DeathJuice Energy Drink

We know you came here for some unhinged takes, spicy memes, or maybe a caffeine-fueled existential rant about e-scooters. But today, we’re punching a hole through the veil of ignorance for your own good. Consider this an emergency broadcast from your favorite irresponsible uncles over at DeathJuice HQ. Why? Because you’re squishy, mortal, and very much on fire.

What Most People Overlook About Skin Cancer (Until It’s Eating Their Face)

You ever feel like the sun is stalking you? That’s not paranoia. That’s just biology and bad habits.

Skin cancer is the most common type of cancer in the U.S., which is wild considering how easy it is to not roast yourself like a rotisserie chicken. It’s up astronomically over the last 50 years—because surprise, the Earth’s atmosphere isn’t getting any thicker and our love of bronzed selfies isn’t going away either.

The Melanoma Mayhem

Melanoma is the boss-level skin cancer, and it’s not chilling out anytime soon. Forecasts show it rising another 6% in 2025, especially among people under 30—and especially especially among women. Nothing says “hot girl summer” like a malignant mole playing hide and seek under your ribcage.

“But I Wear Sunscreen… Sometimes”

Cool. But you also sometimes floss and sometimes answer texts. Doesn’t mean your teeth—or your skin—are safe.

Most skin cancer shows up on the predictable spots: face, scalp, neck, ears, upper chest, hands. Basically anywhere that’s been kissed by the sun so many times it filed for a restraining order.

But here’s the part no one wants to talk about:

Skin cancer can pop up in places you didn’t even know had skin.

We’re talking palms, soles, genitals, butt cheeks, eyelids, under your nails, even inside your nose and mouth. That’s right. Your uvula might be plotting against you. Dermatologists have seen it all. You? Probably haven’t even checked.

TL;DR: The Sun Doesn’t Care Where You Tan

Look, this isn’t just another fear-mongering article trying to get you to live inside a cave or buy SPF 9,000 sunscreen made from baby pandas. It’s a public service announcement from your fellow meatbags who are tired of watching people treat their skin like it’s invincible just because it grew back after that one time they wiped out on a skateboard in 2003.

So What Now?

• Put on some sunscreen like it’s war paint.
• Schedule a skin check like an adult.
• And maybe stop roasting your body in the name of “looking healthy.”

You can be hot and not have your dermatologist on speed dial, okay?

We love you. But if your moles start growing legs and quoting Shakespeare, don’t say we didn’t warn you

Ah, Utah. The land of mountains, modesty, and minivans. A place where fry sauce is a sacrament garnish, soda shops are holy ground, and every Sunday, the meeting houses are packed tighter than a Costco parking lot at 10:01 a.m.

Among the faithful Latter-day Saints of the Beehive State, there exist two curious subgroups who despite their shared commitment to sacrament attendance and the blessing of partaking, have developed vastly different strategies for managing that whole “keep the Sabbath day holy” thing.

Let’s meet our two saints:

⸻

1. The Procrastinating Penitents

These saints operate under a specific spiritual framework: sin now, serve later.

They remember the Lord’s counsel in Doctrine & Covenants 59:9, which boldly declares:

“And that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day.”

So, naturally, they interpret this as: “Get the worldly spottedness done before church.” You’ll see them sprinting through Walmart at 8:37 a.m., grabbing essential items like deli meats, a CTR ring for their toddler who keeps biting during nursery, and maybe a box of mints to prepare for reverent breath.

They know that as long as they make it to the sacrament in time, they’re spiritually reset. Like hitting “undo” on divine Google Docs.

⸻

2. The Proactive Sinners

These are the overachievers of transgression timing. They attend sacrament with perfect punctuality and intentional piety, fully planning to break the Sabbath, but only after they’ve secured celestial forgiveness in advance.

They lean into D&C 59:13, which says:

“And on this day thou shalt do none other thing, only let thy food be prepared with singleness of heart…”

But they read it like a divine loophole. After all, the mall has food courts, and they aresingularly focused on that BOGO deal at Jamba Juice.

And lest you forget, they often cite D&C 58:26:

“For behold, it is not meet that I should command in all things…”

Ah yes, the classic “agency clause.” The proactive saints interpret this as divine encouragement to make their own decisions—including deciding that they need to “gather” at Target as much as they gather at church.

