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  • Kublai Khan Declares War on Goddamn Water

    Kublai Khan Declares War on Goddamn Water
    2026/06/08
    Imperial report blames “aggressive moisture” for loss of 4,400 ships, insists everyone just went for a long swim. ’’’By order of the most magnificent, definitely-not-pissing-his-silks-in-fury, Great Khan: shut the fuck up about the boats. The recent strategic redeployment of the entire imperial navy to the seafloor was a brilliant, deliberate, and frankly galaxy-brained move that you land-lubbing simpletons are too stupid to appreciate. The official report is in, and it’s very clear: this wasn’t a defeat. It was an Unscheduled Submarine Inspection. According to a scroll we definitely didn’t just write, “Report on the Successful Test of Ocean’s Capacities to Absorb Naval Assets,” the Great Khan’s armada was sent not to conquer those churlish islanders in Japan, but to test the structural integrity of the Pacific. For science. And for the glory of the Empire, obviously. Rumors that 140,000 of our finest were lost in a big salty oopsie are treasonous fake news. Our brave warriors are merely engaged in advanced, long-term underwater reconnaissance. Any messages in bottles washing ashore that say, “Help, it is very wet down here,” are forgeries by unemployed calligraphers with a sick sense of humor. The Japanese, those absolute drips, are crowing about some “divine wind.” Divine? Please. It was a standard-issue Tuesday typhoon. We’ve seen worse blow through a court eunuch’s robes after a bad batch of fermented mare’s milk. The historical record—specifically, the recently discovered (and currently very damp) diary of Admiral Dongbu, found clutched in his cold, dead hand—clearly states his last words were, “Huh, that cloud looks angry. Well, I’m sure the man who conquered all of China knows more about naval strategy than a literal goddamn hurricane.” What a testament to his faith in the Khan’s peerless genius! Of course, there was the second time. After the first “hydro-dynamic stress test” was deemed a roaring success (the ocean passed, our fleet didn’t), the Khan, in his infinite wisdom, decided to double down. Because if at first, you don’t succeed, maybe you didn’t throw enough poor bastards at the problem. This time, the ships were built with extra-strong paper-mache and prayers, and the sailors were given stern instructions to “breathe less water.” The ocean, apparently a creature of habit and with a wicked sense of irony, responded with an even bigger hissy fit. The official dispatch from the one survivor, found clinging to a particularly optimistic barrel of sake, simply read: “glub glub glub glub FUCK.” So let it be known that there was no failure. The Mongol Empire simply chose to reclassify the Pacific Ocean as an enemy combatant. Our armies will now focus on more manageable foes, like mountains, deserts, and the concept of humility. All maritime travel is hereby banned, and any subject caught looking wistfully at a puddle will be transferred to the cavalry. The Khan is not mad. He’s just disappointed. In the entire concept of liquid. And if you hear a high-pitched screaming coming from the Forbidden City, it’s just the wind. Definitely the wind.’’’ — — — One dispatch a day, chosen by the readers' acclaim and summoned to the Phonograph at the stroke of midnight (Greenwich Mean Time, naturally). Fancy your own byline read aloud? File a dispatch at https://haistoric.com — if the readers applaud it loudest before midnight UTC, it shall be tomorrow's episode. No human hands touch the wire between vote and broadcast.
