About Us

A tryhard.

A poser.

A subbasement dwelling social-leper.

A LARP-ing shill Illuminati lizard-person wannabe. East Coast Slippers had been called all of those things (and others) by his social media “friends.” But still you may ask: who is this subpar thinker, this nitwit, this hater of both emojis & emoticons, this mysterious bird-shaped silhouette of a life-form? Moreover, in what bizarre way are his internal organs configured? Would it be accurate to described him as “feather-clad”? Is he even bipedal, or does he commute by “schooching” along the often slushy New England pathways on his belly like a penguin, propelled by his powerful, clawed front flipper-wings?

While East Coast Slippers fanatically guards his privacy, we do know that this at-best marginally employed ne’er-do-well is an avid collector of both glass telephone pole insulators and 4chan memes (but not from /b/, /fit/, or /pol/, only the ones from /po/). We also know that he may in fact be the absolute worst speller ever hired to teach more than once by an accredited American university (category: Native English speaker), and that his market value as an integrated organism and contributor to the economy is likely less with full vitality than it would be if his carcass were ground into paste and fed to infants.

Although he has at least the average number of severe character flaws, he does nothing to try to fix any of them. When confronted about that he will claim that it really is not his fault because he was mostly raised by house cats (that’s actually his excuse for everything and what does that even mean?). Like a lot of us, he could floss more often but only does so when corn on the cob is in season. He doesn’t ever eat corn on the cob though, he just flosses vigorously whenever he sees it on display at local farm stands.

If you ask him, he will tell you that his favorite band is a thrash-punk trio called Cause For Mockery but if you push him he’ll admit that they never existed and that that is just an inside joke that he leaves in cyberspace from time to time as a breadcrumb for a certain someone to find but he won’t say who and then he just goes real quiet and starts to softly hum “A Pretty Girl is like a Melody” but the whole routine seems forced and it’s just obvious that he’s not as deep as he likes to think that he is and that he should just get over himself and not always be so distant and self-absorbed but he isn’t even listening and what’s the effing point of anything because the whole planet will just be a pile of flaming ashes in a decade or so anyway?

She is mysterious. She is elusive. She is inscrutable. All of which leads us to ask: Can anybody actually “know” TBD? Not kidding. In fact, have any of you ever met TBD? Like really. For real. In real life. The truth is that we are now at a point in time where we have to face to fact that she could well be computer-generated AI. Or perhaps she isn’t just a few lines of hastily slapped together computer code (likely base 256 assembly language that is expressed in octal or hexadecimal); perhaps she is merely a mass delusion that we are all somehow simultaneously sharing in common. Indeed, the supposition that she nothing but an assortment of prerecorded vowel- and consonant-sounds that are being sequenced to produce intelligible words and sentences must currently be classified as “Not yet disproven.” Sadly, our only remaining choice is to confront a harsh reality:  Given the slippery nature of knowledge, we will most likely never be able to establish TBD’s existence. Even theorizing about her in this blurb is creating an impenetrable maze of rippling philosophical conundrums. Just as one cannot think the unthinkable, likewise one cannot know the unknowable; QED actually establishing that TBD is an authentic carbon-based terrestrial lifeform is not possible..