- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
I take my party on foot through the wilderness, each of us tentatively proceeding, being careful to mind our footwork, for we must make a precipitous descent, and one misstep could result in a dreadful fall of several hundred feet. I lean heavily on Horatio during this endeavor, the young lad's shoulders being strong and capable of bearing much weight, and I sense a solidity of character within this Virginian's capable frame. That land produces superior men, men worthy of seizing Fortuna by her skirt and making her do their bidding. Despite the treacherous journey, the French Canadians seem to be in merry spirits; they guffaw and slap each other on their broad, ape-like backs as though they've just avoided some great misfortune. "Barbarous men," says Horatio to me as we camp on the side of the mountain, the river water falling like white sheets one hundred feet away from us. "Truly, they are subhuman," I tell him, "Though they are strong and have some familiarity with this land; therein lies their purpose and reason for being on this expedition." Horatio and I watch with horror as Pierre, a man with a barrel chest and arms covered in hair, eats a rabbit raw. These French Canadians love raw meat; their preference for it confirms my suspicions that they are part animal, their souls being wild and prone to superstitious violence.
We make our way down the mountain, encountering a thick woods at the bottom, its canopy so substantial that rays of light are rare and break through like thin beams shone by some far away lantern. Pierre tells Horatio that these forests are haunted; Horatio admirably responds that we fear neither spirit nor man, the righteousness of the Deity being with us and guiding our venture. Fungi of the likes of which I have never seen grow huge on the trees, their color the same as fresh blood. Comstock, a old ruffian, finds a tick the size of an eye drinking from his jugular, and he loses so much blood in its removal that we have to bind his throat and carry him by litter. At night, howls and screams echo through the woods, and eyes glowing with unholy light dart about our fire, testing their distance, and it is all I can do to prevent the French Canadians from discharging all of our ammunition into the void. "They are but beasts," says Horatio to Pierre, "Fearing the flame and incapable of intelligent mischief." Pierre shakes his head and responds with curses in his uncouth tongue.
Daybreak brings much misfortune, for we find one of our men with an arrow lodged within his breast. The tracks around our camp are the prints of wolves; despite much searching, we find no human footprints, which causes the French Canadians to wail and despair. "Beauchamp!" they say, though the man is presumably many miles from us. The arrow, of course, is of Indian origin, so we must be on our guard, for the savages in this area must hate the white light of Christendom, though we will bring it to them, whether they desire it or not.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Oh Beelzebub, how I loathe the very sight of thee.
I was idly flipping through the channels, trying in vain to find some program of substance, which is nigh impossible, seeing how the cable companies want the populace to complacently hand them money and then go crawl back into their holes, when I landed upon a terrible example of that old boob-tube standby, the situational comedy. After watching several episodes of this incomprehensible drivel, I decided it was my responsibility as a critic to review this show in order to tell my loyal readers what they shouldn't be watching. Is that not the function of the critic? To tell the swine what will rot their meager brains upon repeat viewings? Well, by all means, write your answer down and send it to me. I expect nothing but the worst from you all.
The aforementioned program is called How I Met Your Mother, and Wikipedia tells me this series somehow ran for nine seasons. The main framing device involves Ted, a pretentious twat, telling his children in the voice of Bob Saget the impossibly lengthy and convoluted story of how he met their mother. Ted is a manchild who cannot tear himself from his insufferable friends Marshall, a nitwit with no outstanding character traits, and his wife Lily, a prudish Kindergarten teacher who thinks her feeble profession enables her to solve any problem. This cast of good-looking white people is rounded out by Barney, a Ted Bundyesque sexual predator, and Robin, a waifish female version of Ted. These people live in New York City, just like Seinfeld, and just like Cheers, they loiter in the same bar all of the time. Like Friends, they are an incestuous bunch. Robin dates Ted, Barney dates Robin, Marshall and Lily can barely keep themselves from inviting Ted into their bed, which provides the show's only real sexual tension. This bland and completely unrepresentative group involves themselves in all sorts of wacky and totally implausible adventures, most of which involve Ted looking for true love. Ted, unfortunately, has a narcissistic personality, and like Jerry from Seinfeld, he will always find an unforgivable flaw in his dates. Instead of examining his behavior and pondering whether or not he should change, Ted continues to cling to his unreachable standards, despite the fact that he goes through about one-hundred women over the course of the show. His friend Barney is depicted as the unconscionable playboy, but really it is Ted who is the real sociopath. I kept waiting for an episode involving the two Lotharios bonding over the murder of a prostitute, but alas, this show has not the self awareness to realize the depths of depravity it is endorsing.
This show's greatest accomplishment is making us like a sociopath. Congratulations, HIMYM, you have hastened the decline of Western civilization.