⸻

3. A House of Order… With a Shopping List

Let’s not forget D&C 88:119, which urges saints to establish a:

“house of order, a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of learning…”

But in Utah, many households have interpreted this to mean: “Make sure the house is stocked with snacks, clean laundry, and enough Capri Suns to survive a Primary class.”

And what better way to ensure that than a quick Sabbath day stock-up?

⸻

The Eternal Balance

In the great cosmic spreadsheet of heaven, who’s doing it better?

Hard to say.

The Procrastinators? They sin under pressure. The Proactives? They’re just “anxiously engaged in a good cause” (D&C 58:27)—especially if that cause is a post-church clearance sale.

And both are sure to be back next week, ready to repent and repeat.

⸻

Final Thoughts

So whether you’re buying a roast at 9:47 a.m. or hitting the mall at 12:23 p.m., just remember this:

D&C 64:10 reminds us:

“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.”

…Even if they’re the ones who took the last pack of Hawaiian rolls on a Sunday morning.

So let us judge not, but love greatly. Zion is made up of many kinds—those who sin before the closing prayer, and those who sin shortly after the closing hymn. But all of us are trying. Mostly.

And maybe that’s what matters most.

Amen. And pass the fry sauce

A 4th of July Dispatch from the British Founder of DeathJuice, Trapped Somewhere in Utah

Here we are again — July 4th — the day Americans gather to celebrate breaking up with Britain by launching small-scale explosions into the sky and shouting “WOO” with enough conviction to scare livestock.

As a proud Brit — currently exiled in the Utah desert — I’ve had the rare pleasure of observing this sacred event from within the belly of the beast. And I must say:

There is no celebration of freedom quite like wrapping yourself in a flag, eating 19 hot dogs, and then burning down your neighbor’s lawn with a rogue Roman candle.

🧨 America: Where Everything Is Legal Except DeathJuice

Let’s cut to the core hypocrisy, shall we?

In this nation of so-called “freedom”, I can legally:

• Open-carry an AR-15 into a Cracker Barrel
• Deep fry an entire turkey in a bucket of motor oil
• Buy prescription narcotics and a 64oz Pepsi at the same gas station
• Drive a lifted truck that runs on dreams and diesel fumes

But can I, the literal founder of DeathJuice, sell a can of the world’s most unhinged beverage here?

Absolutely not.

It’s banned.

Too unstable.

Too edgy.

Too much actual flavor, apparently.

This country trusts you with a flamethrower and a college education you’ll never pay off —

but not a neon blackcurrant energy drink that kicks your soul in the teeth.

🎇 The Great American Contradiction

You call it freedom.

But from where I’m sitting — sweating in a lawn chair in Utah, listening to someone explain why they put bacon in their apple pie — it looks more like a freedom-shaped costume stitched together with denial, Red #40, and suburban rage.

“We’re free!”

(But our food has warning labels in 4 languages.)

“We beat the British!”

(But still use Imperial measurements and spell colour wrong.)

“This is the greatest country on Earth!”

(Except, apparently, for the part where we’re not allowed to sell DeathJuice.)

🥤Let Them Have Pepsi

So here’s to you, America.

Enjoy your fireworks, your propane, your plastic flags and your idea of liberty.

Drink your flat, lukewarm Pepsi and call it a revolution.

Sing about freedom while being watched by six different agencies because you Googled how to make bread from scratch.

Meanwhile, I’ll be here — sunburnt, slightly bitter, and sipping DeathJuice from a smuggled can while the neighbors accidentally blow up a kiddie pool.

Because freedom — real freedom — tastes like artificial berry rage and comes in a can so illegal it might as well be a war crime.

Yours in sarcasm,

Still British,

Still Banned,

And Still More Free Than Most of the Free World

#DeathJuice

#BannedInTheUSA

#IndependunceDay

#FreedomButMakeItCorporate

#LetThemHavePepsi

#StuckInUtahWithMyFaceMelted

So we’ve now driven 9,000 glorious, silent, drama-free miles in our Hyundai Ioniq 6, and guess what?

