Tag: balls

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My fist is a mouse. You might think something like that feels strange, but at least at first, it’s shockingly mundane. You’d imagine the act of cutting and pasting a conscious being into your forearm feels bad, but once the bleeding stops, the skin scabs, and the check clears, your initial hesitation all but vanishes. For me, waking up and seeing my balance cut in half honestly felt dreamlike.

Besides, I was lucky enough to get one of the smaller additions: just one small head and one tiny paw. They even let me choose which hand the mouse was sewn to. I went with my left, obviously, so in theory my ability to eat, drink, scroll; things like that would remain completely intact. And if you knew what the all the alternatives were you’d realize this is undoubtedly among the tamest. On my feeds I’ll sometimes see operations where debtors host the large unsightly mass of a heifer and around the complex people whisper stories of full skin transplants and insect colony grafts. Those, those are the unlucky ones. Mine was just prudent investment advice.

Once you leave the facility, the daily check-ins aren’t that inconvenient either. Every so often I’d get a system notification asking me to self-report the data they’re after: my heartrate, blood oxygen level, any symptoms, things like that; once more for the mouse hosted on my skin. It’s intuitive and you get a nice little bonus each time you do it. So yeah, that first week, I didn’t feel so bad. I felt relieved, secure even, knowing how I could make it through the next few months.

But then one night I tried to sleep. And the damn thing wouldn’t stop moving.

I honestly hadn’t paid the mouse much thought before that. Its tiny head remained inert most of the time, maybe confused, and oftentimes I even had to check if it was dead. Then suddenly its eyes started darting around, what was left of its neck thrashed back and forth, and its one arm jerked wildly. It moved like it was trying to run without feet and flailed like it was opening its mouth to scream without lungs. Failing this, the rodent eventually settled on trying to dig a nail into my skin. But the poor thing couldn’t even draw blood. That amused me for a while. Until the little beast turned its attention back on itself.

The mouse’s lone claw found a new target on the top of its head, and I could only look on in a mix of shock and horror. It pierced its own skin with remarkable brutality and replaced any hesitation in tearing away at its own flesh with a terrifying dedication. Fur was cleaved off to reveal pulsating muscle, muscle was parted to unveil string-like tendon, and finally tendon was split to display a blood-soaked finale in the white of bone. But the skull wouldn’t budge, and the creature paused.

I realized then that my hands were shaking and my stomach was churning. I hoped this marked the end of the bloody spectacle. But the mouse was too smart for its own good – The damn thing found its eyes. Tunneling through the gelatinous tissue, it unleashed a pain-stricken river of pink as a tears and blood and remnants of corneas all mixed together in a death march to the bottom of the snout. I simply couldn’t watch anymore. I put my hand out of sight under a blanket and cried, I bawled and I strained and I prayed for this horror to stop.

And then just as abruptly as it began, it was over. Hesitantly, I lifted the covers. All that was left of the creature on my fist was a bleeding hole.

They insisted my next check-in come in person, and I expected punishment. My voice shook as I recounted what had happened, until I realized that the crowd of doctors around me kept growing. No. Those fuckers loved every word. They said this finding was incredible, they asked if I would try again, and before I could even reply they offered me double. At a certain point I tuned all this out. The only thing in the room that held my attention was the wall of rodents in the background: future test subjects, cooped up in their little apartments, none the wiser of the horrors that await them. Utterly unable to escape.

I left, and I went back to my cage. I distracted myself with an endless wheel of content, ate one last prepared meal, and gulped down a preset portion of water. And all I could think about was the commitment and tenacity of the mouse. I pondered what the point of this life was if I, too, could not find a way to offer this world something more than just my flesh. It did not take long to come to a conclusion.

I do not have claws, but I do have a knife, and with it I will deny my keepers the results and data they so desire.

Today I will follow my compatriot’s brave example.

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I want you to imagine a life different than your own. Method acting of sorts. Since I am writing for Iskra, your first purely theoretical action will be to take a shower, actually using a conditioner product besides the 3-in-1, and perhaps clipping your crusty ass nails. Because today you are not a fat retard on discord. Today you are an arrogant trust fund retard at a large American university.