I realize that it is difficult to find true love. I myself have yet to find a female critic to share this seat with me, some angelic being who shares my distaste for pop culture as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of Latin poetry. She may be out there; she may be not, and that is my point: by the second season, it is clear that Ted will never find the Petrarchan woman he longs for. He is too much in love with himself and his friends, the latter being his undoing. What busy professional in New York City keeps the same social circle for nine years? What human being? Ted surrounds himself with these people like a frat boy unwilling to embrace maturity. I kept wanting to grab Ted and scream into his face "You are an individual! You are not part of a collective!" but television has not reached the technological heights to allow me to do so. I have never before encountered a television character as unlikable as Ted Mosby. I think the producers even realized this fact, for in the later seasons, they devote more time to Barney. I can think of an alternate universe version of this show that is actually interesting. In my show, Ted is the exact same character, yet everyone loathes him and pelts him with fruit as he walks down the street. He makes clear his desire to live in a triumvirate with Marshall and Lily, who have protected themselves with a restraining order. Robin, his female reflection, cannot stand the sight of him. His only friend is Barney Stinson, a psychopath who engages Ted in his murderous schemes. As Ted comes closer and closer to becoming Barney, he must stare into the abyss and wonder if he should pull back. Would you watch this show? I would watch this show. I'd give it rave reviews.
In closing, I can only suggest that you avoid How I Met Your Mother. It is degeneracy; it is derivative of a dozen better sitcoms without bringing anything new to the table. Watch Frasier instead. You might learn something.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
The truth is out there, and Obama is a reptile.
The world is a shadow place operated by creatures we can't even comprehend. They walk among us, own businesses, determine policy, and prey on our children. They are human-reptilian hybrids from the Alpha-Draconis star system (funny how we named their home system Draconis, isn't it?) and they're watching you for any sign you're on to them. I'm in a secret bunker located in a vast wilderness, my internet provided by satellite connection, surrounded by guns and provisions. They won't take me alive, no sir, not UFO Bob. You see, I've been in on the whole insidious plot from the beginning.
Once I was a high-ranking government employee working for the United States Post Office. You think that we deliver mail? Hah, think again, buddy. There really is no junk mail. Microscopic spy cameras are inserted ino your so-called junk mail by a little reptilian dwarf. He went by Frank in my post office. I remember how he used to scarf down a whole box of donuts in less than a minute. There was something inhuman about him, obviously, but the sheeple I worked with either refused to see it or were in league with him. He drank some red-colored liquid every morning that I'm sure was blood, and he farted non-stop while he was casing mail, and the gas that oozed out of that diminutive creature's orifice was out of this world. I really think he tried to poison me; in fact, that was one of the reasons I quit. Now I receive all of my mail at a false address, and I have a trusted source burn it (thanks, Randy). I advise you all to do the same.
Have you noticed how television is basically inundated with programing focusing on the paranormal? Have you ever seen an episode about the reptilians? No? Why do you think that is? They want you to focus on Bigfoot and spooks in the attic rather than the truth. Why do you think the X-Files got cancelled? They touched a nerve, that's why. That, and David Duchovny is a reptilian who ate Chris Carter's brain and replaced it with a reptile one.
He's not fooling anyone with that inhuman expression.
But all hope is not lost. There are souls out there risking their lives to expose the truth. Just today I was contacted by three young men from a rural paranormal society wanting to know what they can do to help. I told them to watch, record, and wait. When we get the footage and put it on the net, everyone will know, and then the war will start. Make note of suspected reptilians in your communities. They will be among the rich, the successful, the powerful. They cannot lie about being lizard people, keep that in mind. But if you ask too many they'll throw you in jail. Been there, done that. Rookie mistake. That's why I'm hiding now, that and the fact that I owe the IRS one-hundred thousand dollars.
Watch, record, and wait. Beware the lizard peoples' taste for human flesh. Burn your mail. Don't pay your taxes. Look to the skies.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Attention male gamers: we want you. Come play our game filled with anatomically unrealistic elves with bosoms so big they can't be contained by their fragile bodices. Feel free to be your normal unbearable selves without the judging eyes of feminists on you. All those icky flesh and blood vaginas and boobies aren't welcome here. This is a playground for real men.
Attention female gamers: get the fuck out. If you have the audacity to join our manly manshoot, we'll ostracize you immediately. We'll proposition the fuck out of you, you bitch/whore/cunt. This is a man's world, baby, just like James Brown said, and we will lay the smack down on any woman who thinks she can play with the big boys. Tired of the verbal abuse? Well tough shit. That's just the internet. You can't control the internet, honey. The internet is the last bastion of free speech and male rights. It's the wild-freaking-west. So you better pack your six shooter, lady. Otherwise you're getting gunned down.