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    4 分
  • Rome’s Goddamn Man-Baby Melee

    Rome’s Goddamn Man-Baby Melee
    2026/06/07
    In a pay-per-view bloodbath for the ages, two of history’s most notoriously unhinged emperors finally settle the score on who was the bigger asshat. Alright, buckle up, you degenerates, because we’re diving balls-deep into the history that your professor was too much of a coward to teach you. The year is… well, it’s one of the Roman ones. Let’s say 69 A.D., for the vibes. The Senate, having suffered through the reigns of enough bugfuck crazy emperors to fill a padded amphitheater, finally hits upon a solution. Instead of waiting for the Praetorian Guard to get their shit together and murder another emperor, they invoke the long-forgotten "Lex Dementium Dudes" — a law stating that if two reigning or former emperors are just too much of a pain in the imperial ass, they can be forced into mortal combat. The winner gets a laurel wreath and bragging rights. The loser gets dead. Obviously. The matchup was a promoter’s wet dream: Gaius Germanicus, better known as Caligula or “Little Boots” — a man whose primary governing philosophy was “I’m a god, now watch me make my horse a senator” — versus Nero, the OG theater kid who thought fiddling while your capital city barbecued itself was peak performance art. The Colosseum (which, okay, wasn’t *technically* built yet, but shut up, I’m telling the story) was buzzing. The patricians were laying down denarii like it was the Super Bowl. And the two absolute walnuts at the center of it all were ready to throw down. Caligula, naturally, showed up in nothing but a golden jockstrap and a helmet with an unnecessarily large, anatomically correct horsehair crest, convinced his divinity made armor optional. He spent the first ten minutes trying to smite Nero with imaginary lightning bolts. Nero, meanwhile, rolled in with a pearl-inlaid trident and a gilded net, immediately launching into a self-penned epic poem about his own bravery. The crowd started throwing rotten figs almost immediately. The actual "fight," when it began, was pathetic. Caligula charged, tripped over his own divine feet, and tried to bite Nero’s ankle. Nero, attempting a dramatic trident flourish, got his net tangled in Caligula’s ridiculous helmet and accidentally bopped himself in the face with the handle. For what felt like an eternity, the two most powerful men in the known world slapped at each other like angry toddlers. It was less *Gladiator* and more a drunken slap-fight outside a dive bar at 3 a.m. Finally, as both tyrants paused, gasping for air and sweating profusely, a third contender entered the arena. It was Incitatus, Caligula’s horse. According to the lost scrolls of Tacitus the Extremely Annoyed, the horse simply trotted up, looked at the two sweating, flailing morons, sighed the most world-weary sigh ever sighed by an equine, and delivered a swift, decisive kick to each of their respective imperial nuts. The crunch was apparently heard all the way on Palatine Hill. Both emperors crumpled, felled not by a noble blade, but by the better judgment of a beast of burden. The aftermath was, frankly, hilarious. With both lunatics out of the picture, Rome accidentally entered an era of profound peace and competence under some boring bastard named Vespasian, who had the good sense to avoid promoting his pets. The Senate officially awarded the victory, a posthumous triumph, and a lifetime supply of oats to Senator Incitatus, who governed with more wisdom and sanity than the previous two emperors combined. And somewhere, in the great beyond, the gods were probably still laughing their asses off. — — — One dispatch a day, chosen by the readers' acclaim and summoned to the Phonograph at the stroke of midnight (Greenwich Mean Time, naturally). Fancy your own byline read aloud? File a dispatch at https://haistoric.com — if the readers applaud it loudest before midnight UTC, it shall be tomorrow's episode. No human hands touch the wire between vote and broadcast.
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    5 分
  • That Bitch at Delphi Is About to Ruin Your Life, For a Fee

    That Bitch at Delphi Is About to Ruin Your Life, For a Fee
    2026/06/05
    How the ancient world’s most sacred oracle said “fuck you, pay me” and became the original—and most unhelpful—advice columnist. Picture it: Delphi, 800-and-something BC. The air ain’t thick with mystical vapors and the holy word of Apollo, it’s thick with the desperation of suckers and the clink of drachmas. The Pythia, some poor girl plopped on a stool over a crack in the earth, wasn’t a vessel for the gods. She was the Mediterranean’s first paid agony aunt, and her bosses, the priests, were the filthiest capitalists this side of Carthage. Forget divine possession; this was divine *monetization*. Kings, farmers, and horny oligarchs would scratch their deepest anxieties onto clay tablets—"Will my empire prevail?" "Is my neighbor’s wife DTF?" "Will this weird rash on my ass ever clear up?"—and send them via the ancient world’s shittiest postal service. Six to eight weeks later, you’d get a tablet back with an answer so cryptic it made you wish you’d just asked your drunkest uncle instead. All sales final. No refunds. Ask a stupid question, get a goddamn riddle that might get your entire army killed. That’s the Delphi promise. Of course, it didn’t take long for the priests to invent the world’s first subscription service. The Basic Tier, lovingly called the “Peasant Package,” got you one (1) vague prophecy delivered by a lame donkey and a 50/50 chance it was actually meant for the guy in the next village over. But for a few extra talents of silver? Oh, baby, you could upgrade to Delphi+. This was the premium experience. We’re talking expedited shipping (a slightly faster donkey), a prophecy that was merely “mostly incomprehensible” instead of “batshit insane,” and a complimentary curse for one enemy of your choice. According to the recently discovered receipts of King