It hasn’t needed a drop of gas, an oil change, or a roadside exorcism. Just pure, unfiltered electricity — and sometimes not even that, because we charge for free half the time.

Let’s talk numbers so cold they’d make your gas-powered uncle cry:

The Electric Truth

• 4.8 miles per kWh
• $0.10 per kWh
• 9,000 ÷ 4.8 = 1,875 kWh used
• $0.10 x 1,875 = $187.50
• BUT, we only pay for about half our charging, so…

🎉 Real cost: $93.75

Ninety. Three. Dollars. For 9,000 miles. That’s less than one tank in some trucks that rhyme with “Ram.”

Meanwhile… the Ford Explorer

We still have it. Still love it. It’s a beast — reliable, comfy, good for road trips and Costco missions. But let’s be honest:

Driving it feels like lighting money on fire while blasting classic rock.

• 22 MPG
• 9,000 ÷ 22 = 409 gallons
• 409 x $3.50 = $1,431.82

Yeah. Over fourteen hundred bucks just to move the thing around. That’s not a car — it’s a subscription to disappointment.

Let’s Do the Math:

💰 Savings: $1,338.07

That’s basically a vacation. Or 150 coffees. Or all the snacks your kids claim they’ll eat and absolutely won’t.

Final Thought:

We’re not ditching the Explorer — but these days it’s more of a weekend warrior while the Ioniq 6 does the daily domination.

So yeah, we drive an EV.

Not because we’re better than you.

Okay, maybe a little because we’re better than you. 😉

Charge it. Drive it. Flex it.

The future called — and it’s whispering, “gas is for boomers.”

#EVLife #Ioniq6 #FordYoureExpensive #GasIsTheNewCigarettes #ChargedUpAndPetty

Ah, Docks Beers, the glittering jewel in the reclaimed-industrial-crown of Grimsby-that-isn’t-Grimsby. Nestled just far enough from the actual docks to avoid any real sense of danger or authenticity, this polished concrete cathedral to craft beer offers a safe space for the modern man to wear rolled-up jeans and pretend his beard is a personality.

Let’s be honest: Docks Beers isn’t just a brewery. It’s a rehab centre for men who once bought a rusted-out Vespa and thought, “I’ll restore it one day.” That day never came. But what did come? A whole new identity based on buying obscure Polish lagers with pineapple infusions and pretending they enjoy the taste.

You’ll find them there, leaning on reclaimed wood bars, sipping “Hop Hustle” or “CryoClash 3000” like they’re drinking the blood of rockstars—while talking about that one time they nearly started a podcast about music and fatherhood.

These are the heroes of mediocrity, the warriors of warm IPAs, the men who peaked when someone on Reddit said, “That shelf you made out of scaffolding poles is sick, mate.” Their pints are as overpriced as their self-worth, and both are brewed with a hint of nostalgia and a strong aftertaste of “should’ve stuck with IT.”

The bar is so full of mismatched chairs and faux-industrial fixtures that you’d be forgiven for thinking you were at an IKEA display titled: “Gentrification: The Experience.” The urinals smell like freshly printed CVs and broken dreams. Honestly, the toilets are so clean you could cry into your career change, but you won’t—because someone might think it’s artistic.

Let’s not forget: despite the name, Docks Beers is not on the docks—just like Grimsby Town FC isn’t in Grimsby. (That’s Cleethorpes, love. We all know it.) It’s like naming a restaurant “The Forest Grill” and sticking it in the middle of a Tesco car park. But that’s the charm, innit? Authenticity is for people without Instagram.

Now, as for the beer: brewed with the kind of care and precision usually reserved for skincare routines, every drop is crafted by men who once worked in digital marketing but now wear aprons and talk about “mouthfeel.” Their hands are softer than the back of your nan’s neck, and they haven’t lifted anything heavier than a flight paddle in years.

You’ll overhear conversations like:

“Yeah, I’m brewing my own saison at home. It’s fermented with yeast harvested from Himalayan peach bark.”

“I just sold my NFT of a vape cloud to buy a second-hand record player from a bloke in Barton.”

No one laughs, but everyone nods. Respectfully. Because they all know: this isn’t a pub. This is a sanctuary for people who were never cool, trying to look like they were once interesting.

