I Patched Up the Morrison Glory Hole.
Squelch, 2022
My world collapsed and my ears rang the moment I heard the phrase “patch the glory hole” fall from my supervisor’s lips; my feet felt like lead as she led me down the hall to the janitor’s closet, where she made me retrieve the spackle. The temperature of the room dropped with every step I took down the stairs to the bottom floor, closer and closer to the soon-former center of my ecstasy — I was Orpheus, and the hole was Eurydice. My attempts to drag my feet were futile: the weight of the bucket I held became more and more burdensome with each passing second. The bathroom door creaked as I gingerly pried it open, like Pandora the moment she opened the box — but at least Pandora had hope left. My heart sank to my stomach – no, it dropped all the way out of my own glory hole — as I kneeled down into the stall I can no longer, in good faith, set foot into. My conscience was heavy with guilt at the fact that I would be the very last person to ever observe Her in Her full, well, glory. Tears were streaming down my face as I mourned the loss of such an important safe space in the Holer community. However, all times of mourning must come to an end. My heart hardened as I set about my duty; I picked up my wretched spatula and loaded it with the last spunk She would ever see. My blood, sweat, tears, and other fluids came in unison with the all-too-familiar-looking white paste that would inevitably stuff Her hole until She was eternally full. I lingered for one last moment before fully acknowledging the damage I had done. My world had shifted. The treacherous task was complete. My night afterwards was a sullen blur, much like my tear-obfuscated vision. Morrison Glory Hole may be gone, but She will live forever.
A Panopticon of One’s Own
Squelch, 2026
Psychologists rejoice! The Heuristic Squelch has obtained planning commission documents from 2017 pertaining to the construction of the David Blackwell Residence Hall in Berkeley, California. The blueprints for the building, designed by Dr. Jor-Jor Well, revealed that the structure of the residence hall was initially meant to emulate the design of Jeremy Bentham’s infamous penitentiary building, the Panopticon. Centered in the residence hall is a large courtyard flanked by four walls. This inaccessible courtyard was to include a large watchtower equipped with beta-stage AI detection tools, in partnership with Palantir Technologies, to ensure students avoided the use of restricted items, such as candles, that good kush, and custom-armor plated construction tools.
The builders spent hours lighting all the caves under the Hall to improve spawn rates within the chunk. Infighting occurred when the contractors were adamant that sugarcane could only grow on sand, while the redstone engineers disagreed. The crew also became more efficient after they realized they could place a bed at the site to reset their spawn location. However, none of the builders could agree when to sleep, causing phantom attacks to delay progress. Tragically, several laborers playing in Hardcore mode lost their lives to a wither spawned by protestors. Some builders did not have access to scaffolding, as they were still playing on 1.8. Yet, one project manager, with an annual salary of $600,000 was tasked to stay at y=242 at all times to keep the spawner going. This highlights the growing socioeconomic inequality in our society, as does the fact that some workers were forced to eat rotten flesh during lunch break.
In an attempt to make the AI detection tools “friendly” and “welcoming” to residents, Palantir modeled their Inteligencia Artificial after the personality of Dr. Simi: caring, yet authoritarian. He’s the girl next door, but can (and will) narc on you.
In a recent study performed by the UC Berkeley Department of Psychology, a set of current Blackwell residents were interviewed and subsequently assessed for their mental states. Excluding all conflating factors, the data is 100% pure, legitimate, no other psychological study has been so accurate, and the p value is 0.000. After reviewing the data collected, the psychologists noticed that every single resident spoke in a specific rhythm (no, it wasn’t a Blaccent), one that they could not decipher, even after multiple analyses by the UC Berkeley Linguistics Department.
A breakthrough occurred when one psychologist decided to reach out to close friends and loved ones of the interviewees, “Dude, he gets up in my ear and moans like Foucault. It pisses me OFF.” The mystery was solved—each resident had morphed their speech into one resembling that of modern French philosopher Michel Foucault. It was also noted that Blackwell residents had a 200% increase in desiring to be “disciplined and punished.” The UC Berkeley Regents were contacted for comment about this groundbreaking discovery, but they declined, stating that “Peter Thiel has it under control.”
OUR MISSION STATEMENT
Squelch, 2025
My world collapsed and my ears rang the moment I heard the phrase “patch the glory hole” fall from my supervisor’s lips; my feet felt like lead as she led me down the hall to the janitor’s closet, where she made me retrieve the spackle. The temperature of the room dropped with every step I took down the stairs to the bottom floor, closer and closer to the soon-former center of my ecstasy — I was Orpheus, and the hole was Eurydice. My attempts to drag my feet were futile: the weight of the bucket I held became more and more burdensome with each passing second. The bathroom door creaked as I gingerly pried it open, like Pandora the moment she opened the box — but at least Pandora had hope left. My heart sank to my stomach – no, it dropped all the way out of my own glory hole — as I kneeled down into the stall I can no longer, in good faith, set foot into. My conscience was heavy with guilt at the fact that I would be the very last person to ever observe Her in Her full, well, glory. Tears were streaming down my face as I mourned the loss of such an important safe space in the Holer community. However, all times of mourning must come to an end. My heart hardened as I set about my duty; I picked up my wretched spatula and loaded it with the last spunk She would ever see. My blood, sweat, tears, and other fluids came in unison with the all-too-familiar-looking white paste that would inevitably stuff Her hole until She was eternally full. I lingered for one last moment before fully acknowledging the damage I had done. My world had shifted. The treacherous task was complete. My night afterwards was a sullen blur, much like my tear-obfuscated vision. Morrison Glory Hole may be gone, but She will live forever.
poetry for boys
Squelch, 2025
Fuck my stupid baka white boy chungus life…
Shoutout Modest Proposal, like my name lil descartes,
She swallow my cum swift, the babies didn’t even get a chance to start
I’m a semenal figure, I smoke out da lil cart,
You can’t get my rhymes in a combo—th
ey’re only
A-la-carte,
Came on your mom with with so much gusto it got all over the walls and the housekeeper left it there cuz she thought it was a work of art
Call me Andy Warhol the way I always leave my mark.
Eggs, protein powder, milk, eggs, chicken brea4st.
r1ce, eggs, silken tofu (not for me), froot of the loom ps5
I add that all to my cart.
Rip to my best brodie brandon, rip that boi gone call him k-mart
Toot.
Oops… his hole too big call that a kilofart
He was a simp, son, I called him bart
Bart told me to eat his short
My fat fucking balls bouncing like it’s the court
Lebron da goat
Riding him so hard I’m slobbing on his toes like I’m Mort
Don’t ask me to wear a condom, baby don’t fucking block the moat.
[m y b a l l s w i l l h o r t !]
Xandemic every day, 6/8/18, my brain is fried
Rip juice, my e(X) died