By the way, don't even think about making games. Developers think like us. Women are decorations, pretty objects to be obtained. You want a female playable character? Hah. What a joke. You see, we do this complex (and totally unnecessary) motion capture thing with all of our male actors/characters, and it just wasn't designed to handle the female body. It would literally explode. Do you want to cause all of our deaths with your clamoring for female characters? Hell, the computers just aren't designed to handle it. You put anything but a chiseled white male protagonist in our game, the code will fly off the screen like in the Matrix. We got a good thing going here, and we don't want to fuck it up.
Women should go back to knitting or the kitchen. Cooking is a good hobby. Leave the advanced electronic entertainment to the boys. We need a place to let loose our stifled vocabulary. Some place to let out the racial slurs. All the feminists have all ready taken everything from us. We're deprived and unable to be ourselves.
So male gamers only, okay? We can leave our friends and society behind and build a new life, one filled with plastic-eyed, melon breasted objects of our desire. We can circle jerk each other off here, away from the prying eyes of those who would oppress us. Keep the girls out. They have cooties.
Ad bot ending transmission...
Monday, July 21, 2014
Hello there, squares. What a nice day it was today. The temperature finally got up into the eighties and the warm weather really put some nice color on my tomatoes. It's hard keeping up with the garden, busy as I am. Hah! Ain't that a kick in the pants! Me being busy. The truth is that I have plenty of free time, so much that I feel a little guilty as though I should be doing something with my life instead of sitting in my easy chair with a cold one and my pipe, contemplating the unnerving passage of time. Don't it always seem to just up and disappear on ya? I swear, just yesterday I was a lad with not a care in the world, putting baseball cards in my bicycle spokes and evading my aunt, who always wanted me to paint that darn picket fence. It was a simpler time when I was a kid, you know. Didn't have so many distractions. I tried to use one of those cellular phones everybody has now, and I just couldn't get the ol' piece of junk to work. I've never been very technical, though. I like simple things, like a cool glass of lemonade on a hot summer's day, or a nice poodle skirt on a young woman. Bowling, now there's a good sport! Not too complex, bowling. Anybody can bowl.
Did you know that nobody delivers milk anymore? I just can't contemplate why. Always used to wait around for the milk man, though there were rumors about their kind. Mother always said Ralf Jefferson was the result of an unlawful union between the milk man and Ralf's mother. Maybe that's why they don't deliver milk anymore.
I wrote a letter to Jimmy Stewart about a week ago, and the darn thing came back to me in the mail. Turns out Jimmy's been dead for quite some time. See what I mean about time? It gets away from you.
At work today, some of the guys asked me what I did around the place, as though it isn't obvious! Actually, I couldn't think of a straight answer. I don't know what I do at work. I don't even know what my company produces. Is that normal? Is it normal to look at a section of wallpaper for hours on end?
See, these kinds of thoughts make me think that I'm a wacko. Can you imagine! A normal, stand up guy like myself some kind of weirdo who can't even explain to his coworkers what he does! The dark energies which flow through my subconscious whisper immoral designs, and I listen, oh how I listen. Now see that? What was that? Kind of strange, right? I have thoughts like those all the time, that is, when I have thoughts at all.
There's this neighborhood guy named Bob, a sort of seedy fellow who's always trimming his grass three times a week. Today Bob sees me on my morning constitutional and yells me over and pulls me inside his garage. He says he sees me smoking my pipe all the time and so he wonders if I wouldn't like to buy some choice herbs? I shrug my shoulders, trying to be polite, and Bob stuffs a little packet of tobacco in my shirt pocket and says it's on the house. I thought that was nice of him, and my opinion of the man changes, but then I go home and smoke some of that tobacco, and boy, lemme tell ya, I woke up three hours later lying in the bathtub, which was full of Cap 'n Crunch cereal! There was like forty boxes in the bathroom. I don't know what happened, but I swear I saw the Cap 'n wink at me, so I dumped the rest of that tobacco in my garden. The stuff smelled like a skunk, anyway. I don't know what I'm going to do with my life.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
In a labyrinth, the sound of water dripping omnipresent
I lie on a moldy floor and stare up at wooden beams covered in spider webs. There are pipes all around me, twisting about each other like snakes, a septic smell oozing its way into my nostrils. There is a valve that keeps dripping. I put my hands on it and the drip turns into a spray. The water is black and acidic on my skin, yet I can't help trying to wash it off. Behind me, someone comes down the stairs, their steps ponderous and seething dread. A gigantic man in overalls appears, a pipe wrench in his hand. He asks if I fixed the leak. "I cannot," I tell him. He smiles a grin of rotten brown teeth.
