BUT GUESS WHAT?! It happens to men too. And I have proof. I have testimonials from 6 sexy dudes. Here they are:
Testimonial # 1- Aaron Orlovitz (One Hot Jew)
"I've often wondered why women never respond to my texts. I assumed they were busy so I started to text them more and they still did not answer. At one point I would text a single woman up to 30-40 times a day. AND STILL NOTHING! And I was sending quality texts. I would open with "jet fuel can't melt steel beams" or any other funny meme thing and they still never responded. I thought maybe they needed to see pictures of my dick in order to be interested so I would throw in a picture of my penis in every 20 or so texts. AND AGAIN, NOTHING! That's when I realized all the women in the world had died, and were just ghosts who were haunting me! They couldn't text me back because their ghost hands phased through the cell phone! WOAH SPOOKY!"
(@aaronorlovits for all his sweet tweets).
Obviously the ghost thing was the only reasonable explanation. There is no woman who can resist conspiracy theories and dick pics all in one conversation! That literally would be impossible.
Testimonial #2-Sam Poulter (A man with a Handsomely Emaciated Flesh Prison)
"It seems like every time I figure out what makes a girl tick and subsequently shape myself to reflect everything I believe she want in a "man", she goes and ghosts me! LAME! Last Friday I took a girl from my English class at a community college to the classiest pasta joint in town, the Macaroni Grill. I knew she liked scars because she said "Gladiator" was her favorite movie and Joaquin Phoenix looks like he tried to taste a saw blade once. So, naturally, I lifted up my shirt and gave her a sharpie so she could play connect the dots with the cystic acne scars on my chest and back. Of course, she excused herself before she even got started and next thing you know the whole restaurant is in a frenzy. Now, I've been around the block once or twice, I have a pretty good idea what's going on at this point. So I kick open the door to the wee little girls room, and what do I find? My date, my one true love, collapsed on the floor with a .22 caliber hole in her temple. Just my luck! Then right as I'm about to heave her up onto my shoulders so we can at least finish our meal (I still had a check to pick up), out comes her big spooky ghost! It evened the gall to call me a creep before floating up into the ceiling and out of my life forever. So much for being vulnerable, ghosting is the worst!"
(@sammy_strokes for all his poetic 145 characters or whatever).
Girls can be such bitches sometimes! There's nothing worse than playing into someone's fantasies and then having it bite you in the ass. He was just trying to be your Joaquin! #UGHS
Testimonial #3- Brendan O'Leary (Not Your Average Irishman-he's really tall)
"This one time, I was on a date with this girl, and were feeding each other strawberries (we were really into each other, okay? And it's romantic apparently). So anyways, we were doing that, and right as I'm about to put another one in her mouth I suddenly really need to pee, so I just sorta drop it in her face and run to the bathroom real quick. And I guess it went down her throat and got stuck cuz she totally ghosted on me by the time I got out. It was pretty lame. Had to bury her at a friend's house. And I totally forgot about the rest of the strawberries and they got moldy :("
(He doesn't have a twitter, or maybe he does, I couldn't find it.)
Honestly, she's an adult woman. She should be in charge of her own throat and face. It wasn't your fault man, it wasn't your fault.
Testimonial #4-John O'Driscoll (Charmingly perverted, pleasure amateur).
"I felt the warm, sticky fluid strike me in the forehead, and rush down my face, finding it’s freedom and falling from my chin. I knew then that our marriage was truly over. It had been a long time coming, and God, how I’d been waiting for the day when she’d give me an airtight excuse to leave, though I’ll admit, through all the crazy shit, I never expected this. A weapon? She had literally constructed a weapon to destroy me, when all she needed was a decent lawyer. Where did she come up with the time for this bullshit? Money was no problem, I had noticed different amounts fluttering out of my account for months now, though I assumed it was being used for drinks and another man’s condoms. But where did she find the time, amidst all the cooking and cleaning and boring sex did she find the time to build a goddamn slime cannon?