So if you find yourself at Docks Beers, clutching your man bag, sipping something called “Molten Anvil Ferment #7”, just remember—you’re not drinking beer. You’re cosplaying the version of yourself that you told someone you were on Tinder.

Now do yourself a favour:

Put down the micro-fermented mango saison, untie the flannel from your waist, and go get a real pint in a real pub. Somewhere with dart boards, broken jukeboxes, and men named Keith who smell faintly of chimney smoke and Bovril.

Because Docks Beers?

It’s not on the docks.

And it’s not a beer.

It’s a lifestyle subscription for midlife regret.

Cheers

There’s something magical about Cleethorpes. Maybe it’s the sea air, maybe it’s the suspiciously sticky arcade carpets, or maybe it’s the fact that no matter where you go, someone is eating fish and chips.

But not all chippies are created equal. Some are divine vessels of battered glory. Others serve you cod so dry it could be used as insulation in a 1970s council flat.

Let’s sort the seagull bait from the seaside saints.

1. 

Papa’s Fish & Chips – The Vatican of Vinegar

Situated on the pier like Neptune’s own fast-food cathedral, Papa’s is massive, ostentatious, and somehow always has a queue longer than a royal funeral.

🧂 The fish? Crispy. Moist. Textbook.

🍟 The chips? Thick-cut and fluffy, like little golden clouds from a carbohydrate heaven.

🪑 The decor? Somewhere between Titanic dining room and Brexit-themed wedding.

They serve it with mushy peas in actual ceramic pots like you’re dining at Downton Abbey if it was located inside a theme park.

✨ Verdict: The gold standard. Bring your nan and your Instagram followers.

2. 

Ernie Beckett’s – The Grease That Time Forgot

This is what people mean when they say “proper chip shop.” The signage hasn’t changed since 1983 and neither has the oil.

⚙️ You can taste the heritage (and possibly the radiator fluid).

The batter clings to the fish like a childhood trauma. The chips? Burnt on the ends and raw in the middle—just how granddad liked ’em.

🍽️ It’s £7.50 for a full portion and a side of existential doubt. But it’s cash only, so prepare to time-travel to 2004.

✨ Verdict: Perfect if you like your fish fried and your arteries challenged.

3. 

Ocean Fish Bar – “We’re Open!” (But Should They Be?)

Some call this a “hidden gem.”

Others call it “the place where I got food poisoning on prom night.”

🐟 The fish is suspiciously uniform, like it was 3D-printed in a factory in Wigan.

The chips come in a polystyrene coffin and smell faintly of sadness and Febreze.

To be fair, they do offer gluten-free options, which is nice, because at least one thing on the menu will definitely disagree with your digestive tract.

✨ Verdict: A culinary coin toss. You might love it. Or you might hallucinate your great-aunt Sheila on the bus home.

4. 

The Chip Box – The Late Night Gamble

You go here when:

• You’ve had six pints at The Studio Bar
• It’s after 10 p.m.
• You’ve temporarily forgotten what dignity is

It’s all served hot, fast, and aggressively wrapped in enough paper to decimate a small forest. The fish is… technically fish. The chips are angry, crunchy things that may or may not have ever seen a potato.

But at 11:45 p.m. with curry sauce dripping down your wrist, it’ll taste like salvation.

✨ Verdict: A spiritual experience best enjoyed while drunk and barefoot.

5. 

Steels Corner House – For When You Want To Eat With Cutlery

This is not just a chip shop. This is an institution.

White tablecloths. Real plates. People who chew with their mouths closed.

⚓ The portions are hefty. The peas come in a ramekin. The haddock is so fresh it could slap you and demand better treatment.

It’s the place your parents go when they want to “make a day of it.” It’s calm, respectable, and there’s a 40% chance someone in there is named Mavis.

✨ Verdict: The Queen’s choice (if she ever fancied Cleethorpes).

Final Thoughts: In Cod We Trust, But Bring Wet Wipes

Cleethorpes might be cold, windy, and slightly haunted—but by God, they know how to fry things.

Whether you’re chasing nostalgia, heartburn, or a side of regret with your salt and vinegar, there’s a chip shop here waiting to serve you.

Just follow the scent of deep-fried hope… and the screaming of seagulls stealing someone’s sausage.

