The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Dawn pouring through the blinds, a wound on my skull
I awake in a motor home, my hands bound to the sides of the bed, an elderly couple bustling about in their underwear. They speak a reptilian language, their skin sagging and barely covering the scales beneath. The old woman comes over to me and smiles, revealing homogenous two-inch fangs like a viper's. Their breakfast looks to be thawed raw meat, and they offer some of it to me, grinning their hideous grins, but I refuse, to their vast disappointment. "Eat, eat, eat!" says the male, pulling down the blinds, saliva dripping from his maw. Already the hordes of people are arriving in their vehicles, climbing out of their cars to walk into the enormous structure. "Wally-world, here we come!" says the female. I've almost worked myself out of my binds, but I don't know if I will be too late.

...

Deep within the belly of the beast

I am paraded about with a leash tied around my neck, the elderly couple walking slow and deliberate, mimicking the gait and pace of the typical Wal-Mart customer. An immense man seemingly composed of gelatin waddles up to us and congratulates them on their pretty dog. "I'm not an animal!" I scream at him, which causes the creatures to beat me until I've settled down. There are great deals on lawn furniture, I notice, seventy-five percent off. I watch as a woman allows her child to defecate in the middle of the aisle, and I feel as though I should do something, something drastic to end this terrible cycle, but they pull me away. We pass a figure of skin and bones, moving rapidly from item to item, its eyes inflamed, its teeth dangling precariously from its chapped mouth. "Tweakers," says the male, shaking his hoary head. "What's this world coming to, ma?" I try to say something, but all that comes out is a feeble yelp.

...

The meat aisle
The old couple fills their cart with one-hundred pounds of meat. All about us the herds saunter, moving their tree trunk legs with great effort. Some pass us on motorized scooters, their fat spilling out of their cheap clothing. The creatures that have ensnared me lick their chops and hiss, flicking their forked tongues out to taste the greasy pheromones released by these bovine humans. "It's almost time for the cookout, ma," says the male. The gleam in his eyes tells me that I will bear witness to the slaughter.

...

The reckoning

The lights go off suddenly as we stand in the canned foods aisle. I hear the moaning of the fat people, the panic in their voices as they stumble and crash into each other, rolling on the floor like turtles turned over on their backs, helpless and squealing. The elderly couple have shed their skin, and their scales glisten as the backup generators try to kick on, the lights flickering epileptically, their teeth long and sharp in the stroboscoptic illumination. One great land beast rushes toward us, his eyes mad, his gigantic gut bare and pregnant with a lifetime's worth of adipose tissue, and the male creature cuts him open with a deft slice of his claws, his intestines spilling out like wriggling worms. "There's plenty for you too, son," he says, tugging on my leash. I pull as hard as I can and it snaps, and now I am running through the store, passing the grotesque, my legs pumping hard to reach the light. The reptiles stand at the doorway, blocking the exit, so I rush into the clothing section and lock myself in the dressing room. It takes hours for them to finish. The sounds will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

Hanging with the Goon

Dis is the backside of our place, we cleaned up them picknick tables and all the trash real goode.

Howdy everbody, I'm here to talk today about da dangers of teh internet. Now, I spent most of ma life without the fancy, smancy internet, let alone a compooter, or lectric, runnin' water, central heat, blah, blah, blah, you get da picture. Well, Remy and Slack an I decided we's should enter into the twentieth century, so we pooled our monies together and got a generator from Uncle Thom so dat we's could stop stinkin' up the libary an get on the world wide web from da comfort of our home. Now I have to admit, we did steel a compooter from the high school; Slack broke a window an I snuck in and hauled one out along with the contents of a vinding machine so we's have somethin' decent to eat for supper for once in our lives. Back at da trailer, we had to call Uncle Thom to come over an show us how to hook the damn thing up to da generator, 'cuz Remy had it plugged in to an outlet spite da fact dat we don't have lectric; his explanation was dat da witch docter had rendered him able to conduct lectric usin' just da powder of his mine, like he was Cap'n Picard or somethin', which I guess ain't true, seeing how we never did get any lectric. Thom got us hooked up, though eh did say some mean things, mostly referencing our lack of telligence--he says we couldnt find our asses if theys was attached, which ain't true, I certainly have no problem findin' my ass, considerin' how it smells. Well, first thing we do when we get da internet is to look up all da fine ladies of the night in dere berfday suits, an boy, lemme tell ya, I had no idea women could look so goode naked; maybe its the area or my breath, but I ain't never seen any ladies wit boobies an asses like basketballs. We all took turns lookin' at da pictures, an each of us got ourselves some private time, which was fine, but nobody cleaned up da mess an pretty soon da compooter was lookin' like somebody shot elmer's glue all over it, an da keyboard was stickin' to yur fingers somethin' awful.