“What the FUCK, Cherise? What is this!?” I angrily shouted from the driveway. No response, though the smirk on her face told me that this was no accident. Her smugness simply cranked up the RPMs of my swirling vortex of rage, and I quickly assembled another verbal assault. I was ready to fire, when she drew aim with the weapon, a futuristic rifle that wouldn’t have seemed out of place onboard the Starship Enterprise, and fired it directly into my open mouth. To say it was revolting would truly have been an understatement.
“Do you know what that is, Shaun? That warm, semen-like fluid rushing down the back of your throat? It’s called ectoplasm, Shaun, and it will ensure that you never, EVER forget what you did to me, what you turned me into.”
“What are you talking about?! I never laid a hand on you!” I sputtered through hacking coughs of cum, or ectoplasm, or whatever the fuck she had called it.
“As if a simpleton like you could physically abuse me! I’m a genius Shaun! You could’ve been my partner! We could’ve ruled this, and countless other dimensions, but your mind is small, and your dreams are tiny, and now the window of opportunity is closed forever! Prepare to be forever haunted by what might have been!”
She burst forth in riotous laughter and fired blast after blast of the gooey substance, though in her manic mirth her aim was less than reliable, and I was able to take refuge behind the open door of the Buick.
She slowly sauntered toward the car, and as she moved, I started to feel funny; a sharp, cold despair mixed with nausea. Funny, right? As best as I could manage, I ducked around and leaned on the back bumper of the car. She was distracted looking in through the driver side door, and I took my chance. I ran as fast as I could towards the open garage door. If I can just make it into the house, I can call the police and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything will be…
This is when the first shriek pierced my ears. It was loud, though barely loud enough to merit a covering of the ears. However, it wasn’t the volume of the scream, but the terror and suffering it carried. I wish I could say it was the most horrifying sound I ever heard, but compared to the sounds that now fill my house, this scream was tame.
I collapsed to the ground and spun around in horror to see my wife smiling at me through the windshield of the Buick. She reached up to the passenger side visor and clicked the garage door opener, and sent the panels squeaking down in front of my face, locking me in the garage, the source of the scream still unknown.
The scream rang out again, this time with less volume, but twice the suffering. Also, I became aware of a rattling of chains, a rattling that seemed to clamor from my ceiling, and ring from underneath the floor. The rattling grew louder, and louder until I had no choice but to cover my ears and scream “FUCKING STOP!”
As if in response to my vulgar command, all noise in the garage ceased. Despite the silence, I was too terrified to open my eyes, and I sat on my knees, hands on my ears, while my face was stained with dried ectoplasm and my own humiliating tears. I opened my eyes a fraction and became aware of a bright light shining in the corner. I shielded my eyes from the bright and was able to make out the glowing silhouette of a woman in a wedding dress, hovering a foot above the ground. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw blood dripping from her mouth. I was frozen in horror, but was shaken from my stupor when a small boy in a sailor outfit with sunken eyes and teeth shining through his ghostly cheeks laughed merrily and asked me to play. I heard the dark, rumbling laughter of an aged Sheik, smoking hookah, on the ceiling near my bass fishing equipment.
Cherise, you BITCH I thought as I fumbled with the lock to get into my house. What could she have done to me? I escaped the garage, only to face two elderly men in top hats, who seemed to be waiting for me to arrive. “Hope ye don’t mind company!” one of the men jokingly said to me, as the other smirked. Tears popped out of my eyes, and my show of emotion sent the phantasms into roars of laughter. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door, though I knew I would have no privacy from the ghosts. I stared at myself in the mirror, and saw that my tears had wet the dried, crusty film on my face. “Ectoplasm”, I thought. I’d heard the term before, though never outside of fiction. I had images of Bill Murray rolling around on the library floor, covered in ghost slime. Ghost slime…Had Cherise created a way to attract ghosts? An actual substance that could wear and tear the wall between this world and the next, and allow passersby? Only time will tell.
Though they fill every waking second of my life, I never speak of the apparitions that plague me constantly. Who could I tell, and who would ever believe such a tale? My angry wife ghosted me with a slime gun and left me to rot with the souls of the dead? No, the only thing that could make her victory more complete would be if the men in white coats came and locked me away with my nightmares in a padded cell. No, I will endure. I’ll never let her know that she won. Literally haunted by her memory, she left me in a tomb of our marriage, with pictures and stories still on the walls. She left me with regret, with fear. She left me with ghosts."