Our story begins one day in college or late high school. You scroll absentmindedly through TikTok, seeing the posts and lives of celebrities on public display. Your envy for their fame starts small. But day after day, it eats at you. You’ve waited things before, of course. Perhaps years ago, you lusted after a shiny new toy or clothes in stores and catalogs. But back then, all it took to alleviate such suffering was a swipe of dad’s credit card. Now you’re faced with something more amorphous – perplexingly, something you can’t buy. And so this feeling only swells, this desire only broods, and you want this fame more and more.

Some time later your friends invite you to a concert. You look up there at the stage, fascinated. Beyonce, Travis Scott, Caroline Shaw, it doesn’t matter to you. The music itself irrelevant – no, you’re entranced by the very concept of up there. You live in a home with the tallest hedges and were educated in a school with the oldest gates. Your father golfed at only the most private clubs and your mother couldn’t be seen with anything except the most exclusive bags. The price of these things was never of issue or relevance; Money has always been immaterial to you. When you vacationed, you were always attended to by a legion servants, and one of the first things your parents taught you was how to bestow their 10% tip. Each crisp $10 bill you handed over was an implicit contract, the same one that allowed your mother to be cruel to your housekeeping staff and your father to spend late nights in the office with his secretary. In this way your whole life has been defined by hierarchical contrast, a corporeal pyramid where money was valuable only so far as it entitled you alone to the capstone. But now, you are looking up… inspiring the horrifying realization that you’ve fallen to the base, and your money can’t save you.

How can they be on stage, while you are all the way down here? What could possibly be so special about this performer, this trained monkey? Inside you know that you deserve the same… but how? You don’t have any musical inclination: you can’t sing, you can’t write, and there’s nothing you can play. You’re talentless, your upbringing systematically preventing any natural growth of creativity. But you still need to get up there – how do you do it?

The answer actually turns out to be quite simple, and comes to you through an art form that produces nothing original and yet delivers the vanity of fame you seek anyway. You go home, buy a DJ deck, and download the latest release from Fred Again.

|| 

Wake up. It’s 10am. Don’t go to the gym – sleep in a bit more. Jack off. Can’t get it up. Pull out the sock from 2019. Rosa Luxembourg cutout over the front. Nice. Instantly get hard. Fuck it. Cum in fifteen seconds. Don’t pull out. Let it sit for a bit – you wanna keep moving, but not so fast you forget to look around you. Fuck it again, this time soft. Now you’re ready for the day.

Check your laptop. Discord app dings – that’s adventure. One notification from Iskra. But you can’t see it. A prompt fills the screen asking for your government issued ID. You live in the UK. Fuck. New privacy law. That sucks. You put in your license details. Then you notice something. User, “ordo” rejoined. Needs to verify just like you. But they clicked the wrong button. Image of their ID gets put in the general chat. Click the photo. Zoom in. Horror. It’s Keir Starmer.

Blind rage – that’s good, go with the flow. Cabinet. Take out a beer. Drink it. Drink another. Drink Three. It’s not enough to get most people even tipsy. But you’re a pussy. It fucks you up. Go to the living room. Roommate on the couch. The roommate is fat. The couch is damp. Doesn’t matter. Push them both aside. Find the weak spot in the floorboard. Pry it open. Metal box just below. Hell yeah – that’s your stash. Ignore the discord nitro Xbox live promo codes. Push aside the dvrt usb archives. Reach in. Go deep. Go 3.4 inches, hard. Your fingers find a handle. Then a blade. Still sharp, hidden to avoid the Blade Licensing Act of 2026. There it is.

It’s clear now. The opportunity – two birds, one stone. One chance. Look at the ID again. Get the address. Put it in your GPS. Hop in your car. Drink again. Put the keys in the ignition.

Travel isn’t always pretty. The journey changes you. But the destination is suddenly clear. Grip the knife. Grip the wheel.

Enjoy the ride.

This address was delivered by Administrator Balls on August 3rd, 2025, to a large and enthusiastic crowd of supporters.

When I started Chudgus.life, I knew I would encounter challenges. I sacrificed $11.87 to Namecheap for the domain and one month of hosting using offer code HOST25, and boldly devoted one hour of my time to changing the WordPress default template colors. Through all this, I pushed on, because I wanted the opportunity to create something new. In my visions I saw fields of green, abundant with enlightening literature crafted by the talents of the cesspit we call “Iskra.” This mission, I believed, was just and right, and my firm hard would temporarily break from Hinge swiping on my caseless, cracked (unrelated) iPhone 15 to guide it into existence.