I typed in "dangers of da internet" in da google an dis is what I got, which don't make no sense.

So Slack, being a ladies man, gets himself in a bit of trouble almost immediately. He starts hanging out in chat rooms, pretendin' to be a teenager, which is more then a bit deceivin', since he's 'bout thirty-one years of age, if da stars be right. I tell 'em he's gonna get caught an have to go back to jail, but he don't listen, an pretty soon he's got himself a date with a strapping young lady of like fourteen or so an dere gonna meet in da park. Remy and I go along wit him, just to make sure he don't do nothin' stoopid like try an take her somewhere public like Ponderosa. Slack's got himself dressed as Justin Beever sa dat he look somethin' like a fourteen-year-old, an I do declare, he's pullin' it off pretty damn goode. Well, we never see no lady of da night, but a fat man wit a pony tail come up to him an ask if he's da gentlemen he's a lookin' for, an it turns out dat the supposedly strapping young lady is in actuality a forty-year-old convicted child molster, which, ain't dat just 'bout right? Me and Remy jump outta da bushes then and start wailin' on da perv, beatin' him wit sticks, an he just collapses and starts crying 'bout ponies or some shit. We take da Beever home and get 'em cleaned up, an tell 'em that they can't all be victories an yus gotta be warry on da internet. He says "Ok" an then he start lookin' up boobies again. I swear, we dont get nothin' done; all we do is pound our meat, an I'm a scared dat da compooter will get too full of seamen an stop workin' an den what we gonna do? So watch out, peoples, da internet is addictive an full of boobies an pervs pretendin' to be Justin Beever followers, an ain't dat just 'bout da most awful thing yus ever heard?

Conan Brothers Q&A

Dave just plays Skyrim because he's a deviant, cat-person lover.

LamerforLife asks: "Do you guys play video games?"

Arnold: Do we play video games. Oh do we.

Dave: Video games are yet another form of electronic mass entertainment designed to keep the masses distracted from their poor, pathetic lives of serfdom and mindless consumption.

Arnold: He plays video games all the time.

Dave: I kind of feel guilty for it, though. I always feel like I could be doing something more productive with my time, like studying German or becoming proficient in advanced mathematics.

Arnold: That's 'cause you have the ol' American work ethic ground into your brain. Do you feel guilty when you jerk it?

Dave: Only when I'm using particularly dirty material.

Arnold: Well, I guarantee you lose a lot of work hours pounding your meat, and I don't see you ceasing your masturbatory habits, you hypocrite.

 

Dave: I guess I would like to play less.

 

Arnold: So make it happen. If there's anything we constantly preach about, it's taking responsibility for your actions. If you truly feel that video games are hampering your development as a person, then cut them out. Although, why stop there? Might as well throw the TV away and unplug the internet. Toss your smart phone in the garbage. Stop driving to work or wearing clothes. Return to the woods, make your fires, eat your meat raw. Fully embrace Luddism.

 

Dave: I like the conveniences of modern society.

 

Arnold: You have to take the good with the bad, Dave.

 

Dave: I don't know if that's necessarily true, but I see your point. I will stop feeling guilty about playing video games.

 

Arnold: Maybe if you didn't always play as a cat-person, you'd feel less guilty.

 

Dave: Maybe you're right.

Tony, you fat liar, you didn't get those chunky legs by using that piece of crap.