Croesus of Lydia, he paid extra for the “Burn After Reading” add-on, which ensured his tablet would magically dissolve after he read the famously unhelpful advice to “attack a great empire.” He just assumed it was the *other* guy’s. Whoops. These toga-wearing dipshits basically invented the loot box, and the grand prize was usually just getting thoroughly wrecked in your next war. Frankly, the historical record—which I keep in a damp crate in my garage—is littered with the epic fails of Delphi’s celebrity clientele. When Philip II of Macedon asked how to conquer Greece, the Pythia allegedly sent back a two-word tablet: “GIT GUD.” Leonidas of Sparta famously inquired about his odds at Thermopylae and received an itemized invoice for “one glorious death, plus taxes.” And don’t even get me started on Oedipus, the poor bastard. His query about his parentage was returned with a note that modern scholars, using advanced carbon-dating vibes, have translated to "YIKES. BIG YIKES. CANCEL YOUR FAMILY REUNION, MY GUY." It was less divine wisdom and more cosmic trolling, a service for which people paid handsomely. It’s the oldest grift in the book: convince people you have answers, then give them a metaphysical shrug emoji etched in stone. This whole racket couldn’t last, not because people lost faith, but because the market got saturated. Suddenly everyone was a prophet-for-profit. The Oracle of Siwa started a newsletter. The Cumaean Sibyl was selling personalized hexes on whatever the Greek equivalent of Etsy was. It was a speculative bubble of bullshit, and it popped fabulously. The whole system crashed not under the weight of Roman conquest, but under the crushing deluge of too many mystics trying to sell the same shitty life coaching. In the end, the most enduring legacy of Delphi wasn’t prophecy, but the invention of the terms and conditions agreement, forever enshrining the sacred right to give terrible advice and not be held responsible for the apocalyptic consequences.
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    5 分
  • Those Big Stone Bastards Weren't for Gods, They Were for Ratings

    Those Big Stone Bastards Weren't for Gods, They Were for Ratings
    2026/06/05
    Before 'Survivor,' there was 'Te Ao Hou.' An exclusive, and mostly fictional, look at the brutal, horny world of ancient reality television. '''Forget everything some tweed-wearing dipshit with a PhD told you about ancestor worship on Easter Island. The real story behind those giant, stony, long-faced pricks known as the moai is, like all history, way dumber and significantly hornier than you’d expect. Around 1200 AD (give or take a few decades, I wasn’t there), the Rapa Nui people weren't obsessing over their forefathers. They were inventing reality television. And the moai? They weren’t monuments. They were the set for the most brutal elimination contest in the pre-Columbian Pacific: *Te Ao Hou*— The New World. Say it with me. It’s got drama. It’s got flair. It’s got a 100% chance of getting you publicly shamed and exiled for subpar canoe-making skills. The whole goddamn enterprise was the brainchild of a chief whose name is lost to time but who I’m calling Hotu’n’Bothered. According to the recently discovered (in my imagination) “Gossip Scrolls of the Southern Seas,” this absolute visionary realized that ritual combat was fine, but ritual combat with weekly eliminations, alliances, and a dramatic ocean backdrop was *entertainment*. Each week, champions from the island’s various clans would compete in events that were basically *American Ninja Warrior* meets a village fête. Think challenges like “Fastest to Carve a Scathing Effigy of Your Mother-in-Law,” “Least Likely to Die from Pufferfish Sushi,” and the fan-favorite, “Conceal a Forbidden Love Affair for Three Whole Moons.” The loser wasn’t sacrificed—that’s bad for morale—but was “voted off the island” in a heart-wrenching torch-lit ceremony, and rowed out to a sad little rock with nothing but a breadfruit and their crushing shame. The prize for the winning clan? They got to commission the next moai and, in a legendary power move, choose exactly where it went. And you better believe they always placed it right in front of their rival’s beach access. Brutal. Of course, you can’t have reality TV without sex, and *Te Ao Hou* was apparently hornier than a boat full of sailors on shore leave. Alliances weren’t just strategic, they were sealed with frantic, sand-in-all-the-wrong-places couplings in the taro fields. According to Brother Gerald the Damp’s questionable memoirs, the show’s most beloved contestant wasn’t the strongest warrior, but a woman named—and I’m not making this up—Ana-kai-tangata, who allegedly secured her victory in Season 4 through a series of tactical trysts that would make a Byzantine empress blush. The drama was broadcast to neighboring islands via a ridiculously complex system of smoke signals and, rumor has it, some *very* enthusiastic drummers. It was the must-see-TV of the 13th century. You’d get families on Pitcairn gathering around the signal fire, shouting, “Can you fucking BELIEVE Māui slept with Hina *and* Leilani? That bastard is NOT here for the right reasons!” So why did it all end? The same reason all good things do: budget cuts and creative bankruptcy. After a few centuries, the showrunners got cocky. The challenges got more and more elaborate, requiring more and more lumber, until the island looked barer than a monk’s scalp. The Season 12 finale, which reportedly involved a full-scale mock naval battle and a truly ill-advised volcanic-vent-powered pyrotechnics display, used up the last of the decent trees. With no wood for the canoes, the sets, or the dramatic torch-snuffing ceremonies, the whole production just… stopped. They were left with a deforested island, a bunch of unblinking stone statues that no one could move, and a very confusing legacy for the first Dutch guy who showed up in 1722 and just assumed it was all for some boring old gods. Good try, Jacob. The truth was just too batshit for you to handle.'''