📢 Bonus challenge:

Tag us in your next fish & chip feast and tell us:

Did you achieve culinary enlightenment…

or just pay £11.95 to be betrayed by a soggy batter slab and warm Tango

Let’s take a spiritual journey—no, not to Zion, but to the psychological Zion that is being suckered into Utah’s finest tourist traps. A place where the air is thin, the prices are thick, and the souvenirs are handcrafted by a guy named Elijha in a warehouse in Phoenix.

1. 

Hole N” The Rock

 A Home Carved in Sandstone and Regret

Somewhere outside Moab, where the rocks are red and your cell signal dies a noble death, you’ll find this fever dream of roadside Americana: a 5,000 sq. ft. home blasted into a cliff face.

It’s part museum, part gift shop, and part cry for help. For $7, you can wander through what feels like a Flintstones panic room filled with taxidermy and unrelated presidential memorabilia.

They’ll tell you it’s “historic.”

They won’t tell you it smells like your grandpa’s attic had a baby with a thrift store on fire.

📸 Photo Ops:

• You, standing next to a carved-out Jesus face on a boulder.
• Your soul, slowly exiting your body in the parking lot.

2. 

Mystic Hot Springs

 – Like Burning Man, but Sponsored by Rust

It sounds healing. Mystic. Springs. Sounds like a place elves would bathe.

Instead, imagine soaking in lukewarm mineral water inside a clawfoot tub that looks like it was rescued from the Titanic wreck.

You’re paying $25 to marinate in vaguely warm soup next to a drum circle and a school bus painted like a Bob Ross fever dream.

🛁 Pros:

• You can say “I went to a natural spring in Utah.”
  👎 Cons:
• You can’t unsmell the experience.

3. 

The Big Rock Candy Mountain

 – A Sweet Name for a Sour Trap

Spoiler: there is no candy.

There is a mountain. It’s yellow. Possibly jaundiced. Definitely not delicious.

But thanks to an old folk song and some brave marketing, they’ve turned it into a full-fledged tourist pit: mini-golf, zip lines, and a restaurant with the ambience of a middle school cafeteria during a power outage.

🍬 It’s like Disneyland, if Walt had a strict $17 budget and a lifelong grudge against fun.

4. 

Zion Shuttle System

 – A Line to Stand in While Dreaming of Nature

Welcome to the majestic gates of Zion National Park—where you’ll experience the beauty of nature… through the window of a government-issued bus.

Instead of hiking, you’ll be:

• Standing in line to board a shuttle
• Standing on the shuttle
• Standing in a different line to board another shuttle

This is the Circle of Life, brought to you by the National Park Service and mild heatstroke.

🎟️ Pro tip: if you close your eyes and breathe deeply, you might convince yourself you’re in nature. Until a toddler screams “IS THIS THE GRAND CANYON?”

5. 

Alien Jerky in Baker

 (Not Utah, but spiritually Utah)

Yes, it’s in Nevada. But you’ll pass it on your Utah road trip, and you’ll stop. You always stop.

Because there’s an 18-foot alien statue and a promise of “space jerky.”

It’s not jerky from space. It’s just dry meat next to novelty lube and shot glasses shaped like little green men. You’ll leave $38 lighter and somehow greasier.

🛸 And yet… you’ll post it on Instagram.

We all do.

You’re not immune.

Final Thoughts: Welcome to Utah, Please Lower Your Expectations

Utah is stunning. The landscapes? God-tier. The skiing? Divine.

But for every majestic canyon, there’s a haunted gift shop selling petrified wood and trauma.

So pack your sunscreen, bring your debit card, and prepare to stand in line next to a guy wearing Tevas and eating $14 fry sauce.

Remember: it’s not about avoiding the tourist traps.

It’s about surviving them…

with stories to tell,

and $3 alien jerky in your glove box

Ah, the X Games. Once the cultural equivalent of a flaming jet ski doing a backflip over the Grand Canyon, now more like an elderly skateboarder slowly rolling down a wheelchair ramp while muttering something about “the good ol’ days.”