 

RudyWasaPussy asks: "Are machines evil? I don't mean like the Terminator, I mean the types of machines you see in your Globo Gyms. Exercise machines, to be precise."

 

Arnold: Machines will never replace free weights, for the simple reason that machines help balance the load. You press a barbell overhead and all sorts of muscles are helping stabilize the weight. It's just you verses gravity.

Dave: Yeah, but machines aren't useless. Neither are single-joint isolation exercises. Both are primarily used for assistance work, that is, high rep stuff done just to get a pump.

Arnold: Done to get your hypertrophy on.

Dave: I might do leg extensions after squats, but I won't use a heavy weight. I'll do four sets of twelve with about ninety pounds. Nobody cares if you're using three-hundred pounds on leg extensions.

Arnold: If you are, you're probably fucking up your knees.

Dave: Don't build your workout around machine movements. Otherwise, they're fine.

Rufus is kind of a dick, if you can't tell by his expression.

CommunistMephistopheles asks: "What's the best kind of dog?"

Dave: Isn't that kind of like asking what the best kind of person is?

 

Arnold: There are no bad dogs. All dogs are made perfect before the eyes of the Lord.

 

Dave: We have a pit bull named Rufus, because we are big, tough guys that need a big, tough dog.

 

Arnold: Pits have suffered from masculine postering, that's for sure. I can't tell you how many times I've seen some skinny dude being dragged down the street by his eighty-pound pit bull. Hey, asshole, if you're going to get the Schwarzenegger of dogs, how 'bout you make sure you can control it?

 

Dave: They're sweet dogs, though. Rufus is kind of a bad apple.

 

Arnold: It's not his fault the mail man has to saunter into his yard like he owns the damn place. If I were a dog, that'd piss me off too.

 

Dave: The only difference between you and a dog is that you don't eat dog food. Not usually, at least.

 

Arnold: Thanks, brotha. That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time.

One-Hundred Obituaries

I had the strange idea to write one-hundred flash fictions based on the deaths of various flawed characters. I got no further than chapter four, but I might return to this project some day. 

Three

Wesley Willis died during the middle of a Tuesday, a massive heart attack being his cause of death. Poor Wesley was only thirty-three, yet he'd lived a strange, unhealthy life of booze, altercations, and unsafe sexual activity. His mother, who found him, will take a certain secret to her grave, the aforementioned secret being that Wesley was stark naked in front of a computer screen at his time of death, his right hand clasped firmly around his flaccid penis, a pornographic video looping on his computer, his eyes fixated on that eternal image, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth like something poisoned and discovered on the side of the road. Mrs. Willis watched that video many times in an effort to comprehend her son. The pornography was pretty banal by Wesley's standards, and although we cannot exactly call him lucky, we can be thankful that he was not watching Japanese scat-porn or anything involving bestiality, two genres that Wesley did indulge in from time to time. The video featured a disarmingly pretty (disarming in that wholesomely-pretty girl-next-door way) brunette being anally fisted by an emaciated young man clad in a pair of red-checkered boxer shorts. The brunette has a bob haircut; her face is oval, her lips crimson and opened. They do not shut but for a few seconds during the course of the video. Her moans and wordless exclamations of pleasure are genuine; this sex is intimate, it is not manufactured, it is true and authentic. Even Mrs. Willis cannot deny this fact, though she wishes she could, for these people do not look like porn stars, and somehow that makes her son's voyeuristic interest in them more disturbing.

            The video was only one of many discoveries that Mrs. Willis made regarding Wesley's life. In his closet behind a broken piece of plasterboard, she found a large black safe, which she took to a specialist and had opened. Inside were fifty disks containing footage of sexual encounters between her son and other people. Most of Wesley's companions were women; they ranged in age from uncomfortably (and possibly illegally) young to disturbingly ancient (a septuagenarian grandmother being the oldest), and consist of varying ethnicities and nationalities. Some of the encounters seemed to be nonconsensual. These women were not aware of being filmed, that is clear as well. Some are beauties, though most are simply average-looking people, the kind of people you pass at the grocery store without giving them a second look.

            "What do I do with all this?" Mrs. Willis asked her husband after showing him the disks.