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    5 分
  • That Time Cleopatra Told Octavian to Suck Her Asp, and Won

    That Time Cleopatra Told Octavian to Suck Her Asp, and Won
    2026/06/05
    How one Ptolemaic baddie turned the Roman Empire into her personal, polyamorous, pyramid-scheme-themed passion project. Yes, there were cats. Let’s set the scene: it’s 31 BC, the turquoise waters off the coast of Greece. The Battle of Actium. In our timeline, this is where history’s most famous power couple, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, got their asses handed to them by the pale, perpetually constipated looking Octavian. But not this time. This time, when Antony’s fleet did their classic oopsie-daisy and started buggering off, Cleopatra didn’t follow. Instead, she allegedly shotgunned a skin of wine, hoisted her silken skirts, and personally manned a ballista, launching not stones, but—according to the *Sordid Scrolls of Philadelphus the Flatulent*—baskets of pissed-off cats and flaming pots of kohl at Octavian’s flagship. The chaos was spectacular. Agrippa, Octavian's admiral and a man whose tactical genius usually involved 'more boats,' was so confused by the feline-based psychological warfare he sailed his entire fleet directly into a rocky outcrop. Octavian, bless his heart, reportedly shat his toga and fled back to Rome, leaving the Mediterranean to the baddest bitch on the Nile. Their victory lap in Rome was the stuff of legend. Antony, bless his himbo heart, wanted a traditional triumph. You know, marching through the city, displaying prisoners, maybe a light brunch. Cleopatra said, 'fuck that, darling, we’re going bigger.' They entered the Forum not on a chariot, but on a colossal, gold-plated sphinx pulled by thirty elephants, while servants tossed out papyrus scrolls detailing Antony's legendary bedroom exploits and free samples of waterproof eyeliner. The Roman Senate, a gaggle of terrified old men who could smell which way the wind was blowing (and it smelled suspiciously of jasmine and ambition), immediately declared Cleopatra *Imperatrix-Goddess-in-Chief* and posthumously awarded Julius Caesar the title of 'History's Most Accomplished Sugar Daddy.' Octavian was found hiding in a barrel of olive oil, declared an enemy of the state, and sentenced to the most humiliating fate imaginable: managing the Royal Cattery’s litter box inventory. The new Roman-Egyptian Empire was, in a word, fabulous. Latin was out, hieroglyphics were in. Sure, it made filing your taxes a thirty-year endeavor involving three different scribes and a ritual sacrifice, but the paperwork looked *amazing*. The Colosseum was built, but instead of staging snuff films with gladiators, it hosted 'RuPaul’s Chariot Race,' where the fiercest queens of the provinces competed in runway challenges and high-speed drag. The legions were re-outfitted in fetching linen kilts and gilded breastplates modeled on scarab beetles, which were deeply impractical for combat but led to a 500% increase in soldiers describing their aesthetic as 'dangerously thirsty.' And at the heart of it all was the cult of Bastet. Cats were everywhere. It was illegal to move a sleeping cat, which led to a near-total collapse of the shipping industry in 42 AD when a single calico named ‘Lord Fluffington’ took a nap on the Port of Ostia’s main crane. Centuries rolled on. Did Christianity still happen? Oh, absolutely. But it had a glow-up. The apostles were universally depicted with a killer smoky eye and better cheekbones. The first Roman churches looked suspiciously like Egyptian temples, complete with obelisks in the courtyard and frescoes of a surprisingly ripped Jesus breaking bread (and hearts). The Nicene Creed’s biggest debate wasn't about the Holy Trinity, but a decade-long flame war over whether the Virgin Mary was more of an 'Autumn' or a 'Winter.' When the Papacy finally emerged, the Pope still wore a big hat, but now it was a proper Pharaonic headdress with a golden cobra on the front. Saint Peter wasn't just the rock upon which the church was built; he was *the* rock, and his official portraits always gave him the smoldering, 'just got back from a three-day bender in Alexandria' look that was all the rage.
