Issue Two.

In issue two of WHO GIVES A FUCK, Magazine, we discuss...something, I don't fucking know.

I really should have my own website. And a federal grant, or something. I don't fucking know. Or care. I could...I could study apathy...or whatever...

Anyone feel like hearing a funny story? Of course you don't, you don't care about anything. So, lets discuss the meaningless of life.

You will spend your entire life working, just to enjoy ten years of retirement, and then die. Old. And probably smelly. And more than likely, you'll be in a hospital. Hospitals are where most people go to die. You'll spend much of your adolescence and young adulthood whining about how unfair the system is, and complaining about why the won't marilize leguana, before you grow up and realize that you, like every fucking one else, are an idiot. Seriously! The world is just a collection of idiots. Idiots running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Side note, I should get a corporate sponsor. What's that? I'd be a sellout? At least I'd make some fucking money. Take a shower, you fucking hippie.

Now, lets move on to the reason that I smoke a TON of cigarettes. You see, nicotine calms me down. And I fucking need it. It's 20-fucking-11, and someone told me the other day (probably a week ago, time is just a big blur) that evolution can be PROVEN false. They proceeded to read the bible to me. That proves nothing except that you're an idiot, and I don't want to live on this planet anymore. Seriously. It's just pointless to try anymore with these people.


I'm too apathetic to continue writing this. Time for a joke. A man walks into a bar. He pulls out a machine gun and shoots everyone. (Ensue uproarious laughter.)

Imagine punching somebody so hard they turn into a door. Then you find out that's where ALL doors come from, and you get initiated into a secret murder club that makes doors. The stronger you punch, the better the door. So there are, like, super strong murderers who make Venetian doors and shit.

 

Until next issue, remember, nothing you do matters and you should probably just accept that you'll become a drone.

Issue One.

Editor's Note:

Don't get me wrong, there are some awesome things in life. Like...nothing, now that I can think of it. Wait. Sex, pain, music (Certain types, of course.) and food. But, beyond that--and breathing--I can think of nothing. You see, this is a publication where you will find that the Editor in Chief and only current author is kind of a jerk. He seems to be so bored with life. It seems to just not stimulate him anymore. On to our adventure, I guess. Whatever....

11/11/11--A day famous for bullshit.

As many of you may know, yesterday was 11/11/11. That means nothing to me. It's just a day.
"But it's lucky!" Some of you may say. No. No it's not. Shit did not happen yesterday. You're just dumb and think that ONE THING in your favor counts as luck. That shit happens everyday, to everyone but me, it would seem. You know what would have been awesome? Not having a shitty day yesterday. But that's irrelevant, I suppose, as all life is. So, when someone tells you about something amazing that happened yesterday, just tell them "Oh, really? I heard about that, I read about it in 'Who Gives A Fuck?' Magazine today."

Here's a list of the dumb shit that happened yesterday.
Relationships (that won't last, trust me. They never do.) began.
Skyrim was released. Big whoop. Who gives a fuck? Not this guy.
Someone, somewhere, was told "Your cancer is in remission!"
Some people didn't die.

Here's the bad shit that UNDOUBTEDLY happened yesterday.
Breakups. The author knows. Trust the author.
Eric Terrell, lead guitarist of extreme metal band "Quoth The Raven" and the genius behind the industrial project Apathetik, announced today "My spleen, dude. It's been talking to me. It tells me things. Secrets. It tells me secrets. Delicious secrets.....seeeeeeecrets."
Someone, somewhere, died. Probably (definitely) painfully.

I'd continue, but my apathy, combined with my procrastination, has made me too lazy to finish this sente