My Day at AKF HQ (Mum's basement)

It’s just an ordinary day here at Anti Kpop-Fangirl Headquarters (aka Mum’s basement), or at least it seems like it.

I wake up to see the face of my beloved Han Ye Seul lying in bed next to me. I kiss her on the lips, making sure to avoid the multiple jizz stains on her face. I pick up my Han Ye Seul humping pillow before tossing it into my wardrobe along with my collection of other pillows. I look at the clock. 9.30 am, so it’s still a bit early. Maybe I’ll get an extra fap in before I start my daily schedule. I check /r/kpopfap for the latest Dahye ass closeups and Krystal nude fakes.

Less than a minute later, I wipe myself of the semen and tears, then reach under my bed and rummage through the pile of crusty towels, until I finally manage to find my phone. I press 2 on speed dial. In three seconds a thin unmanly voice answers. “H-h-h-hello?” it stutters like a little bitch.

“Hey faggot, go upload some more pictures on your Instagram. I expect it done in the next half-hour,” I tell him.

“B-but you told me you would let me out of this! The deal was that I would help you once in exchange for not r-r-ripping up my TOP poster!” he protests.

“I don’t give a fuck about your faggoty feelings, I need to keep up appearances. If it looks like at least one author is uploading selfies regularly, no one will suspect all of the AKF authors to be just one person.” I chuckle a little at the thought of tricking all those people with my ingenious plan of writing with 15 different styles and personas. “Remember, I have connections in Korea. If you don't do as I say, your precious blue-haired bias might not be still alive by the end of the week,” I say as I hang up.

It always amuses me how easily manipulated VIPs are, especially the gay ones. Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising because they're blind sheep consumers who will instantly buy any crap, with the YG seal of approval on it. That Yang Hyun Suk is the spawn of all evil in kpop. And he looks like a frog.

I boot up my old 1999 computer, then I start logging in and out of my dozens of social networking accounts, reblogging and liking everything that fits with my oppressive ideologies. I send tweets between these accounts to make sure the whole multiple authors thing looks real. I answer all 244 questions on my Kpopalypse ask.fm account. Only two death threats from Yura fans today.

I come across a thread about Fantastic Baby overtaking Gee. Outraged by the Feminazis manipulating the view counts to further their misandric agenda, I comment telling those deluded fangirls how small their oppas’ Asian dicks are, and how gay it is for them to take off their shirts. I also make them aware of how they objectify men and facilitate the matriarchy by watching this MV. It disgusts me how anyone could judge and compare men for their looks. I pull down my fedora to cover my eyes from the filth on the computer screen.

Onto my blogging. I quickly put together a hilarious masterpiece of an article advocating the burning of UCAADs, complete with MS Paint dicks drawn with such artistic brilliance that it makes Van Gogh look like the Attack of Bad Fanart. I chortle at my own witty jokes in the article. What an edgy and original blogger I am. I ponder over which of my 15 accounts I should use to post this article. Hey I know, I’m feeling particularly misogynistic today so I’ll use the Shinbi account. Nothing beats indulging in my gender-bender fantasies by pretending to be a woman who loves to hate other women so that women can hate me for hating other women.

After posting, I immediately refresh the page multiple times and eagerly await for a SJW to fall into my trap by commenting. The first sucker to moan about how I should stop using racial slurs gets laughed out of the comments section by all my fellow white friends. Not that anyone would have listened to the words of a dirty minority anyway.

That’s everything that needs to be done out of the way. Now to eat chicken casserole and fap for the rest of the day. Mum better have made that casserole before going to work, that lazy cunt.

As I lie fapping on my bed, revelling in all the power and glory of my straight white able-bodied cis male privilege, I hear a noise from above the basement ceiling. I pause my stroking, the seed from my ruined orgasm dribbling onto my stomach, but I’m too startled and alert to care. “Who’s there?” No one answers. It can’t be Mom, she’s already at work.

A cold sweat runs down my neckbeard. I hear something again - a loud thump near the basement entrance. Still naked, I jump out of bed and grab the nearest thing I can find to use as a weapon, a confederate flag lying strewn among the mess on my floor. I stand as far away from the door as I can, my heart pounding through my saggy moobs. It’s so quiet that I can almost hear the Cheeto crumbs falling from my hands, wrapped tightly around the flagpole, as I quiver in fear.