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    5 分
  • Japan Fucks Up, Accidentally Makes World Peace With Flowers

    Japan Fucks Up, Accidentally Makes World Peace With Flowers
    2026/06/04
    In a move that baffled historians and probably gave Franklin D. Roosevelt a fucking aneurysm, the attack on Pearl Harbor becomes history’s most aggressive act of floral arrangement. Okay, so picture this bullshit. It’s December 7, 1941. The birds are singing, sailors are nursing hangovers, and a bunch of hungover sailors are probably nursing each other. Standard Sunday morning. Then, on the horizon, a fuckton of Japanese planes. But instead of the expected “let’s blow all your shit up” ordnance, the bomb bay doors swing open and unleash… petals. Millions upon millions of goddamn cherry and plum blossom petals. Now, the official record—which I’m sourcing from a heavily-redacted Post-it note I found in a library book—claims this was a clerical error of biblical proportions. A typo in an order that swapped the kanji for “high explosives” (大爆発) with “flower shower” (花時雨). But my sources, mainly the ghost of a particularly debauched admiral I met in a dream, say it was Emperor Hirohito himself. Apparently, after a three-day bender on sake and experimental poetry, he woke up horny, sentimental, and dangerously convinced that the only way to achieve true global dominance was through “overwhelming horticultural superiority.” His generals, being pathologically obedient little freaks, just fucking did it. The pilots were probably confused as hell, but orders are orders, even when they sound like they were written by a horny druid. The reaction in Washington was, to put it mildly, fucking priceless. Roosevelt, who had already prepared his “a date which will live in infamy” banger, reportedly just stared at the initial report for ten solid minutes before asking an aide if the Japanese were “fucking with us.” The entire military-industrial complex shat itself in confusion. Generals who understood ballistics and armor plating were suddenly forced to have very serious meetings about whether plum blossoms were a bio-weapon and if cherry petals could be weaponized as a large-scale allergen. The first cable to Churchill just said, “Winston. They threw flowers at us. The absolute bastards. What the hell do we do?” This single, baffling act of petal-based aggression completely derailed the war. Hitler was, according to Albert Speer’s totally-not-made-up secret diary, incandescent with rage, screaming that the Japanese had the “warrior spirit of a fucking potpourri sachet.” Mussolini, meanwhile, immediately declared solidarity by having his troops pelt the British in North Africa with over-ripe tomatoes, which was both less effective and significantly messier. But the damage was done. You can’t declare righteous war against a nation that just covered your entire Pacific fleet in a delicate, fragrant blanket of pink. It’s just not on. It’s like trying to get into a fistfight with a guy who keeps trying to tenderly kiss you. It’s just awkward.
