As soon as I arrived at work one fateful Monday morning, I was simultaneously stabbed in the nose and stomach by the pungent aroma of God’s laxative: coffee. And after countless mornings of pounding military grade Joe and subsequently punishing my work’s toilet, I had acquired a Pavlovian response to the smell of coffee: wicked poo belly. To pass the time I played some cell phone poker and caught up on current sporting events. Then, I looked down. There, to my horror, was a vibrant pool of red poop. I imagined this is how they must dye “Easter Eggs” in hell: feces bobbing in sinner’s blood. My heart pounded through my chest. I panicked and flushed it almost as fast as I saw it. Subsequently, I immediately regretted the flush and wished I had more answers. WebMD was the first stop on the Sorrow Express. I typed “blood in feces” and reluctantly pressed ‘Submit.’ As soon as the page pulled up, my eyes locked onto the word “Cancer.” I knew from various news articles and television programs that men have all sorts of ass problems, and this all but confirmed it: I had terminal butt Cancer. The drive home seemed infinite. A radio advertisement for life insurance came on and I wondered if I would still qualify.

This cued a mental checklist of all my loved ones and what I would bestow them in my last will and testament. My girlfriend came over and unbeknownst to her, we had a very somber dinner. I decided I would wait to tell her when the doctor confirmed it. I told her I wanted to hold her all night long; she complied. We got ready for bed and as she brushed her teeth, I started to pee. I felt something looking over my shoulder and I turned to see her creepily peering down at my business. “What are you up to, Hannibal Lecter?” “I’m just seeing if you’re peeing red like I did.” “What are you talking about?” “The beets… from last night…they make you pee…and poo red. Why are you so jumpy?” “...” The moral of the story: Fuck you WebMD. You are the worst doctor ever.


R. Will Burns, Andrea H Kwang, ARTICLES

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