Meet and Greet

S and F

Believe it or not, we’re coming up on six years of this bullshit. Can you imagine? Imagine you spent six precious years of your life, every Friday at noon, reading garbage we came up with two hours prior. No one else is using Substack properly, like we do.

In honor of this incredible milestone—the famous milestone number, “ SIX ! ”—we have decided to allow you all to meet us in person.

Low Lift Ask will be hosting its first ever Meet and Greet, on May 15, at the following location! Tickets at the link here! We’re so excited to meet all our loyal subscribers.

We will be meeting, initially, at Jean’s in Cooper Square. A large congregation of you will scan your tickets and then have an incredible time at this vaunted clubstaurant. Martinis, buffalo chicken sliders, raclette wheel, ice luge, ample amounts of ketamine—you name it! We will provide.

At this point, you’ll be wondering: where are Ritam and Nabeel? And you would be correct in wondering that. You would be correct in wondering why two lads would host a meet and greet and not be there. Because we won’t be there at that point. We will be making ourselves scarce. We will be hidden, and you must find us.

At this point in the night, you all will have to assembled a makeshift democracy and elect a chosen representative.

Secret ballots, raised hands, whatever—someone will have to take charge. Once elected, this person shall lose any last trace of their identity. They will no longer have a name, nor kin, nor a bloodline from which they descend; they will be a wailing, freshly shorn, brand new babe. They no longer exist as they used to.

This person (presumably an Indian guy, given our audience demographics) will then need to find their way to the bathroom, where I will have placed an encrypted message. The message will be programmed to self-destruct within 10 minutes, and this feckless Indian guy will have to bring it back to the group. You will debate what to do, whether to send this guy to a fate potentially worse than death (meeting us in a private, secure location). Ultimately, the message will reveal itself to be a pair of car keys. The car will be parked outside.

Get in the fucking car.

Drive, bitch. Skeleton is permanently sutured onto passenger seat. Every time you look to check your blind spot he’s there. You have no other recourse. Once you press your foot on the gas pedal, a metal strap will emerge and lock your foot in place. No brakes. All you have to do is navigate.

At this point, it should be clear that no one at Jean’s will be meeting us (let alone s’ing and f’ing our D’s). Everyone probably snagged a ticket at the link above (re-linking here) just so they could S and F our D’s. It makes me sick. Please. I don’t just give this shit out for free. You have to work to S and F my D.

You’re also probably wondering, “Where am I navigating to?” Good question. Your iPhone will automatically hook up to CarPlay and have a pre-loaded address. It will the Angola Service Plaza on I-90. We have also swapped the license plate to be one of the following,

Two worst license plates I've ever seen

so you will be pursued the entire time. Not necessarily by authorities, but by the hoi polloi—they will see this shit and want to kill you with crossbows as their cars pull up beside you. Hopefully, they can’t line up the shot with precision and absolutely fucking dome you. Hopefully. Good luck avoiding them.

The Meet and Greet party will—now without an elected leader and thus rudderless—soon devolve into anarchy. There will be no one there to herd all you nasty, freaky fucks. I know what you are. I know you need to be sedated and tamped down in polite society. At this point, while the Nameless Man flies up 87 towards Buffalo, all while being pursued by well-meaning protestors who want to drive him off the edge, you will all devolve into unfettered chaos. No one will be there to reign you in. The DJ will be spinning ‘ORIGINAL NUTTAH’ by UK Apache on loop, ad infinitum. I’ve instructed the bouncers at Jean’s to lock the doors: no one else in, no one out. Either you all S and F each other, or no one makes it out alive. Your move, subscribers.

I will have replaced the rearview mirror on the AC/DC truck to be a mini-TV screen, which will be playing a compilation I made of Backstrom’s greatest moments—tentatively titled ‘Backshots from Backstrom.’

My hope is you will go insane. You will be forced to watch sardonic Rainn Wilson clips for four hours on a drive to Western NY, with no access to the brake pedal, and will thus lose your fucking mind. We want you broken when you reach Angola. We want you down bad…

In the women’s bathroom of the Angola, NY Service Plaza, rub the faucet closest to the door with your finger, and then start whispering in Parseltongue.

Descend down the gaping chasm that has now appeared behind you. Stop asking questions. When you reach the bottom, quivering and crying, unable to comprehend what we’ve put you through, you will arrive at two doors. One will be labeled, ‘Nabeel’; the other, of course, will be labeled, ‘The Other One.’

Both of us will be bound and gagged and snatched and serving face behind these doors. We will each be suffering from life-threatening illnesses, and our demise will be imminent. You don’t know it yet, but there’s a reason you were chosen. You are the medicine; you are our savior.

Remember: this is what’s at stake (video below). You have to choose one of us.

We are so thrilled and excited to be able to meet all our fans—see you all there!

Ritam’s Footnote

Buh? The hell did I just read? Yup — that’s it for me, I’m unsubscribing from Low Lift Ask. This newsletter has just gotten too out there.