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A Heartwarming Viral Story About An Engagement Ring That Dropped Through A Grate Does NOT Have A Happy Ending (NSFL)

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What. A. Saga. Tolkien himself would be inspired. Truly an epic tale that showcases the incredible camaraderie and support that New Yorkers occasionally offer to one another. We saw it in the months following 9/11, we see it occasionally when a drunk stumbles onto the subway tracks, and here it is again—that invisible bat signal that causes New Yorkers to drop their salty, standoffish exterior and answer the call of civic duty.

Are you titillated? I am fully titillated. Does she get the ring back? Surely she must. Surely such a happy story deserves a happy ending. Right?

Warning: do not scroll down if you’re easily offended, nauseated, traumatized, etc. 

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WHAT?!?! WHAT IS THAT?!!!!!!!!!!!

If diamonds are measured in karats, that thing is a karat shaving. Imagine you’re reading 50 Shades of Grey. The first sex scene doesn’t arrive until you’re 111 pages into the book (for real). To that point, you’ve barreled through chapter after chapter of sexual buildup. You can taste the clam juice and pre-cum misting off the pages. Every paragraph about Christian Grey is laden with lustful descriptions of his sinewy frame, his incredible wealth, and his desire to dominate. And just when you, the reader, can’t take it anymore, Ana finally plunges into his trousers and pulls out…


a tiny, barely-visible micropenis?


What if the finale of Game of Thrones saw Gilly sitting on the Iron Throne?

What if the Faroe Islands had emerged the sole surviving nation of World War II?

What if a bomb went off at Barstool HQ, incinerating Dave, Big Cat, KFC, PFT—all the hits, all the pillars—and the only surviving blogger was… was… Greenie?

“Last night, the pre-season scoreboard read Celtics 126, Timberwolves 114, which is a final score with a margin of 12 points.”

(Greenie, I love you. You’re doing God’s work. Look forward to meeting some day.)

Kate Ray wrote the hell out of this tweet thread. I was on the edge of my cheeks, biting down on a wooden ladle to prevent myself from skipping ahead for the big reveal. I’ve had blue balls before, but never like this. That ring STINKS OUT LOUD. Like every single person alive, I shamelessly zoom in on the ring whenever I see an engagement post on Instagram. As such, I can tell you that this ring was better off at the bottom of that grate. It looks like a hidden camera gadget.

And yet…

The fuck are these people commenting about? “What’s your venmo? I want to help.” Goddamn. I don’t mean to ring shame but at the very least, use one of those body-improving apps to stretch that tiny sparkling speck of sand into a visible representation of love. We need to believe in something.