            "Burn them," responded Mr. Willis.

            But she could not. Every film was viewed. His house was examined further and a journal detailing Wesley's extensive sex life was found. The things she read convinced her that her son was something worse than a deviant. She doesn't know what to call him or how to remember him. She looks to herself and her husband, searching for the cause of the sickness that rooted itself deep within Wesley's fragile heart.

            "He was just a man," says Mr. Willis.

            Mrs. Willis cannot accept this. She thinks of her baby, her little boy crawling on the floor, pushing his toy trains and dinosaurs around. She thinks of driving him to basketball practice as a teen and of staying up late, waiting for him to arrive home from a party. She thinks of college, of his success in the business world. He never brought a girl home, she realizes. This bothers her, weighs heavy in her stomach like a ball of acid. Maybe he hated me, she thinks.

            She looks at Mr. Willis, sees him as bald, heavy jowled, grizzled, implacable, stern. He is distant, far from her, and he was that way with Wesley. Maybe it was your fault, she thinks before going back to the diary, the disks, and that last video.

            "He was just a man," says Mr. Willis.

            "He was my baby once," she responds. There is nothing left to talk about.

 

Excerpts from the Hillsdale Paranormal Society Log

Totally come at me ghost bro, and I'll kick you in your stupid ghost face!

June twenty-second, in the graveyard behind the Howard house, eleven o'clock at night

So we get a report from Art's grandma that there's something spooky floating around the graveyard, making noises and shit, and basically being a royal pain in the ass for any decent human being trying to get a good night's rest. I was a little hesitant (IMAGINE ME, HESITANT) on investigating these claims, seeing how Grams is a little bit in the nuthouse, like, almost three-fourths the way in, and half the time while I'm over there she thinks I'm Art's brother Gary, and she starts yelling at me for having pins in my face and puking all over the bathroom, which is stuff that Gary does, he being a good for nothing bastard. But work's been slow lately, and the prestigious Hillsdale Paranormal Society will investigate any claim, any time--that shit's our motto, or at least one of them. So we convene at Art's place, which is right behind the graveyard, Art, Trent, and I, the boss core of the Society, all of us members of the Adventurers' Guild, a secret society where only the strong freaking survive (all of us had to climb to the top of my barn and retrieve this plastic cup with marbles in it that my uncle Billy put up there a long time ago because he's a crazy nut, and don't tell me that shit's easy, 'cuz I'm afraid of heights and it's like a twenty-foot drop or something if you slip and fall), and we get our gear ready, drink a couple brews, smoke a couple packs of cigs, and wait for midnight, the prime ghosting hour.

12:30, in the heart of the graveyard

Art starts off the night being an asshole, like always. He trips over a headstone and cracks his forehead against another one, and so he's bleeding all over the place like a bitch, and Trent tells him to stop because he's going to attract all the ghouls to us, ghouls being eager to feast on the flesh of the dead as well as the living (my man Trent knows his paranormal shit), and then Art has to go and say that we're a bunch of assholes, wasting our time looking for nothing. WELL, HELLO, YOUR BATSHIT CRAZY GRAMS TOLD US ABOUT THE SPOOKY GHOST, ELSEWISE WE WOULDN'T BE OUT HERE. If you don't take the job seriously, then you might as well go home and sniff glue--this ain't no place for nonbelievers.

1:15, camped under a big-ass sepulcher

We get all the equipment set up--the nightvision cameras, the advanced mass spectrometer, the tape recorder--which is quite a feat in all, considering how much beer we've drank. Trent never drinks anything, 'cuz he's a little weird. One time we bought him sake because he's your typical nerd and gets a big ol' boner for Japan, and we tried to get him to drink just a shot but he wouldn't, and you could see he was getting upset, so we bought him a chocolate milk and he settled down like a bitch, sucking on that shit like it was a teat.