(@johnkodriscoll)
Wow, not going to lie...that lady deserves an award for the science she created. Maybe he deserved to be ghosted.
Testimonial #5-Tyrell Forrest (A beardy, nipply, eyepatched wolf-man)
"One time I was Whoopi Goldberg, and I totally got ghosted. A dead guy ( it felt kinda like Patrick Swayze or maybe my friend Dave) totally jumped into my body and then gave Demi Moore a clay pot reach around. It was really weird and my hands smelled like wet dirt for like two days after. I don't know why Demi was so into it, because I didn't physically change at all. She had to notice that she was being sexually spooned by a middle aged black woman with dreads. I mean, I had boobs, how did she not feel those pressed against her back?! I guess I'm just really confused about the whole thing. I know everyone laughs about "ghosting", but it just made me really uncomfortable. I don't recommend it. Please don't get into ghosting, it's way shitty. Don't do it."
Testimonial #4-John O'Driscoll (Charmingly perverted, pleasure amateur).
"I felt the warm, sticky fluid strike me in the forehead, and rush down my face, finding it’s freedom and falling from my chin. I knew then that our marriage was truly over. It had been a long time coming, and God, how I’d been waiting for the day when she’d give me an airtight excuse to leave, though I’ll admit, through all the crazy shit, I never expected this. A weapon? She had literally constructed a weapon to destroy me, when all she needed was a decent lawyer. Where did she come up with the time for this bullshit? Money was no problem, I had noticed different amounts fluttering out of my account for months now, though I assumed it was being used for drinks and another man’s condoms. But where did she find the time, amidst all the cooking and cleaning and boring sex did she find the time to build a goddamn slime cannon?
“What the FUCK, Cherise? What is this!?” I angrily shouted from the driveway. No response, though the smirk on her face told me that this was no accident. Her smugness simply cranked up the RPMs of my swirling vortex of rage, and I quickly assembled another verbal assault. I was ready to fire, when she drew aim with the weapon, a futuristic rifle that wouldn’t have seemed out of place onboard the Starship Enterprise, and fired it directly into my open mouth. To say it was revolting would truly have been an understatement.
“Do you know what that is, Shaun? That warm, semen-like fluid rushing down the back of your throat? It’s called ectoplasm, Shaun, and it will ensure that you never, EVER forget what you did to me, what you turned me into.”
“What are you talking about?! I never laid a hand on you!” I sputtered through hacking coughs of cum, or ectoplasm, or whatever the fuck she had called it.
“As if a simpleton like you could physically abuse me! I’m a genius Shaun! You could’ve been my partner! We could’ve ruled this, and countless other dimensions, but your mind is small, and your dreams are tiny, and now the window of opportunity is closed forever! Prepare to be forever haunted by what might have been!”
She burst forth in riotous laughter and fired blast after blast of the gooey substance, though in her manic mirth her aim was less than reliable, and I was able to take refuge behind the open door of the Buick.
She slowly sauntered toward the car, and as she moved, I started to feel funny; a sharp, cold despair mixed with nausea. Funny, right? As best as I could manage, I ducked around and leaned on the back bumper of the car. She was distracted looking in through the driver side door, and I took my chance. I ran as fast as I could towards the open garage door. If I can just make it into the house, I can call the police and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything will be…
This is when the first shriek pierced my ears. It was loud, though barely loud enough to merit a covering of the ears. However, it wasn’t the volume of the scream, but the terror and suffering it carried. I wish I could say it was the most horrifying sound I ever heard, but compared to the sounds that now fill my house, this scream was tame.
I collapsed to the ground and spun around in horror to see my wife smiling at me through the windshield of the Buick. She reached up to the passenger side visor and clicked the garage door opener, and sent the panels squeaking down in front of my face, locking me in the garage, the source of the scream still unknown.
