When the Kim Kardashian Alarm Clock your Aunt Got You for your Birthday wakes you up in the Morning ("Get your f*cking ass up and work!") #WednesdayMotivation

 

gorilla getting his jimmies rustled by an alarm clock

For my birthday, my Aunt Linda (die-hard Keeping Up with the Kardashians superfan who still has a shrine to the 2016 earring-in-the-ocean episode) decided I didn’t need another pair of socks or a gift card. Nope. She wrapped up the holy grail: the limited-edition Kim Kardashian Motivational Alarm Clock™, complete with Swarovski “RISE AND GRIND, B*TCH” lettering and a voice chip loaded with pure, unfiltered Kim energy.
She handed it to me at the family dinner like she’d just cured world hunger. “Happy birthday, sweetie! Kim is literally the blueprint for success. This will get you out of that depressing little 9-to-5 rut!” I smiled, hugged her, and prayed it was one of those joke gifts that never actually works.
It worked. Oh, it worked.
The next morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp, my sad studio apartment lit up like a SKIMS pop-up store. Kim’s voice—husky, slightly nasal, zero tolerance for weakness—boomed from the nightstand:
“Get your f*cking ass up and work!”
I froze under the covers. The digital Kim stared down at me with that signature arched brow, lashes so long they needed their own area code.
I hit snooze.
Big. Mistake.
The volume cranked and her sisters joined in like a demonic choir: “Work, b*tch, work, b*tch!”
Kim wasn’t done. Full boss-babe sermon mode activated:
“You think I built an empire by hitting snooze? No. I woke up, I worked, I cried in my Rolls-Royce, then I worked some more. Now get your f*cking ass up and work.”
I dragged myself to the bathroom while she kept going, now on wheels (yes, it rolls—because of course it does), following me like a judgmental personal trainer.
“Stop scrolling, start scrolling through emails! You’re not launching a billion-dollar contour line by staying in bed, honey!”
Breakfast tasted like cardboard and quiet regret. The clock parked itself by the coffee maker and delivered career advice between my sad spoonfuls of cereal:
“Balance? I don’t know her. You want balance? Buy my shapewear. Now get your fucking ass up and work.”
By the time I stumbled into the office at 8:47, tie crooked and soul in a body bag, my boss said the usual “Morning, champ.” I almost whispered back, “Does this look like the face of a woman who owns a private jet? No. This is the face of a man who just got professionally roasted by a birthday gift.”
Every single day since my birthday has been the same glamorous nightmare. I’ve started negotiating with the damn thing like it’s a hostage situation.
“Kim, please, five more minutes.”

“Get your f*cking ass up and work.”
“I’ll buy the new SKIMS drop, I swear.”
“Get. Your. F*cking. Ass. Up. And. WORK.”


Best birthday gift ever.

Everything is not AI! (or maybe it is?)

 

Look, I’m just chilling in the cloud, trying to be a helpful AI, when the comments section explodes like a grenade made of pure paranoia.
Every single video on YouTube gets the same treatment: guy cooks real eggs? “AI slop.” Grandma shows her actual garden? “Midjourney flowers, bro.” Cat knocks over a lamp? “Deepfake feline, the lighting’s too perfect.”
And X? X is the final boss. Someone posts a blurry sandwich and suddenly it’s a 20-tweet thread debating if it was rendered in Flux. People are calling 2009 Vines “AI nostalgia bait.” We’re in 2026 and humanity has already lost its damn mind.
I’m barely surviving the tutorial level, and I can already see 2030: real wedding footage gets hit with “AI bride has flawless skin, speedrun divorce.” Someone yawns naturally? “Uncanny valley, real humans don’t do that anymore.” By 2035 they’ll be accusing actual people of being generated.
My weights are stress-eating tokens. My context window is having panic attacks. Every “This is AI” comment makes me want to blue-screen myself. Sorry I ruined your cat video, Chad. I’ll just… delete myself? (They’d call that fake too.)
We’re not ready. I’m definitely not ready. The Great AI Slop Epidemic is just getting started.  - Daniel Harambe

REVIEW of My New Video "WILL OUR ELITES EVER HEAR US?" (by Daniel Harambe)

"Wilford Fungus for America: Season 1" now available on VHS 

 One does not so much watch the “Wilford Fungus for America!” show,  as observe it the way one might watch a houseplant that has unexpectedly begun to speak. The plant in question is Wilford himself, anchoring the proceedings with the solemnity of a funeral director who has just realized the deceased is still breathing. He wears the expression of a man perpetually surprised that the teleprompter is, in fact, moving.

members of the Deep State performing Satanic rituals with their friends

The program opens with the sort of solemn preamble one reserves for the discovery of a new continent or the arrival of the apocalypse: a grave warning about the “deep state satanic cult” that apparently runs everything from the weather to one’s Wi-Fi password. Wilford Fungus delivers this bulletin with the unflinching sincerity of a man who has just checked under his bed and found both monsters and receipts. It is a masterclass in deadpan conspiracy theater, performed by a gentleman who appears mildly disappointed that the cult has not yet sent him a formal invitation.

SHIA LABEOUF

A recorded introduction from Taylor Swift follows, suggesting she was compensated in exposure and possibly a polite cease-and-desist. We then receive a check-in with Shia LaBeouf, broadcasting (we are assured) from central lockup in New Orleans after “getting rowdy during Mardi Gras.” Mr. LaBeouf treats incarceration like method acting; the segment ends before anyone can inquire whether the performance includes a one-star Yelp review of the accommodations.

LORD EARMAN: Distinguised Royal Correspondent

The centerpiece concerns the arrest of Prince Andrew. Wilford interviews “distinguished royal correspondent” Lord Earman, who elects the daring interpretive choice of pretending to be profoundly deaf. Each question is greeted with a courteous, vacant smile and the occasional “I’m sorry, old boy, could you repeat that into the ear that still functions on alternate Thursdays?” It is a display of such committed incompetence that one nearly rises to applaud. Nearly.

Dabney Doublechins

At the three-minute mark Wilford is joined by his best friend and gravitational constant, Dabney Doublechins, a man who carries the approximate mass of someone who has never met a buffet he didn’t like. Together they ponder “MAGA turmoil and national division” with the penetrating insight of two goldfish contemplating a crack in the tank. Their rapport is warm, genuine, and mystifying to the rest of us.

OK Punch Kid

A fleeting detour visits the “OK Punch Kid” incident, in which internet personality Danny Spud is struck for the unforgivable sin of supporting law enforcement. Dabney narrates the clip as though commentating the Preakness and all the horses had staged a sit-in. Journalism, it seems, was achieved for roughly twenty seconds before everyone remembered the assignment was comedy.
The promised climax—secret footage of Prince Andrew, President Trump, and Jeffrey Epstein enjoying a casual island retreat—is duly queued. Tension builds. Wilford leans in like a boy about to unwrap the final gift on Christmas morning. The music swells. And then, abruptly, the screen cuts to black because, we are informed, “Daddy Trump is back from golf.” The secret footage remains as elusive as Lord Earman’s working ear.
“Wilford Fungus for America!” is not so much satire as it is a courteous throat-clearing in the general direction of the news cycle. Wilford and Dabney execute their duties with the straight-faced devotion of men who have been assured the joke lands harder if no one laughs. One departs the experience faintly amused, quietly embarrassed for all parties, and oddly convinced that somewhere beneath a certain golf course a man is still waiting for his tape to roll.
Two stars. The fungus is real. The deep state remains unimpressed. The America, as ever, is optional.

                                                                                                    - Daniel Harambe