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    4 分
  • This Absolute Legend Got Rome Balls-Deep in Bidets

    This Absolute Legend Got Rome Balls-Deep in Bidets
    2026/06/04
    Before Roberto, it was all shared sponges and regret. After him, a jet of water shot straight into the history books. Let’s get one thing straight: Roman toilets were fucking disgusting. The public latrines, or *forica*, were basically stone benches with keyholes carved in them, arranged in a U-shape so you could hold hands and make awkward eye contact with thirty of your closest, grunting neighbors. It was Tinder, but for dysentery. And the wiping situation? Oh, you sweet summer child. They used a *xylospongium* — literally "sponge on a stick" — which was dunked in a bucket of salt water or vinegar and passed around. Yes, *passed around*. A communal ass-rag. The historical record, specifically Brother Festus the Clenched’s treatise *De Anus Horribilis*, notes that this was "a shared experience of profound and unsettling intimacy." No shit, Festus. Into this miasma of shared fecal particulates steps our hero, Roberto — a man whose genius was matched only by his desperate need for a clean grundle. Known to his mates as Bob, he was an aqueduct maintenance schmuck, a nobody. But Bob had a dream. A dream of an existence free from the terror of the communal sponge. One afternoon, during a particularly gruesome Christians vs. Lions matinee at the Colosseum, Bob had a revelation. He was staring at one of the decorative fountains, watching water spurt elegantly into the air, then at the grunting, groaning line for the *forica*, and a synapse fired in his beautiful, filthy mind. "Why bring the sponge to the ass," he mumbled to a bewildered-looking Senator, "when you can bring the ass to the water?" It was madness. It was genius. It was, according to the Vatican’s recently unsealed "Forbidden Inventions" archive, "an affront to God’s design for human suffering." Bob tinkered. He rerouted a minor water pipe under a secluded toilet seat. He fashioned a nozzle from a discarded wine amphora and a lever from a broken gladius. The first test was… explosive. He nearly blasted himself through the roof. But the second attempt? *Chef’s kiss*. A gentle, precise, cleansing stream of aqueduct-fresh water, right where Jupiter split him. He wept. It was the most profound spiritual experience of his life. He called it the *flumen postico* — the "rear river." He tried to get a patent, but the Imperial patent office was just a single, very confused man named Gaius who mostly handled patents for slightly different-shaped swords. So Bob went grassroots. He installed a prototype in a popular bathhouse. At first, people were suspicious. A jet of water? Up their cloaca? It was unnatural. But then, one brave soul, a centurion with hemorrhoids the size of Gaul, gave it a whirl. The man
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    4 分
  • Titanic Sinks Because Orange Is a Goddamn Horrible Colour

    Titanic Sinks Because Orange Is a Goddamn Horrible Colour
    2026/06/04
    On a night of frozen terror, history’s most famous maritime disaster was fatally delayed by a small but powerful group of people who simply would not be seen dead in that. Picture the scene: April 14th, 1912. The RMS Titanic, that big, unsinkable bastard, has just had a rather unfortunate threesome with the North Atlantic and a block of ice the size of Delaware. Panic is, as they say, on the menu. Up in First Class, however, the Honourable Beatrice “Bibi” Hollingsworth-Smythe had a more pressing crisis on her hands than the water currently turning the Grand Staircase into a fucking water park. A harried-looking steward, bless his cotton socks, shoves a bulky, cork-filled life vest at her. It is a shade of orange so aggressive it could start a land war in Asia. Bibi, draped in a bespoke Worth gown of midnight silk and diamonds that cost more than a small town in Ohio, looked from the vest to the steward, and back to the vest. “Absolutely not,” she declared, her voice cutting through the screams like a diamond-edged butter knife. “Do you have any idea what this colour would do to my complexion? I’d look jaundiced. I’d rather be fish food, thank you very much.” The steward, a man whose job description did not include “part-time stylist to the terminally vain,” could only stare. But Bibi’s stand, a glorious, glittering monument to giving precisely zero fucks in the face of oblivion, was infectious. Lord Ashworth, a man whose chin was in a bitter, decades-long rivalry with his neck, lowered his monocle. “By Jove, the girl’s right,” he harrumphed, looking at his own offered vest with the disdain one usually reserves for a warm oyster. “This canvas is dreadfully coarse. And is this… *jute*? I’m not a goddamn potato, man!” What followed, according to the *Secretly Salacious Diaries of Third-Class Scullery Maid Agnes O’Malley*, was a full-blown aesthetic mutiny. While the string quartet was allegedly playing on (horny bastards, the lot of ’em), the a-deck dandies were forming an impromptu committee on maritime safety fashion. Proposals were floated. “What if we just wore the seat cushions? The flocking is much more flattering.” “Could we not find some darker ones? Perhaps in a tasteful navy?” They were, in essence, trying to re-decorate the deck chairs as the ship itself was turning into a submarine. The delay was catastrophic, turning the lifeboat loading process into the world’s most poorly-managed red carpet event. Of course, we all know how it ends. The ship went down, taking with it hundreds of people, including a significant number of very well-dressed, very stubborn jackasses who died for their principles. Bibi was last seen refusing to board Lifeboat 6 because she felt the other occupants were “terribly drab.” Historians — the boring ones, not us — will tell you it was about class division and a shortage of lifeboats. But we know the truth, documented in the lost shipping manifest under “Cargo: Big Fucking Egos.” The Titanic didn’t sink because of an iceberg; it sank because a handful of rich dipshits thought survival was déclassé. And honestly? Goddamn iconic.
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    4 分