The scream rang out again, this time with less volume, but twice the suffering. Also, I became aware of a rattling of chains, a rattling that seemed to clamor from my ceiling, and ring from underneath the floor. The rattling grew louder, and louder until I had no choice but to cover my ears and scream “FUCKING STOP!”
As if in response to my vulgar command, all noise in the garage ceased. Despite the silence, I was too terrified to open my eyes, and I sat on my knees, hands on my ears, while my face was stained with dried ectoplasm and my own humiliating tears. I opened my eyes a fraction and became aware of a bright light shining in the corner. I shielded my eyes from the bright and was able to make out the glowing silhouette of a woman in a wedding dress, hovering a foot above the ground. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw blood dripping from her mouth. I was frozen in horror, but was shaken from my stupor when a small boy in a sailor outfit with sunken eyes and teeth shining through his ghostly cheeks laughed merrily and asked me to play. I heard the dark, rumbling laughter of an aged Sheik, smoking hookah, on the ceiling near my bass fishing equipment.
Cherise, you BITCH I thought as I fumbled with the lock to get into my house. What could she have done to me? I escaped the garage, only to face two elderly men in top hats, who seemed to be waiting for me to arrive. “Hope ye don’t mind company!” one of the men jokingly said to me, as the other smirked. Tears popped out of my eyes, and my show of emotion sent the phantasms into roars of laughter. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door, though I knew I would have no privacy from the ghosts. I stared at myself in the mirror, and saw that my tears had wet the dried, crusty film on my face. “Ectoplasm”, I thought. I’d heard the term before, though never outside of fiction. I had images of Bill Murray rolling around on the library floor, covered in ghost slime. Ghost slime…Had Cherise created a way to attract ghosts? An actual substance that could wear and tear the wall between this world and the next, and allow passersby? Only time will tell.
Though they fill every waking second of my life, I never speak of the apparitions that plague me constantly. Who could I tell, and who would ever believe such a tale? My angry wife ghosted me with a slime gun and left me to rot with the souls of the dead? No, the only thing that could make her victory more complete would be if the men in white coats came and locked me away with my nightmares in a padded cell. No, I will endure. I’ll never let her know that she won. Literally haunted by her memory, she left me in a tomb of our marriage, with pictures and stories still on the walls. She left me with regret, with fear. She left me with ghosts."
(@johnkodriscoll)
Wow, not going to lie...that lady deserves an award for the science she created. Maybe he deserved to be ghosted.
Testimonial #5-Tyrell Forrest (A beardy, nipply, eyepatched wolf-man)
"One time I was Whoopi Goldberg, and I totally got ghosted. A dead guy ( it felt kinda like Patrick Swayze or maybe my friend Dave) totally jumped into my body and then gave Demi Moore a clay pot reach around. It was really weird and my hands smelled like wet dirt for like two days after. I don't know why Demi was so into it, because I didn't physically change at all. She had to notice that she was being sexually spooned by a middle aged black woman with dreads. I mean, I had boobs, how did she not feel those pressed against her back?! I guess I'm just really confused about the whole thing. I know everyone laughs about "ghosting", but it just made me really uncomfortable. I don't recommend it. Please don't get into ghosting, it's way shitty. Don't do it."
Weird. That sounds like the movie "Ghost" with Whoopi Goldberg... wait a second.
Testimonial #6-Jackson Banks (Sexually Frustrated Sorcerer)
"I had a lovely lover girl once. So much love. But my girl had a demon in her bosom. It possessed her to be cruel and hateful. Only my lovemaking could exorcise the demon ghost from her. I acquiesced and selflessly made it with her. The demon was banished and my girl was free. I was free too. Free of my woman answering the phone. Free of my woman's calls. She vanished after the exorcism. She ghosted me. It couldn't believe see had used me for the sanctity of mine holy wang. I was heart broken. I must see her. I must see and bask in her happiness. I haunt her apartment building parking lot, her hallways, lying in the shadows. I am the Ghost."
(@JackzyBanksy)
Woah, the tables did turn in that story. There was the ghosting then the counter ghosting. I honestly believe these two belong with each other.
So there are the very real tales, of the very real men...
DON'T GHOST...4 AMERICA
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