2:30, still under the big-ass sepulcher

So we're really drunk now, being drunk paramount in seeing ghosts, 'cuz they know you're vulnerable while your drunk, which really, we ain't, 'cuz we all hold our liquor like bosses. Art's started babbling on about his romantic problems, which is par for the course, he being a total Don Juan, that is, if Don Juan was a big bitch who got mace in his face every time he approached a woman. Art's bitching gets cut off mid stream when we hear some noises coming from a couple rows in front of us. Trent gets out the salt and the bible, and we creep over, being really stealthy like Sam Fisher until a goddamn headstone comes out of nowhere and I run face first into it, knocking myself on my ass. The noises stop. Art turns on the flashlight and there's a couple of teenagers, butt-ass naked, boning on top of a grave like they're in Paris and that dude from the Doors is beneath them, getting his ghost voyeur on. The girl starts screaming 'cuz we got the light on them and you can see her goodies, and the dude pulls out and starts sprinting through the graveyard, his dong wobbling about like a propeller, and it's the funniest fucking thing in the world when he slips and nut-checks himself on a gravestone (THESE THINGS ARE DANGEROUS). The girl grabs her clothes and takes off, and Art wants to follow her and make sure she's ok (YEAH SURE YOU DO, ART) but I tell him she's probably an underage hood rat, and it would be best if we vacate the premises. So, just like the Scooby Gang, we solve the mystery of the weird-ass noises for Grams, so the old bat can get some shut eye. Another fine accomplishment for the Society. 

Internet Ad Bot Presents: One Weird Trick

AD BOT STARTING TRANSMISSION...

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Wait. I have a confession to make. It's about one really weird trick. Thing is, I'm kind of scared of it. The arrogance. The hubris. The putting on of airs. It's getting too big. Too powerful. I think it might swallow the world.

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AD BOT ENDING TRANSMISSION...

The Least Interesting Man in the World

Howdy there squares. Nice weather, eh? Not too hot. Not too cold. Just nice and mediocre, just like I like it.

Went over and met the new neighbor kid today. Brought him a cool pack of O'douls as a friendly gift. He took it reluctantly, as though he didn't know what it was. I told him not to get too crazy! Kids these days. They're good people, I tell ya, but sometimes they party just a little too hard.

I spent three hours watching a baseball game. I can't tell you who played, but lemme tell ya, those guys had fun! Nothing screams America like baseball, apple pie, and falling asleep on the couch in the middle of the afternoon!

Took my date to Applebees because where else in God's green earth would I take her for premium food and fun at an affordable price? We had the ultimate trio of wanton tacos, quesadillas, and cheeseburger sliders. Say, why do you figure they call 'em sliders? Is it 'cause they slide right down the ol' gullet something right? Or is it because you have to visit the bathroom more frequently after consumption? Geez, I dunno.

I practiced my trombone a little bit today. Old man Murry came over and told me to quit strangling a goose, and I responded that I didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. "Stop playing that friggin' boner," he said, although he actually used an expletive before the word boner. So my practice ended prematurely. No sense stirring up the neighborhood! We all have to be gracious neighbors.

Lemme tell ya, I watched that Seinfeld program that was all the rage over twenty years ago. That George is some neurotic, is he not? How's a guy like him get so many good-looking women? Doesn't seem like he can hold a job. Perhaps that doesn't matter so much to women these days. I don't get that Kramer guy, though. He seems like a mental patient.

Living by yourself is tough sometimes, folks. I have nobody to help me find my Bob Hope CDs. He was a funny guy, Bob Hope. He knew something about humor.

Some nights I look up at the sky and wonder if there's anybody upstairs watching. Do you think he gives points for good behavior? Because I tell ya, I've been very good.

Smoked the pipe before bed while reclined in my easy chair and wearing my tweed smoking jacket. One of my few vices, the pipe. It eases a man's mind and body, as well as his spirit. I took out my big book of Arthur Conan Doyle stories and fell asleep almost immediately. This happens some times. I live such a full life.

