№17123[Quote]
Hello, my name is Bryan Aeast. I'm not sure where to begin, or even why I'm writing this down. Maybe it's cathartic, maybe it's a descent into madness made legible. All I know is, I can't escape him. I can't escape Spongebob Squarepants. It started innocently enough. I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, and I stumbled upon a clip of Spongebob on YouTube. Just a few seconds of that grating laugh, the squeaky shoes, the relentless optimism that seemed so alien. Before I could even process what I was seeing, my mother was there, a whirlwind of fury. "SPONGEBOB?! SPONGEBOB IS A VERY BAD SHOW!" she shrieked, snatching the laptop away. "We don't watch that here! It's… it's corrupting!" That was it. Spongebob was forbidden. Along with Family Guy, which, I guess, made sense. And The Simpsons. "Those yellow creatures are always bad," she’d say, conveniently ignoring the Minions that I was inexplicably allowed to watch. Ironically, one of my classmates declared he wanted to be friends with Bart Simpson, a statement I could only process as pure rebellion. The problem wasn't just the prohibition. It was the constant, pervasive presence of Spongebob in the world around me. My friends would talk about episodes, quoting lines I couldn't understand. "A lot of lines will go over his head" My Mother said. Later, the internet exploded with memes, many of which found their way onto soyjak.party, a website I actually found pretty insightful at the time. But even there, amidst the insightful commentary and surprisingly poignant political cartoons, were things like “Chudbob Soypants” and “Totr” – memes that only worked if you understood the source material. I felt like I was missing some fundamental key to the universe, trapped outside a joke I was desperate to understand. I tried to compensate, to blend in. I watched YouTube Poops, those bizarre, distorted parodies of Spongebob. I memorized catchphrases, hoping to parrot them effectively. But it was always clear I was faking it. The hollowness in my voice betrayed me. And then there was the trauma. I was eight. A group of gang rapists who had a penchant for elaborate schemes, cornered me one afternoon. They were wearing costumes. Not good costumes, mind you, but cheap, ill-fitting monstrosities. One was a lanky, misshapen Spongebob. Another was a grotesque Patrick Star, his pink fabric stretched tautly across his frame. There was even a Plankton, his single eye leering from a mask that seemed to suffocate him. I Got raped and hurt severely. it was violent. Degrading. And all the while, those stupid, sewn eyes of Spongebob and Patrick watched me. The experience was so severe that it led to heavy anxiety for years and i had to go to the Hospital.
№17124[Quote]
As I got older, the animosity intensified. I saw the accusations, the theories about Spongebob being a creation of satanic pedophiles. The idea wasn't that it was just a bad show, it was evil. And my mother, in her own twisted way, had been trying to protect me. But the internet wouldn't let me forget. Chudbob. AI-generated Spongebob monstrosities. Theories on Reddit about the hidden symbolism of Bikini Bottom and Sandy Cheeks CP. I was forced to confront the thing I was denied, the thing that had haunted me, every single day. I found myself drawn to other cartoons, desperately seeking a replacement. I was allowed to watch The Loud House and Teen Titans Go!, their shallow humor and constant action barely registering. But I found myself angry. Why was I prohibited from watching Spongebob, but these brimstone, EPI filled pieces of media were okay? And then there was Rabbids. Aryankino Rabbids. And they won. I watched Larva, a Korean animated show I found oddly compelling. It became my Spongebob, the forbidden fruit I devoured in secret. Then the whispers started. People kept saying Larva was "Early Porn Introduction." The accusation ignited a fury in me, a desperate need to defend the thing I was clinging to. It's not just Spongebob. It's the entire culture surrounding it. The manchildren who obsess over it, the ones who also seem to be drawn to baby shows like Bluey. The creeping realization that some of the biggest fans are FPE Ongezellig pedophiles. The final straw? Sonic Racing Crossworlds. Spongebob as a playable character. It felt like a personal attack, a cosmic joke designed to drive me utterly insane. It’s not just children’s shows. It’s the entire internet culture, the way Spongebob is woven into the fabric of digital existence. I wasn’t allowed to watch Gumball either! And Reddit Gumball made me want to vomit. As insidious as Barney and My Little Pony. And then, there's Nead Digger. He was in my class growing up. He wasn't allowed to watch Spongebob either. We bonded over our shared deprivation, our mutual incomprehension of the Spongebob lexicon. But Nead went down a different path. I saw him a few years ago, on a Train. He was fixated on Numberjacks, a kids' show about anthropomorphic numbers. He was obsessed, his eyes gleaming with a disturbingly childlike fervor, and he was wearing a MAP pin. He had become the very thing my mother feared I would become: a pedophile. I started reading conspiracy theories, desperate to understand the root of this obsession. One, more absurd than the last, claimed that George Floyd was Spongebob all along. The theory was convoluted, nonsensical, and utterly insane. But in my fractured state, a small part of me clung to it. Anything to make sense of the madness. I’m not sure what the point of all this is. Maybe it’s just a warning. A cautionary tale about the dangers of censorship, the insidious power of pop culture, and the lingering trauma of being denied something seemingly insignificant. I try to watch other shows, cartoons even, and I feel like I'm shrinking my brain, it's just all a retarded problem. I wasn't allowed to watch them too. Because in the end, George Floyd is Spongebob. And that, more than anything, is the trauma of not being allowed to watch Spongebob. It's a wound that festers, an enigma that consumes, a constant, inescapable reminder of the things I’ll never truly understand. The horrors I can only imagine.
№17129[Quote]
Hi my name is Carmen Winstead. I'm 17 years old. I am very similar to you. Did I mention to you that I'm dead? A few years ago a group of girls pushed me down a sewer hole to try and embarrass me. When I didn't come back up the police came.The girl said that I had fell and everyone believed them. The police found my body in the sewer. I had a broken neck and my face was torn off. Send this message to 15 people after you listened the whole message if you value your life. A boy called David received this message. He just left and deleted it. When he was in the shower he heard laughing. My laughter. He got really scared and rushed to his phone to repost this message but he was too late. The next morning his mom entered his bedroom and all she found was a message written in his blood saying 'You will never have him back'. No one has found his body yet because he is with me. A girl called Charlotte received this message and she immediately sent it to 25 people, 10 more than required. I still watch over every second of her life to make sure that she is safe and to keep her and everyone close to her out of danger. Send this to 15 people in the next five minutes if you don't want your fate to be the same as David's. Your time starts now.the story is true you can research it on Google.