On the open road
The big semi spits clouds of diesel and I lean back into my seat, my hand on the CB. There are miles and miles of nothingness before me, woods stretching over hillsides, hiding things that don't wish to be seen. My stomach has swelled up, pushing against the steering wheel, and something moves inside it, a creature formed of beef jerky, petrified sandwiches, and caffeinated beverages. I take a handful of amphetamines and dump them into my mouth. The horizon changes suddenly, the purple-crimson shades of the setting sun turning a deep neon blue. The CB turns to static, and I lose power, the dashboard flickering like a dying firefly. As the truck coasts to a stop, I see it moving over the trees, a hovering ellipse rotating rapidly. A squeal pierces my ears, and I am pulled from my seat through the window. As I move toward it, I see my life passing by, a mirage of truck stop tramps, alcoholism, and poor dietary choices.
In a house of ill-repute
I sit on the chaise lounge and unbutton my dinner jacket as the woman comes through the door. Her breasts bulge like melons from her corset, and I take a glass of sherry to my lips and drink. Bawdy music is playing downstairs, a Spaniard singing perverse ditties in his heathen tongue. She puts a stocking foot on my leg and asks what I'll be having. "The same as everyone else," I say, putting down my glass and seizing her in my arms. "You don't want what they're having," she says, tearing herself away from me and fleeing to the closet. I ask her why. "Because you're special," she replies, and a rustling is heard from inside. Something like a black and grey octopus arm slithers from beneath the door, and my heart beats faster, but I do not leave. "Do you still want what they are having?" she asks, the doors swinging open. "No," I reply, "I want something different."
A dive bar, in the boonies
We play behind the chicken wire as they throw their beer bottles against it, shards of glass flickering before my feet. "Sing something they know," says the drummer, an obese man I barely know. The guitarist is looking at me strangely, as though I have forgotten who or what I am. "Let's try a little tenderness," I say. The crowd angers further, but I shake my head, resolute in the song choice. "You assholes don't know what's good for you," I say as the band starts the song. They drag us out into the parking lot afterwards and wail on us with their large hillbilly fists. The drummer loses most of his teeth, his gaping grin a torrential pouring of blood. I don't make any noise while they crack my ribs and shatter my teeth. As the moon appears from behind the clouds, I mumble that they have one last chance. They decide not to take it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Dis here's Thom an all his most closest friends.
Howdy ya'll, today Id like ta dedicate my post to my favorite family member, my Uncle Thom. I'm a gonna tell amy most favorit Uncle Thom story, but first Id like ta tell everbody a little bout Thom an how he lives. Uncle Thom lives bout half a mile down da road in an ol' shack made out of plywood an aluminum cans an da pelts of skunks. He got a chickin coop made outta barbed wire, an sometimes when we come over, dats where I usually fall asleep ins, specially when I's had to much ta drink. Now Uncle Thom likes to drag race, an most of the valley can hear him late inta the evening revving up da engine on his souped up Firebird, an its kinda a point of contention amongst some of da other residents who dont respect da hard work it takes to build a competitive racer. Some have taken to firing weapons in Thom vicinity when he gets too loud, which pisses Thom off, an den he starts shootin' back, an god forbid you be on da road at dat time, cuz yur liable to take a built in yur asshole or worse. Another funny thing bout Uncle Thom is dat he's got a frigerator sitting right before his driveway, blockin it cuz he dont like visitors (bout da worst a stranger can do is pull into his driveway. Many have an were never seen again!). When Uncle Thom wants to leave he just puts a ramp behind the frigerator and ramps the sonofabitch like the General Lee, an you hear him tearin' down the valley like hells wheel or meatloaf.
Da story Id like to tell envolves Uncle Thom and my brother Slack. Now Slack got hisself in trouble wit the law, cuz he was drunk an drinking in the park, an I guess some ladies came sauntering down da walkway an he must've showed dem his wenis, or at least dats waht dey told da police. So course Slack needed someplace to hide, so he goes running back toward da house, the men in blue on his trail, an to throw 'em off, he veers into Thom's property. He gets down to da house, an low an behold, deres Uncle Thom sittin in his most favorite recliner (which is right outside his doorstep) naked as da day he was born. Slack just kinda stares at him, since he's never seen Uncle Thom naked, an Thom asks him "What da hell you doin' here, boy?" since I guess dis is his private time which he spends alone wit his privates. "I'm a running from da law!" shouts Slack, an Uncle Thom turns a shade of pale dat resembles da moon when its at its most full. "Ya goddamn idjit, whaddya bring ums here fors?" screams Thom, standing up from his chair. He starts pointin' toward da pit, which is bout five-hundred feet from da house, an Slack raises his eyebrows an realizes dat Thom's got company. "Im gonna go hide in da crick," he tells Thom, but Thom a scramblin' to put some pants on, but den da police show up an say "Freeze!" just like in da movies, an Thom's stuck wit no pants on. Unfortunately, dey got pretty curious bout da screams an yells coming from da pit, an when deys move ta check it out, Thom takes off like a fat pig through da woods, an one of dem police men had to wrestle him down and handcuff 'em an put 'em in da back of the squad car butt naked. I guess da woman dat dey found in da pit was consentin' parrently ta being down dere, or least Thom got her to say dat, so he didnt have ta do time, but now everbody thinks he's a weirdo, which dont matter much. Thom dont care wat people think of 'em. Dats one of his bestest traits.
