they’re gonna get on Instagram, and not concerning themselves with what Sharia Law might be doing to the fibers of this country. We have to think together, as one, like a country. Like a Voltron made of 50, beautiful, sovereigns who all agree to think the same, that can bury Russia under the Northern Sea, NOW, and not have to wait for climate change to do it.
It’s time for people to stop thinking of themselves as unique, individual, special snowflakes, who deserve free health care just because they pay so much in taxes to fund wars. That ain’t how you win the Game of Thrones. And that’s what these pussies need to know is that countries are all playing a game and we are in it, to win it. What do we win?
All of it.
All I know is America is the greatest country God ever put on this planet. And that’s all I need to know. And that’s why we don’t need to pay teachers all that much. How much money does someone need to teach kids how great God and country is? That’s the easiest job in the world. That’s like teaching them ice cream is delicious and Disneyland is fun.
OCEANSIDE, CA – Trying to keep kids from cussing has been an empty tradition since the strange day certain words began carrying moral value. It’s a bit of a coming of age thing for every parent to show how polite and well mannered they themselves are, via their child proxy. “We don’t talk like that,” is a common utterance from most any parent – but not the Dixons. “It’s the only thing he says that we can understand,” says Perla Dixon, 32, mother of Jeffrey, 4, the little f-bomb droppin’ madman. “He should have like 30 words by now. He’s got one word he uses 30 different ways. He’s like the late Bernie Mac with one word,” Ryan Dixon, Jeffrey’s dad says. “But everything else is like,” he pauses to let out a deep, pained sigh. “It’s making me nervous how little we can understand besides the one word.”
“Fuck asldkfjas’oeifhnam fuck fuck sdflknvwow a fuckfuckfuck” little Jeffrey lets loose from the play area. Ryan responds, with his core response. “There you go, buddy. Doing good.” He shrugs, cartoonishly.
“Fuck!” Perla laughs to herself. Because, really, what else can you do? Parents can tell people all day long that they don’t talk like that at home and “he didn’t learn that from me!” But we all know they certainly didn’t learn it from Bert or Ernie.
“Duck, muck, huck, shuck,” Ryan starts rattling on. “If he could pronounce any of these in a way that we could understand, then maybe we’d have something to work with when it comes to other words, you know? I just–” he trails off.
“He’s saying ‘shit’ now,” Perla reminds Ryan; who throws his hands in the air. “Of course! Maybe he’s learning it from his Speech Therapist! Might as well be! Fuck! I mean, every other language you learn, you learn the curse words first,” he says, trying to convince himself. “Right?”
The Dixons are going to take a wait and see approach to Jeffrey’s f-bombs. “We really don’t have to worry too much until he starts public school,” Perla says. “I’m also watching a lot of YouTube videos on Sign Language and working on that with him on that as a second option.”
“Jesus, Ryan,” Perla says.
“What? Just as an option. I don’t expect him to learn to communicate like Barack Obama or anything. But he should have the ability to communicate with some group of people, right?”
The Dixons will continue on in their fight to keep their kid from cussing, but only so much. “They start cussing when they’re 10 anyways so what is it we are trying to prevent, huh?” Ryan asks, letting us know the matter is settled in his mind.
CARLSBAD, CA – He’s been raving about billionaire sex crimes for years. That there’s a high power, connected, secret cabal of billionaires and politicians running underground, underage, sex trafficking operations that cater only to the rich. “And all you bastards did was laugh at me!” Mr. Logan, divorced father of 2, cackles. And we shrug. Because he’s right. “‘Why would billionaires risk it all to rape underage girls when they could literally buy any woman they want?’ Is what you guys said,” he reminds us, in a mocking tone. “And I said, who would commit these acts but the billionaire class,” he digs in. And our sources confirm we did, in fact, ask something to that effect. Mr. Logan continued, “You said, ‘who has time for that?’ and ‘Is this another one of your lizard people things?’ But look at the front pages of every main stream media rag out there!” He motions towards the wall of news clippings, tacked up onto his vision board of insanity he has splayed inside the garage door. “Every day another story comes out with another name and it’s like I was screaming about back in 2001 that this 9/11 thing isn’t what you think and there are pedophiles with Top Secret clearance working in our very own government,” he says, referencing the Jeffrey Epstein sex trafficking case and the resignation of Secretary of Labor Alex Acosta. And holy shit, he HAS been saying this since 2001. And we, for the life of us, cannot figure out just why we didn’t listen. As impartial journalists, we here at The Nuclear Unit will continue to monitor Mr. Logan’s incoherent ravings for any truth to his flat earth claim, his chem trail analyses and the efficacy of his colloidal silver. Because, holy shit, he might have been right on this one.
Staying fit is tough.As parents our minds are always being pulled in different directions and sometimes things that seem obvious can confuse us. So we put together these 9 simple ways to tell your baby apart from your Shake Weight to avoid any unnecessary trips to the hospital.I guess we just care more than the other family news sites.Watch above, or read below!
Babies are great at working your patience but do nothing for your grip strength.
Dad! First off, what are scorpions made out of? Second, why is the bathroom door closed? What are you guys doing in here? Are you sneaking ice cream again? Teacher says sharing is caring. Oh! You’re trying to wash Mom’s back you say? Well, you’ve got it all wrong, Dad.
Ok! Ok! I’ll leave in just a second! Use your inside voice, please. I just wanna make sure you get this right. I don’t want Mom to have a dirty back.
First off, you’re not even holding the soap. You’re holding Mom’s hips. If you want Mom to have a clean back, you need to actually touch her back – with soap. Her hips are as clean as they’re getting, Dad. Now step back from mom and come turn on the next episode of Spongebob for me. It’s at that part with all the names on the TV and that’s the boring part for adults. So come change it for me. What do you mean you aren’t going to back away from Mom right now?
And, Mom, you’re part of this equation too. Do you even want a clean back? I mean, you’re bent over with your leg up on the soap dish. Are you trying to get away from Dad? It seems like he has a pretty firm grip on your hips. I don’t think you’re going anywhere. And I don’t think you realize how unsafe this looks. You’re always telling me to sit down in the tub, but here you are, standing on one foot, wrestling with Dad, with the shower on. That’s definitely not safe. I’m gonna need a little consistency out of you if you want me to follow the rules.
I gotta poop. Don’t mind me.
Ok. Let’s get this sorted so I can get back in there. I hear the next episode starting. Dad, if you wanna wash Mom’s back, focus on her back. That’s what you tell me: focus. I don’t know what game you guys were playing in here but she didn’t seem like she was enjoying it. She kept making all these noises like you were hurting her. Make sure she wants to play the same game as you, Dad. That’s what you tell me when I’m punching Melissa. Let’s make sure Mom is enjoying the game. Mom? Are you ok? You are? Hey, can I have chocolate milk at snack today?
Stop closing the shower curtain! I gotta tell you something! This is important.
Dad, yesterday I almost had a splinter. But it fell off. It was right here. Dad, look. It was right here. Almost a splinter. Fine! I’ll close the shower curtain. Mom, I’m all done, can you wipe me?