- 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
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Excerpts from the Journal of the Hillsdale Paranormal Society
July 3 11:00 pm
So there we were, chilling at Trent's house as we have since time immemorial, watching him have a go at the new Batman game. Art was drinking and looking at a porno rag, while I was knee deep in contemplation, pondering the direction of the Hillsdale Paranormal Society. The jobs weren't coming like they used to--that incident with the milf must've hurt our reputation or something, I dunno. Maybe it was just a natural lull in the business. Ghosts can be seasonal too. Then the phone rings and I jump to get it. "Is this the Paranormal Society?" whispers a voice. "You can bet on Mark Wahlberg's abs it is," I reply. "Well I got a problem," says the voice. "Yeah? Spook? Specter? Ghoul? Goblin? Hoobastank?" I inquire. "Unplanned pregnancy," says the voice. "Oh god, a Botchling," I say. "You know that shit costs extra." "Meet me at the playground down by the river in one hour," says the voice. Then all I hear is the dial tone. "Boys," I say, jumping up from the couch, "Looks like we're in business." Neither of the two assholes moves. I have to go over and unplug the console to get Trent on his ass. We smack Art in the face until he becomes sober enough to move. I explain the situation and how we have to deal with a Botchling. Of course nobody knows what a Botchling is, because these bros are unhinged and full of shit. A Botchling is an aborted fetus that comes back for revenge, duh, motherfuckers. Naturally, we have a lot of them in Hillsboro, this being a hillbilly hell hole, but this is the first one we've ever dealt with. So we get on the internet and do our research. Art finds some nudie pics of a girl we went to school with. Other than that, we don't find much. I have them pack the holy water, the revolver, Trent's Final Fantasy katana, and a bunch of Fritos in case we get the munchies. We get into the van and we drive down to the river.
12:00 at the river
So we sit around awhile, looking at the playground, waiting for this mystery man to show up. Art passes around the nudie photos that he printed out before we left. Sometimes I think that Art has never put his hands on anything besides his schween. The guy's like in his thirties and he's as horny as a Catholic priest working an all-boy vacation bible school. Shit, I remember he had to go to the doctor to get some kind of balm so that his wiener wouldn't fall off cuz he'd been beating it so much. Trent now, he's the complete opposite. The dude's so bottled up inside that I think if you touched his butt with a feather he'd blow his load like a popped pimple. As for me, the hood rats haven't been coming like they used to. I guess ol' Gordy Two-Fingers ain't the attraction he used to be. Getting old sucks, boys and girls.
1:00 still at the river
Finally the guy shows up. We see him sneaking in from the east, dressed in dark clothing, a hood over his face like he's a Sith Lord or some shit. We jump out of the car and walk to the playground, but the guy keeps his distance. "Yo, bro," I shout, "What's the deal? You wanna get rid of this Botchling or what?" He doesn't say anything, just keeps standing there like a jabroni. I can see a bottle of whiskey hanging from his hand. "You gotta man-up, bro, and deal with this shit," I tell him. "Ain't no easy way out." Still he don't say nothing. I look at the boys and start wondering if we're dealing with something else. Art, he's got an itchy trigger finger, and I know he's fingering his revolver like man at a finger-banging party. "All the cards on the table, bro," I say. "You're creeping us out. You don't want us to go full Wahlberg on your ass." "Shut up, Gordy," says the dark figure as he throws his whiskey bottle at us. Now it's on, and we're jumping his ass, kicking him in the face and shit. After about ten minutes, we figure out that it's Art's brother Gary. "What the fuck, man?" he says. His piercings are all bleeding. I can tell the jabroni's been crying. "Why'd you call us?" I ask. "I got a girl pregnant," admits Gary. We all look at each other, our jaws hanging on the ground. "So there's no Botchling?" I ask. "What the fuck's a Botchling?" asks Gary. "I was wondering if you guys would help me push her down the stairs or something." Then he starts crying, and we're all pissed, of course. I look up at the moon and it's got a big Fuck You grin on its face. "Shit," I say. Things have just turned for the worst.