Launched in 1995, the X Games didn’t just arrive they exploded onto the scene like a can of Monster Energy tossed into a bonfire. It was loud, brash, glorious, and for a brief moment, cooler than a snowboarding unicorn riding a BMX bike made of Red Bull cans. It gave birth to action sports legends: Tony Hawk, Mat Hoffman, Dave Mirra, Travis Pastrana household names, assuming your household included a halfpipe and smelled vaguely of sweat, hope, and axle grease.

Back then, sponsorships weren’t handed out they were rained from the heavens. Six figures for a sticker placement! That’s right—companies paid more to be on a helmet than most people earned for selling their soul, dignity, and half their furniture. The sports themselves, skateboarding, BMX, motocross, snowboarding weren’t just hobbies; they were societal game changers. They made rebellion look productive.

But alas, like a poorly waxed skateboard on a gravel path, things went downhill.

Over time, the corporations realized that pouring millions into a sport where teenagers yell “SELL OUT” for using a branded water bottle might not be the wisest investment. The free events became paywalled palaces. The anti-establishment spirit was neatly folded and ironed into Olympic regulation uniforms.

Yes, the Olympics. That ancient, ring-obsessed monolith realized that no one under 40 gives a fig about shot put or synchronized walking. So they kidnapped action sports, slapped them with rules, drug tests, and mandatory leotards, and told the pioneers: “Join us… or be cancelled by our marketing department.”

ESPN, once the proud parent of this high-octane circus, sold off the X Games like a disinterested stepdad auctioning off his ex-wife’s jet ski. And now, the event exists as a fragmented, microtransaction heavy theme park of its former self.

Want to sit near the ramp? That’s extra. Want shade? That’s $80. Want to use a porta-potty that doesn’t smell like failure? That’s the platinum tier. Of course, most people aren’t buying the upgrades, so they’re handed out like free mints at a dentist’s office just to make the stands look full. Illusion of popularity? Check.

Meanwhile, the number of competing athletes has shrunk like a cotton T-shirt in a hot wash. No open qualifiers. No rags-to-riches stories. Just the top tier, and when a couple of those precious superstars crash in practice, the entire schedule does the cha-cha to accommodate their nap time. Sorry, we meant “favorable wind conditions.”

And what’s the big showcase now? Freestyle motocross.

Yes, FMX where the riders launch into the sky and perform mid-air surgeries on their own spleens before landing. Incredible? Absolutely. Aspirational? Not unless your toddler has access to a dirt bike, a launch ramp, and a team of orthopedic surgeons on standby.

Gone are the days when a scrappy kid with a skateboard and a dream could bust a trick and wind up on a cereal box. These days, the top 8 athletes in many events are still working full-time jobs just to afford the travel, gear, and nachos required to compete. It’s less “living the dream” and more “crowdfunding the rental car.”

And who’s in the audience? Youthful rebels hungry for glory?

Nope. Mostly parents and grandparents nostalgia tourists in cargo shorts, here to squint into the sun and whisper, “I remember when this meant something.” Attending the X Games now feels a bit like visiting the ruins of an ancient temple where they used to sacrifice conformity to the gods of adrenaline. The echoes of Tony Hawk’s 900 bounce off the distant walls like sacred hymns.

So, is the X Games dying?

Not exactly. It’s still twitching. Still broadcasting. But it’s no longer kicking down cultural doors. It’s politely knocking, asking if anyone still cares. And when no one answers, it quietly walks away and checks the breeze for optimal tailwinds

Let me tell you a tale. A tragicomic saga. A cautionary fable for anyone brave (or foolish) enough to list a nearly new Schwinn bike trailer on Facebook Marketplace.

The trailer? Pristine. Lightly used. A top-tier chariot of childhood joy that once promised adventure and fresh air. Retail price: a minor heart attack. Listing price? A gentle sigh. Practically giving it away cheaper than dinner for two at Nando’s. It even comes with a flag, for heaven’s sake. It’s aerodynamic. It’s practical. It’s… unsellable.

Scene 1: The Inbox of Broken Dreams

As soon as the post goes live, the messages start trickling in.

👤 “Is this available?”

Yes. Yes, it is. That’s why it’s listed. Why do you ask?

👤 “What’s your lowest?”

Mate, the price is already lower than my self-esteem after sitting through six series of “Love Island.” But sure, let’s play limbo. How low can we go?