The Tragic Expedition of Commodore Ulysses L. Gruffudd

June nineteenth
The precipitation does fall most thoroughly from the sky on this day. After noon, the mule handlers refuse to travel any farther, having grown quite tired of sloughing through the thick mud while carrying several pounds of water-weighted clothing on their backs, and I surrender to their demands and make camp a little ways from shore, finding good shelter beneath a grove of oaks trees that stretchs toward the heavens. I christen this spot "Heaven's Roost," and claim that I will return to build my estate on this very earth. Colonel Whittaker snickers in an uncouth manner at this declaration, and says that any of us will be lucky to return, and even if we do, somehow, manage to survive, I, Commodore Ulysses, lack the powers of reason and sense of direction to navigate myself back to the oak grove. This, of course, perturbs me, and I ask the Colonel how he developed such a low opinion of my faculties, he who was, not long ago, a bosom friend of mine. "Bosom friends," says the Colonel, "are for dandies of the womanly sort," and I know not what he means. Bitterness and disagreeable behaviors are the norm for the Colonel now; some unknown tragedy must've torn at his soul, causing him to arrive at such a foul disposition. I fear our status as bosom friends to be no more.

June twentieth
I decide to further the progress of our journey by keeping a skeleton crew awake during the night, to continue to move our pole boats along the Ohio. Though he protests much, Beauchamp draws first watch. I do think the man has some irrational fear of the moon; during our argument, he keeps looking at it as though it were liable to plunge from the sky and do him some great harm. "The moon, Beauchamp, is just a satellite of the earth, placed there by the Deity to give us light during the night," I say. "There is nothing to fear from it." "Reckons yous, mon ami," he spouts, in his barbaric French-Canadian accent, "For l'homme like me, la lune is da beckon for le diable." After saying this, he tears open his shirt, revealing a chest covered in an extraordinary amount of hair, and bids me to look and touch his chest, as though I will find something besides lice in those tangled locks. "Keep at your position, man," I tell him, going below deck. I resolve to rid myself of Beauchamp when the opportunity presents itself; the man has been nothing but a nuisance.

June twenty-first
I awake just before twilight, a great commotion on deck disturbing my slumbers. Up top, the men are in a frenzy, firing their rifles into a dark shape which glides through the waters, heading for shore. "Rougarou, rougarou!" yell the French-Canadians, pointing at the object. "What nonsense is this?" I ask Colonel Whittaker, who has joined me on deck. "The heathens think there's a monster among us," says Whittaker, taking a swallow of whiskey from the bottle. "Beauchamp is missing." "Certainly, they cannot be serious," I state, "Such drivel is fit for only the most depraved and superstitious minds." Whittaker shugs; I can tell that he does not care, one way or the other, and it will be up to me, therefore, to settle the crew. I run among them, grabbing their rifles, admonishing them for their foolishness, and they respond by sulking, muttering curses in their language. At daybreak, we learn that one of the mules has gone missing, along with his handler. Beauchamp is nowhere to be found.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Somewhere in the desert, the heat falling down like knives from the sun
There is a saguaro cactus before me, tall as a telephone pole and pronged like a trident. I find and consume a fallen fruit, ruby red, full of water that cools my parched tongue. Rocky desert is all around, and I see something shimmering on the horizon, something long and lean like a panther. I look down at my belt and find that my pistols are missing. On the opposite horizon, there is a mesa rising above the wasteland, and I move my feet toward it. My Stetson hat has bullet holes in the brim, and there is dried blood on my hands. It's coming, I hear a voice say in the wind. The creature on the horizon makes good time, moving between rocky outcroppings, bounding with preternatural grace. At the mesa there will be a knife and an altar, but I don't know if I can get there before it reaches me. There are no gods that I can pray to, none that will listen, none that will answer with anything but taunts and curses.

A wasteland village, composed of squat shelters and crumbling ruins
The villagers speak to me in Spanish, pleading with me to leave, but I do not heed them. I steer towards the saloon, where I sit myself down at the bar, ordering whiskey after whiskey. It tastes like liquid iron, but I keep drinking, my grin growing with every glass. A dwarf ambles over to the piano and plays ragtime music, his little hands dancing on the keys. Eventually a boy saunters over, his face stern, and I can tell he's thinking of taking out his knife, so I pick up a bottle and hit him in the face. They drag him outside, blood gushing from his eyelids. A girl comes down from the upstairs, her bodice full, her lips making silent protests. I tell her I am the mayor's chief man now, and that whatever I want, I will have. She smiles sweetly, and we go upstairs. In the morning, I find myself in darkness, with no air, dirt in my mouth and eyes. They've buried me, I conclude. My hands know the way, and we tear through the subterranean, desperately seeking light. 