“Are you Anti Kpop-Fangirl, the blogger?” a voice, deep and powerful with an inflection that speaks of equality and justice, booms from behind the door. “I’ve read your recent posts. I’m here to deal with you and put an end to that cesspool you call a blog.”

Before this point in my life, never had I understood what it feels like to be a victim. “Leave me alone!” I cry out at my tormenter. “Stop oppressing me! I promise not to make such hateful blog posts any more! I acknowledge that I’m privileged, so please don't kill me!”

“Kill you?” He sounds confused. “What made you think I would do that? You don't realize who I am, do you?”

I don’t say anything. I have no idea what this stranger is talking about. The door cracks open, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch, until a silhouette of a tall figure is revealed. “It’s been a very long time since we last met,” he says. He steps into the basement light.

A sharp-faced middle aged man, in an expensive looking suit and wearing a large silver watch, enters. He looks to be in his fifties, fit for his age. A few gray hairs line his head of dark hair. There’s something… familiar looking about him, but I can't quite place it. Do I know him? It doesn't seem implausible that I would forget everyone I know, when I haven't been outside the house in months.

“Wow, you look like shit. You really are fugly and gross, just as they described you,” he spits out, his words echoing across the basement walls. He stares at me in disdain. “You've brought me nothing but shame.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him

“I'm a regular on the OneHallyu forums. You might recognize the username JYPisMyBitch9978.” I remember the name from my occasional trolling on the forums, although I haven't had much direct involvement with him. “Anyway, I was urged by the other users to personally visit you and ensure the closing of your crappy blog.”

JYPisMyBitch9978's avatar

“But why you? And how did you know where I live?”

He laughs dryly. “Have you forgotten me? I guess it’s been over twenty years. I don't really like saying this to a piece of shit like you, but,” he sighs, “I'm your father.”

I'm at a loss for words. I only vaguely remember him, but this is very definitely my dad. Fond memories of playing football (akisame: the British kind, not that crappy thing you Americans call "American Football" - rugby is even a better sport than that schmuck) with him in the park flood my mind. That was so long ago now. I don't know whether to be angry at him for leaving or to feel happy to see him again.

“I can't believe how you've let yourself go,” he says, looking me over. “When you were a kid, you were the champion of the playground. Now you're just a loser cry-fapping to girls way out of your league that you'll never even get to meet in your life. I don't remember raising you like this.”

“That’s because you didn't raise me, you abandon-”

“Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, spittle flying in my face. “I’m your father, and I’m telling you to take your pathetic blog down so all the OH users stop bitching at me. You’re the one spouting all that garbage like a coward from behind your computer screen and I'm the one who gets all the shit from everyone. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“But… but AKF is my life! What would I do without it? I would explode if I was to bottle up all my feelings about kpop idols inside myself.” Dad isn't even looking at me. “Hey, are you paying attention?”

“That’s a very pretty girl,” he says menacingly, looking at the idol poster hanging on my wall. “Jessica, wasn't it? It would be a shame if that poster was removed from your fap-dungeon, the same way she was removed from SNSD.”

“Don't you dare! I had to work really hard to steal Mom’s credit card for that poster,” I wail. “You can take anything else, just please not her.”

“You really are scum. Even though I hate your mother now, it makes me sick how a grown man leeches off her like you do. I was right, she should have got an abortion.” He looks around the room. “So I can have anything else, huh? What about those photocards you've got there?” He pauses to think for a moment. “If you have a good one, we can come to a compromise. You can keep your blog as long as you tone down your homophobia, racism and misogyny. Oh, and let’s not forget your fatphobia, that poor Suzy girl.”

I begrudgingly hand one photocard over to him. “Amber? Fuck you, I'm not accepting that. Just give me all of them except that one if you're going to try to be clever with me.” After taking the whole collection from my hands, he starts heading towards the door. “Just behave yourself, son. I'll be watching you. And remember that I have connections too.”

I feel relief as I hear the front door close and I'm sure that my dad has left. I collapse onto my bed. I cuddle my Han Hye Jin pillow tight and cry into her chest before fapping myself to sleep.

So yeah, from now on I'll have to write more politically correct articles on this site, or at least until I can ensure the safety of my Jessica poster.