Dis is da pit, dont it look cumfy?
Monday, July 14, 2014
HarveyDillingersGhost asks "Who's the greatest author of our generation?"
Arnold: What the fuck. You guys think we read or something?
Dave: The Millennials have yet to produce a great author, in my opinion. If we look back on Generation X, there are some interesting choices. I'd vote for David Foster Wallace, since Infinite Jest is one of the best books I've ever read, and it's gigantic, messy, and overly ambitions, and perhaps the best example of post-modern literature I can think of, without citing one of Thomas Pynchon's unreadable volumes. Kinda funny that I've always bounced off of Pynchon, since he's the author that I think Wallace most resembles. Wallace has an excellent readability to his work, almost like he's conversing with you, that makes all the fancy math and lengthy sentences flow better than Pynchon's prose.
Arnold: Look at you, putting up middle class white guys as examples of great authors. What about Toni Morrison, motherfucker?
Dave: If you had to read Beloved, you'd realize it's fucking terrible.
Arnold: I dug the cow sex scenes. And the milk-taking.
Dave: Christ, you're a deviant. I didn't think you could read.
Arnold: Think again, motherfucker!
RogerEbertLives! asks "What's you guys' favorite cult film?"
Arnold: What the hell, are all the goddamn nerds emailing us this week? Give us some weightlifting questions!
Dave: I mean, what even qualifies as a cult film? I would say The Matrix was a cult film, as well as The Big Lebowski, and both of those are from mainstream directors, though I guess they may not have been at the time. Brazil is pretty good. It has style and humor, both of which are important for a dystopic science fiction film, since those get bogged down too often by gloom and doom. It has Robert De Niro as some weird rebel air conditioner repairman. With a mustache.
Arnold: If we're gonna pick a Robert De Niro film, then I gotta say Raging Bull. Dude got fat for the end part by eating Italian food four times a day. Gotta watch those carbs, people.
Dave: Time Bandits is excellent as well, since I brought up Terry Gilliam. Definitely a movie best watched stoned.
Arnold: That's the one with all the midgets in it, isn't it. Goddamn movie gives me nightmares.
Dave: You're like five-seven. You're damn-near a midget yourself.
Arnold: You're maybe a half-inch taller than me, so who's the pot calling the kettle black?
Dave: I never tire of your sayings. Never change, Arnold.
Arnold: Hell yeah I'm never changing.
BeastMode asks "Why do so many programs have you squatting three times a week, but only deadlifting once, for one set of five? Can I deadlift more than that, or will my body fall apart?"
Dave: Here you go, Arnold, a weightlifting question.
Arnold: About time. Thing is, people are too obsessed with programming. Five by five programs are very popular right now, and while they're a great option for novices, they're not the only way to train. The reason you only deadlift once during a three-times a week squatting program is because you're squatting three times a week, and therefore getting plenty of back work. Now, I don't think that kind of programming is ideal for developing a big deadlift, though the squat will build the deadlift to a degree. I'd rather squat twice a week and deadlift for at least ten or fifteen reps once a week. You can deadlift for sets across; your back won't explode. I don't think deadlifting is any harder to recover from than squatting, although I see a lot of opinions voicing the opposite. The important thing to remember is try shit yourself. Don't take the word of some internet guru. You're a beautiful flower, a special snowflake. Different people respond to different stimuluses.
Dave: Yeah, the chorus of "Do the program," that gets shouted around is a little tiring. Now, newbies probably shouldn't mess around too much with their routine for the first couple months. But once you're in the intermediate stage, then you should find out what works and what doesn't.
Arnold: I never squatted three times a week or every day. Twice a week is more than enough for me. Similarly, three sets of five or five sets of five didn't work to bring up my bench after novice progression. I needed triples, some heavy work in addition to volume.
Dave: Are three answered questions enough for this week?
Arnold: Yes. I'm feeling lazy.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Boo, a spooky house, I'm scared--not! This is just where Trent lives.