A hunting trail, winding through the scraggly pines
Big Chief and I follow the trail of blood on horseback, our ears listening for any sound from the wounded bear. The elevation climbs, and I hear my Indian cohort sucking in air, his breathing heavy and wearied. There's a hole in his heart that no medicine man can ever close, and I find myself similarly wounded. "She left nothing but bones and scrapes of meat," I tell him, and he nods, whispering words in his own language. We come to a cave with human skeletons lying in disarray by the entrance mouth, bones of women, men, and children. I see tears welling up in Big Chief's eyes; he has lost his child, and I have lost a lover. "We do what is asked of us," I tell him. We dismount and enter the cave. Inside it is cool and moist, water dripping from stalactites, eyeless creatures of alabaster scurrying at our feet. The smell of the beast is heavy and musky, a pungent odor that makes our eyes water. We find her with red ragged jaws, scrapes of clothing caught between her teeth. "I loved you," I say, as she rushes toward us, her roar deafening beneath the earth. Her claws slash through Big Chief chest, and as he falls I fire my rifle, the bullet breaking her skull. She does not transform in death; she stays an animal. I cover the entrance to the cave with rubble, sealing her inside along with my friend and the other souls she consumed.  

Short Excerpt from In the Depths of the Valley

I'm finishing up editing my horror novella In the Depths of the Valley to enter it into a literary contest, and I thought I'd share one of my favorite passages. These lines are spoken by the main character, William Jameson, a high school teacher obsessed with one of his peers.


"No," I respond, still looking into her eyes. I don't flinch; she doesn't blink. Can you make someone understand an obsession? Can a stare communicate more than my bumbling words, more than my feeble gestures, more than any book of poetry? In my pockets I have pages of my manuscript, folded twice, freshly printed, waiting to be read. Are they doomed to lie forever in my desk drawer? She can't understand how much she means to me; she can't understand that she is my last hope of salvation, my last hope for happiness, my last hope for a life resembling normalcy. She professes to love a suspected murderer, a deranged animal, and I think that she cannot know what love is, she must have some schoolgirl notion of devotion, because love is an obsession, love is lust, love is drinking and wanting and masturbating to no one else; love is spying through windows and crawling through graveyards; it is that sick feeling in your stomach when you realize a beautiful thing does not belong to you, that you are not worthy of it, that no man is really worthy of it; love is spilt blood and unholy words; love is talking to the dead; love is the prostration of the self before an idol; love is the creation of monsters, it is a rambling, incoherent beast, it is all you can hope for in this world; it is worth more than anything.

The Esteemed Critic Critiques Fathers' Day Gifts

This, my friends, is not art.

It is that time of year again when the greeting card companies deign to make us feel guilty for being spawned, and so we must scurry about and discover something appropriate to present to our sire, despite whatever role he may have in continuing the patriarchy (Dad, I'm looking at you). Surely many of you have put little to no thought in your gift purchases; you see a talking plastic bass and you think "Dad has to have that," and this is why your father loathes the very sight of you, you terrible disappointment. But really, when we get down to it, all sons and daughters are disappointments to their fathers, simply because children are nothing more than vessels for which one can project all their failed dreams and aspirations. But I digress. Let us take a look at some of the gifts I suspect you of buying for your dad this Fathers' Day.

The above article of clothing is the first image that popped up after I searched Amazon.com for Fathers' Day gifts, which is what I know most of you will do. This shirt says it all: you are lazy, you cannot compose a complete sentence, and your father would've been better off proceeding with his original plan and having you aborted. In short, purchase this shirt for Dad along with a tie, a package of socks, and a note that says you are the worst thing he has ever created in his entire life.

Here you go, you degenerates. Here's a book written for children, with a nice saccharine message, and you have the audacity to present it to your father as some sort of "touching" gift that shows you really "care." Well, you don't. Amazon.com has failed you again, and now there's nothing you can do to make your father love you.