👤 “Can you deliver to Stoke-on-Trent?”

Sure, if you pay for petrol, snacks, my time, emotional labor, and a session of therapy afterward.

👤 “I’ll come at 5.”

They do not come at 5.

They do not come at 6.

They do not come at all.

You tidy the garage. You miss dinner. You question humanity. And the trailer? Still sitting there, looking smug, like it’s part of a sociological experiment on seller resilience.

Scene 2: The Bargain Brigade

After five ghostings and one bloke who tried to trade it for a set of golf clubs “missing only 3 irons,” you’re now just shouting into the void.

You rewrite the listing:

“Still for sale. No, I won’t take £10. No, I don’t want to swap it for an aquarium or a budgie cage. No, I will not hold it for you until next month’s payday.”

You start wondering if maybe you should just donate it to science. Or strap it to a passing Uber and hope for the best.

Scene 3: The Bargaining Monologue

You imagine future you, standing by the curb with a cardboard sign:

“Free trailer. Comes with a bottle of red wine and a warm sense of betrayal.”

People will stop. They’ll ask if it comes with instructions. You’ll say yes, but mostly emotional ones.

⸻

And yet… it’s still for sale.

Probably.

It might also be a time capsule of disappointment by now.

If you or anyone you know is in the market for a lightly used Schwinn trailer (with more emotional baggage than mechanical wear), drop a message. Just… don’t ask if it’s available.

We both know it

A Monty Python–esque tragedy featuring delusion, detergent, and a very judgmental cat named Gertrude

Narrator (spoken with a noble accent over panpipes and a burp):

In a neighborhood best known for its artisanal hummus and broken dreams, there lived a man called Elijah—a tall, bewildered figure whose confidence was unmatched in its complete lack of foundation.

Elijah was the sort of man who described himself as “neurodivergent and vibing” on dating apps, but mostly just vibed alone with his cat, Gertrude, a ginger tabby who understood the meaning of the universe and loathed every minute of it.

Scene One: Suds of Destiny

Elijah stood in his cramped kitchen wearing nothing but socks and misguided ambition. He stared lovingly at his MacBook Pro, a faithful device that had endured many things: conspiracy theories, rejected blog drafts, and at least one mushroom-fueled attempt to write a screenplay about a sentient lentil.

Elijah (beaming):

“Time for your spiritual cleanse, my sweet digital child.”

He turned the faucet like a priest anointing a heretic and lowered the laptop into the foamy sink water as if it were a Viking corpse.

Gertrude, perched on the counter like a furry gargoyle, tilted her head in what could only be described as feline contempt.

Narrator:

Elijah’s belief that “all modern devices are waterproof” came from a Reddit post he skimmed while high and eating Nutella with a spatula.

This was also the same night he declared, through a mouthful of granola, that “reality is just God’s badly rendered simulation.”

Scene Two: Mushrooms, Madness, and MacBooks

As the laptop began to emit the soft crackle of dying circuits, Elijah inhaled deeply and settled cross-legged on the floor.

He had taken exactly one and a half mushrooms that morning, convinced it made him focus better, despite having spent two hours trying to “connect spiritually” with a coat rack.

Elijah (gazing into the abyss):

“Gertrude… have you ever wondered if we’re just data packets in a cosmic hard drive?”

Gertrude blinked once.

Her eyes said: “You absolute lemon.”

Narrator (delighted):

This was not the first time Elijah had misunderstood the world. He once tried to network at a funeral. He thought NFTs were a type of protein. He believed “social cues” were some sort of cryptocurrency.

And now, he had baptized his MacBook. With Dawn dish soap. And hope.

Final Scene: Consequences and Cat Disdain

The sink hissed. The screen flickered like a dying firefly. Elijah watched in silence.

Elijah (softly):

“It’s not… waterproof.”

Gertrude leapt down with the grace of an animal who knew this chapter had ended. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, tail held high in silent judgment.

Narrator (with whimsical finality):

And so ends the tale of Elijah—philosopher of the confused, prophet of the misinformed, and man who washed his laptop like it was a potato.

His journey for meaning would continue.

But his MacBook… would not.

And Gertrude?

She would tell the others.

FIN.

(A film by No One Asked Films. Based on absolutely true events. Probably