July tenth, 11:00 p.m., at our base of operations
So we're down at the Howard house, chilling by the fire pit, having ourselves a beer or twelve, Trent, Art, and me, when Art's deadbeat brother Gary comes down and starts yelling at us for drinking all of his beer (fuck, Gary, you didn't buy any of this shit), and it's pretty fucking clear that he's been drinking and trying to pick up some hood rat that don't mind all the shit in his face (he's got like safety pens and studs coming out of his eyebrows). He's calling us "swagglers," and I don't got any idea what the hell that means, but Gary's oozing drool out of the sides of his mouth, and his words are so slurred that he sounds like he got creamed in the jaw, which very well might have happened. Now we got our stereo busting out the sweet jams of Mary-Mark and the Funky bunch, and Gary goes over there and says "Fuck this shit," and he fucking karate kicks Art's stereo into the fire. We're all looking at him now, giving him the "this shit's serious," stare, and he's all like "come at me, bros," and we're at a loss as to what to do, considering this is Art's brother and a sometimes solid dude, but he's got a real drinking problem and someone should probably kick the shit out of his stupid heavy metal face. Trent, that silent, pale motherfucker, suddenly says in his quiet voice "You're a douchebag," and that is the bullet that starts the proverbial war, so to speak. Gary picks up his bottle of Jack and throws it through the fire and hits Trent right on the forehead, the bottle making this "smack!" sound, and Trent falls over backwards like he's been shot. Art and myself are both on Gary now, holding his skinny ass down, which is much harder than you'd think, considering Gary probably weighs like one-hundred and thirty pounds, but the fucker's strong like Gollum, and he throws us off of him and rolls into the fire, which is fucking hilarious. He jumps up, covered in flames, and we're like "Serves you right, bro," and he's screaming and thrashing his arms around, and Dwight says "Stop, drop, and roll, dumb ass," but instead of doing that, he starts taking off his clothes, and pretty soon he's naked as hell, still running around like he's on fire. Gary takes off into the woods, screaming at the top of his lungs, and we're just kinda like "Fuck, what the hell just happened?" We go over to Trent to see if that alabaster motherfucker is still breathing, and he looks up at us and says "Gary is possessed," and suddenly, it all clicks. Art, of course, disagrees with us; he says Gary's just a crazy, depressed asshole, but I shake my head and tell the boys to get our gear. "We got ourselves an exorcism to perform, bros," I say. Art looks really fucking scared for some reason.
I'm gonna funk you up!
12:00 p.m., in the goddamn woods
So we start scouring the earth for this motherfucker, and we can still hear him screaming his lungs off somewhere in the distance. "Just let him pass out in the woods, and he'll wake up in the morning covered in ticks," says Art, but we got a duty as a society to help the possessed, so we continue onward, following the screams. The woods around here is haunted as hell, full of displaced spirits and werewolves and crap, and a dude's gotta watch his back, as well as his flashlight usage. Like on cue, we hear a howl that just about causes Trent to piss his pants. "What was that?" he murmurs, like a jabroni. "A freaking werewolf," I tell him, grabbing my paintball gun from my backpack. "What the fuck would that do against a werewolf?" asks Art, and I tell him that I bought special paintballs that are full of holy paint, or at least that's what the web site claimed, and that shit is always true. "What the fuck is holy paint?" and I just have to shake my head, my crew can be such a pair of dunces. "Obviously, holy paint has been blessed by a priest, and that shit'll kill the forces of darkness," I tell him. He just shakes his head and starts complaining about the woods, 'cause he wore his good shoes out here and he's getting them all muddy and shit.
1:00 p.m., in front of a spooky house
After about an hour prancing in the woods with the dumbfuck twins, I get to this big ass abandoned house in the middle of the woods, which is pretty peculiar, I'd say. Something big jumps off the roof and Trent yells "It's a vampire!" but I shine my flashlight on it and it's just a turkey vulture. At that exact minute, a moaning comes from the house, kinda sounding like two witches getting it on lesbo-style. We approach as stealthily as we can, my paintball gun ready, and after I count to three we shine the light though the window, and what do you know, it's Gary in there, buck-ass naked, one hand on his eyes, the other pounding away at his meat like it's about to fall off. I let loose with paintball gun fire, and the motherfucker starts screaming, and he's running from the house yelling about being on fire, and we're all bent over from laughing at that shit, and I kid you not, he runs directly into a tree, which knocks him on his ass right into a patch of stinging nettle. We chase him back to the Howard house, telling him he needs to be exorcised, but then Art's Grandma comes out, and she's all pissed, and she wants to know why Gary's naked and we really don't have a good explanation for her. So we never get to perform our exorcism, and Gary's still possessed, or at least really hung over, not sure which. Just another day at the office for the Hillsdale Paranormal Society.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