But every Great Man of history will inevitably encounter misguided opposition. Tesla had his Edison, Hitler had his Churchill, and the Black couple sitting next to me at the re-release of Revenge of the Sith had our otherwise silent movie theater. Now, I must reckon with the specter of Jacob Little.

Mr. Little insists that I devote my time towards restoring the iskra.money archives. It is true that these files, which I graciously host on a sub-collection of Chudgus.life, are incomplete. Some suffer from formatting errors, missing images, or missing attributions. I do not deny these facts, nor do I believe this state of affairs is ideal. But what Mr. Little so jewishly misses is that, like the tip-based worker who served the black couple dinner before my Revenge of the Sith re-release screening, I remain uncompensated. And as a result, my time and effort is subject to limits. Oh, how I wish I could snap my fingers and restore the iskra.money archives in their entirety. But reality is not so generous, and thus I have to make decisions on how best to allocate finite resources.

It was true that I was following in the footsteps of a former project, the hallowed “Iskra.money.” But when building something out of the ruins of old, only a fool would construct his bricks from the ashes. We must instead put the sum of our energies into new projects – new articles, new posts, and new collections. To look backwards is to deprive the future of our talents.

And so I refuse to entertain this request. I will not put any more time into “polishing,” “re-importing,” “restoring the images to,” or otherwise working on the iskra.money archive at all. As the black couple who sat an unfortunate mere inches from me at the Revenge of the Sith re-release could attest, we must not let the old societal expectations hold us back from complete and honest self-expression. This is a new time. We must acknowledge the greats, but we can’t allow ourselves to become so bound to them that it encumbers our future progress.

Thank you.

|| 

The Logi is born of fire, brimstone, and neoliberal Twitter accounts. The Logi is forged by half-read Wikipedia articles. The Logi, as a result, is a menace to police society and an impediment to productive discussion. What is to be done with such an individual?

First, we must understand the Logi’s repulsive demeanor. By far the most striking feature is the unearned confidence, a cruel imitation of someone with reputation or intellectual caliber, but curiously lacking in either. On rare occasions when the Logi attempts to support their assertions with something besides blind arrogance, it post articles it does not read or studies it has not even bothered to summarize. What could explain this perplexing behavior? Well for a Logi, the conclusion of any such material is already a certainty, almost a theological concept of predestination where the Logi alone has pre-divined truth. Thus, such links inevitably remain blue because their contents are already known! Such is the core essence of the Logi’s character: an unassailable belief that they alone see truth through an unquestionable holy talent of sight, paired with the stubborn unwillingness to ever open their eyes to inconvenient and therefore impossible realities. Because in their very personal universe, their own dreams and notions are more convincing than whatever mere suggestions could be made by material fact. The safety and comfort of the Logi mind palace is quite enviable!

The Logi is incapable of admitting even the smallest mistakes, an assertion any third party will undoubtedly agree with in confidence after only three minutes of conversation. Whenever rhetorically pinned, he will wriggle and worm, like a snake or a jew, out of even the slightest acknowledgement of fault. First, the Logi will suggest that the mistake was never made. If by some miracle the Logi can see it has made an error, this was an error of dictation, not logic: rest assured, it was simply semantic! And if it was not semantic, then it was not material to the argument. A skilled orator might then attempt to argue the material relevance of the point at hand, but this is a mistake, because the Logi will simply pivot; connivingly asking why such focus has been allocated to only one statement when there are so many more to address. Every argument with such a creature becomes an impossible Gorgon, each head a falsity birthed from some Soros-operated reddit account.

To a Logi, good faith debates are not crucibles of truth from which reality can emerge, but venues where realities are brought in and used as hammers to bludgeon opponents into submission; not a space for compromise or productive conversation, but games of sport to wield predetermined conclusions like swords; not a buffet of worthy ideas, but a city sewer for one to regurgitate unread “facts” and misleading summaries in a drunken stupor. To a Logi, every discussion is in fact a devious trap where idiots and thieves mean to pry his golden calfs away from their protective mother. And so the Logi resists these things at all costs, by any means necessary, and must never permit himself to issue any sort of correction.

I do not believe that anyone is originally or inexonerably of bad character. But what is to be done with such an entity like the Logi?

The solution is obvious, and so this problem is left to the reader as an exercise in good judgment.