Listen to the dramatic reading by Court Sullivan:
Greetings and good tidings, weary traveler! Do come in, come in! I haven’t had a visitor here in quite some time…quite some time, indeed.
I know not what sort of dire quest doth bring you to these desolate wastelands, but I must implore you to heed my warning and turn back now. Return to whence you came and forgo whatever it is you may seek, unless you seek me, the last man on ChatRoulette, jacking off like there’s no tomorrow.
Yes, yes, this is indeed the ChatRoulette you have heard of, the myth passed in hushed tones in the back of the school bus, from senior to freshman, from your friend’s older brother Scott, who also said the trick to fingering girls was to first sneeze into the fallopian tubes.
Curious internet explorers like yourself were told this was a place of adventure, of excitement, and instead found only hordes of men, beating their meat like a drum, usually in a poorly lit, featureless room, like a prison cell, or a Best Western.
Why yes, yes indeed my dear traveler! This was once a lively, merry place, teeming with men like myself—men who, after a long day of explaining Bitcoin to George Lucas on Twitter, knew that they would eventually find love if they were to turn on their webcam and grind beef for an unsuspecting, often underage, audience.
Ah, such hopeless romantics we were. I should be in prison, ho ho!
But alas, those days have long since passed. Women realized ChatRoulette was teeming with awful men jerking off, and fled this realm to rejoin the real world, a world only half teeming with awful men jerking off. Soon the men left as well, seeking greener pastures to performatively masturbate in—a subway car, a Subway restaurant, a green pasture.
Now I’m the last one left, a shell of a man with weary bones and grizzled hair, cursed to roam these barren fields. Yes, yes, my noble guest, 'tis all true, ev’ry word. Have you ever seen the movie WALL-E? It’s like that, but instead of a robot, it’s me, whacking dong.
I have remained here for eons, never stopping, just really going to town on my hamstick, waiting, waiting…for what? Alas, I know not. Sometimes I receive transmissions from the Outer World, from the Above-Grounders. Just flashes, blips on the radar. A mistyped URL. A group of drunk, nostalgic college friends. A VICE reporter who’s run out of events to do ketamine at.
And now, why—you, my weary friend! Come, come, sit. Stay awhile. Why, you’ve only just arrived. We’ve talked so much about me, and so little about you. What is your age? Your sex? Your location?
I implore you, dear traveler: do u lik wut u see?
Wait, where are you going?