We find Beauchamp on the shore, having spent much of the last week looking for him. The man is naked and covered in scratches and sores, looking very much like he has been beaten by some foreign party and left for some time to the elements. Inexplicably, there is hair all around him, great black matted clumps, as well as a smell that permeates the air like a most foul perfume. His fellows, the French Canadians, do make much noise and protest our retrieval of his person, insisting that the man is a rougarou and liable to dismember our entire party. Colonel Whittaker has Beauchamp bound to the mast for desertion, and, to placate his companions, allows them to take the lash to his flesh. They perform this duty with great relish; a fire lights in their porcine eyes and a most mischievous grin forms at the corners of their mouths, the combined effect of these transformations rendering their visages terrible to behold. Beauchamp, for his part, shows no emotion whatsoever, even after his flesh is cut by the lash. After a short while, I stop the French Canadians from their ceaseless motions, my delicate heart unable to take the savage scene any longer. "Cease with this devilishness!" I cry, seizing the lash from a bear-like fellow filled with mirth. "Can you not see that Beauchamp is nearly dead? Do you want to murder a man of your race?" The bestial creature turns to me and spits on my boot before pointing his finger at Beauchamp, a hideous expression forming on his face. "It would be best, mon ami, to do so," he says, before pulling out a large knife and rushing at Beauchamp. The Colonel, however, is prepared, despite his incessant drinking, and he takes his pistol and fires several shots into the man before he reaches Beauchamp, striking him dead. "The only good Canadian is a dead Canadian," he says, waving his pistol at the others, "but I get to say who lives and who dies on this boat." The Colonel, of course, is overstepping his authority, yet I am grateful that he saved the life of Beauchamp, despite the difficulties he has caused the expedition. I am lost as to why, I must confess.
We settle on the banks, as the river current increases drastically, with cascades and sharp rocks clearly visible ahead. Leaving the Colonel in command, I venture downriver with the scouts, trudging through patches of stinging nettle, deer and rabbits scurrying in our wake. Horatio, a young Virginian desiring to improve his fortunes, shoots a doe, and we spend some time preparing it before continuing onward. We are quite unprepared for the scene that greets us; never have I seen such clear evidence of Providence's grand hand. The waters of the river tumble down into a great gulf, their tumultuous thunder a magnificent roar that deafens our ears. We feast our eyes on the beauty of the river, its dangers and promise captured by the misty white sheets of water. Taken by the moment, I place my hand on the shoulder of Horatio, who turns to me and smiles, joy clear on his face. Perhaps I have found a new bosom friend.
After much debate regarding how to proceed in our quest, our party decides to split, with one half continuing on foot, while the other ventures upriver on the barge, looking for a tributary to carry them past the waterfall. I elect to lead the party on foot, with young Horatio as my lieutenant, Colonel Whittaker presiding over the second group. The French Canadians, to my great chagrin, decide to continue with my party, seeing how Beauchamp is confined to the barge, recovering from his injuries. After the meeting is adjourned, I retired to my quarters with Colonel Whittaker and a bottle of whiskey, and am pleasantly surprised when the Colonel offers me a glass, he being quite infamous for jealously guarding his bottle as though it contained some elixir of truth. "Ulysses," he says to me, slurring his words somewhat, though he seems to do this no matter if he is sober or drunk, "keep your eyes on them Canadians. They're not to be trusted." I tell him to watch Beauchamp as well, considering how we haven't discovered our missing mule handler. "Injuns," says the Colonel, stroking his great mustache, whiskey dripping from its hairs. I don't know if the Colonel is wrong or correct in his suspicions. I must confess, I fear the splitting of our party, and I pray to the Deity that I may continue to lead my men with wisdom and bravery.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Don't pretend this isn't you, you degenerates.
This weekend being that particularly holiday in which Americans are given free will to disrupt the sleep of their neighbors with military grade explosives, shot out of their children's grubby paws to the heeing and hawing of all, suffice it to say that I have not obtained a respectable amount of rest recently; hence the general mood of my column. Let it be known that I am full of fun; I enjoy listening to Tchaikovsky with a glass of sherry, and sometimes, I even let myself indulge in a cigar. So I am not a sour puss, nor am I a stick in the mud, nor any other clumsy neologisms degenerates result to when their feeble vocabulary fails them, as it is wont to do. The Fourth of July, however, disturbs me--seeing the masses celebrate the terrible history of the slave-ruling patriarchy with over-imbibing, gluttony, and wonton destruction simply reinforces negative conclusions I reached long ago regarding the progression of society. Yes, yes, Jefferson, Madison, and Franklin were geniuses; however, they were all rich men who didn't want to pay taxes, like all rich men, and like their brethren today, they manipulated the proletariat to do their bidding. None of these great heroes bled on the battle field--nay, they holed up in their mansions and let the rabble be hacked to death by the largest army in the world at the time. Yet today we idolize them, we toast them, we drink and ejaculate explosives into the sky in their remembrance. On another note, the Declaration of Independence is a remarkable document, to be sure, yet you can be certain that most Americans do not know what it is. Hypnotized and placated by MTV and the internet, they have little knowledge of their history. Ask them what they are celebrating, and they undoubtedly will answer "'Merica," because they are fools who cannot even properly pronounce the name of their country. So in a way, I suppose, those clever white men who so deftly controlled the populace see their legacy tarnished by degeneracy and cultural malaise. Can you give a monkey freedom, I ask? When said ape turns and throws its feces at you, should you be surprised?
I was visiting the home of my brother when my nephew Louis accosted me, demanding that I debase myself by playing a particular video game with him. Not wanting to burn bridges with my family, who have just recently reestablished contact with me, I indulged his request. The title was called Saints Row 4, and I initially thought it to be the most degenerate piece of electronic entertainment I had yet to encounter. You play as a street thug who, through completely incredible plot machinations, becomes the President of the United States. Like any male indoctrinated by the patriarchy, you surround yourself with hard-muscled representations of masculine authority, as well as large breasted females. Because this game was apparently written by a twelve-year-old, aliens invade earth, kidnap you and your gang, and place you all in a simulation where order and complacency are the norm. Here the game begins its deft social commentary. It is your job to disrupt the social order through acts of sabotage and violence, and doing so increases your own power and independence from society. Throughout all of this, the game does a fine job of sexualizing males as well as females, satirizing popular culture, and generally being a blast to play. Your vast powers eventually give you the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and glide through the air as though you were a bird, and never has the simple act of moving through an environment been so enjoyable before. Yes, yes, I admit that I enjoyed a video game. Armageddon must be nigh. You see, Saints Row 4 realizes that it is cultural detritus, and it does its best to conform to your expectations while laughing at you all the same. "Yes," it seems to be saying, "I realize that you are a degenerate. Here are all of your degenerate fantasies come true. Do what you will with them." Any piece of art with a healthy contempt for its audience is a work I can endorse.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
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Tuesday, July 1, 2014
So how about that weather, huh? Sure is nice and humid outside. I took myself out for my morning stroll, and after just a few minutes I was pouring sweat something awful, and I had to change out of my white dress shirt and put on a new tie. Could use a few more dress shirts, to tell you the truth. But I just can't stomach going to the store.
Well say, that was awfully negative of me, wasn't it? I don't want you fellas getting the impression that I dislike the store. All those crowds of people, bunched together, moving like a herd of bison--oh, yes sir, that's just fine and dandy with me. Not a touch of anxiety do I feel. It's not normal, after all, to be uncomfortable around groups of people, and if I'm anything, I'm one normal guy. One terribly square, normal guy.
Boy, I just keep making those comments today! Something must have gotten me in a sour mood! I'm not usually this negative a nancy, though I remember the boys calling me that in grade school. Those rascals! Children lack the self-awareness to realize what pain they can cause. Either that, or they just don't care.
I tried to have a talk with a young gentleman yesterday. He was strolling down the side walk, clad in black clothing like some kind of ghoul, his hair dyed black, with a ring sticking out of his nose like an African tribesman! Have you ever heard of anything so outlandish? I took him aside and asked him if he wanted to join the circus, and he gave me a look that said "Don't I wish, Mr," but the words that actually came out of his mouth said "stay away from me, dude." Young people today, I think they have a lot of personal problems. Probably all of that MTV and internet stuff. That's cultural detritus, lemme tell you. I stay away from all of that.
Had a little bit of trouble at the office today. I came in, fifteen minutes early, like I always do, but for once, I decided to have just one more cup of coffee in the break room, instead of starting my work early. Greg from Accounting and Ahmed from Tech Support were standing next to one another, shooting the breeze, and I, desiring some male companionship, strode over and asked them what, exactly, was up. "Check out Lindsay," said Greg, making motions with his eyes, and I glanced over at said female. "What am I looking for, gentlemen?" I asked. Ahmed made a cupping motion with his hands, and I realized they were referring to Lindsay's breasts. "Didn't she just have a baby?" I inquired, which must've been the wrong thing to say, because both of them looked at me like I just suggested we go into the bathroom and shoot up some hard drugs. "You're hopeless," said Greg, and I kind of know what he means.
It's not easy, you know, trying to please everyone. I told my main squeeze Juanita this. "We have to break up," was the next thing she said. Well ain't that a kick in the pants! Really, I can see why I'm in such a foul mood. Today was one more horrible day in a lifetime of horrible days.
But you know what? I can't let one bad day get me down in the dumps, no sir! Not even a hundred! There's plenty to be optimistic about! The sky isn't falling, for instance, and I have a low interest rate on my mortgage. There's still some tobacco left for my pipe, my one vice, and that evening chair is looking mighty comfortable. A man might be able to get a good night's rest in it. If the dreams don't keep him awake, that is.