Whiskey stones are reusable cooling cubes, invented by some degenerate who thought ice had outlived its usefulness to modern society. If your father drinks whiskey at such a rate that he's running out of ice, then perhaps this is a considerate gift, although it may serve you better to contemplate why your father is drinking so much and what role you might play in his severe alcoholism.

Please, for the love of god, do not buy this movie, either for you or your father. Billy Cristal's career has amounted to his appearance in City Slickers; the man is a terrible comedian, and should be condemned to rot in prison for his crimes against humanity. Similarly, Robin Williams hasn't produced anything of note since Misses Doubtfire, and that film's simplistic exploration of the marginalization of the American male in modern society has not aged very well, to say the least. I have not seen Fathers' Day, but I imagine it to present a crass message, furthered by its two incompetent leads and a script that was probably cobbled together by a disgruntled chimpanzee who later went ape-shit and murdered much of the cast.

Amazon suggests another children's book for your father, proving my hypothesis that Amazon hates you and your beleaguered sire. Is your father a child? Does he like Star Wars, especially when said property is presented to him in an easy-to-read format? Judging from the cover art, this volume seems to take extreme liberties with Star Wars' story, though let's be honest, there wasn't much there to begin with. We see Vader at a kitchen table, clad in his armor, proceeding in the humiliating task of tea time, a catatonic Ewok to his left, an adolescent Princess Lea smiling from across the table. You, the author, and society are all degenerates. Is your father a degenerate? He produced you, and so the answer must be yes.

Ah, here is something your father can really use. According to the item description, this is a seat belt cutter and "emergency escape tool." It should come in handy when your father decides he's had enough of your inane babblings. Reaching over with his new gift, he severs the metaphysical tie between you and him, correcting his penultimate mistake. When the telephone pole rises up before you like a totem of doom, you think back to whether or not you could have prevented your death, had you only thought a little more about what to get good ol' Dad for Fathers' Day.

Hanging with the Goon

Reuben takin' advantag of teh new toilet we found on the side of the road.

Hey ya'll, how's it been in ya'll's crazy lives? I tell ya, it's been a little crazier 'round here than usual. Slack is still dealin' with the herpe, but he's gotten used to his confinement, and we're feedin' him through the slot in his door salisbury steak wit milk, which is his most favorite meal. He don't like havin' the milk poored through the door; he gets all pissy like a baby an starts hollerin' about the smell, but he's gotta have his nutrients, so I continue to do it. Soon as the outbreakin' gets off of his face, Reuben says we'll let 'em out, but I dunno, I kinda like have only one brother 'round to beat the hell out of me and kick me outta my sack in the mournin'. Uncle Thom come over yester and asked what the hell was we doin' to that boy, an we did our bestest to explain how he's got a contajous disease and he needs to be isolated. Uncle Thom just shook his head and called us idots and dropped off his eggs like he does every other day. We sure as hell get called idots a lot. But were not stupod.

Now I gotta tell ya'll, that date I had the other day went right as rain. We's went down to the Ponderosa and gots the buffet, and I tell ya I ate about twenty of thouse rubbery steaks they have, an' me girl Lila ate a whole bunch of maceroni, so much that I think they got a little mad at us, 'cuz she kept going back an getting thirds and fourths. Afters we went to a special place, a bar called da Angry Bear. I get my weed in the back alley, but that's not we we's went theres. They had a band playin' on the stage, I think they were called Penis Envy, or somethin' like that. It was a bunch of womens that looked like men; I think one of 'em had a beard, and they were real angry and playin' somethin' fierce on dere guitars. One of 'em was like five feet tall an' had glasses on an a sweater vest, an' she kept whippin' her hair back in forth like that Will Smith song written by Neil Young. She was possessed by da music, is what I'm sayin', an' I started hee-hawin' 'cuz she was kinda funny with her rockin' and rollin'. We danced in a circle an I did the shimmy and the stutter step. I figure Lila had a good time, 'cuz she gave me a blowy in the parkin' lot afters, but you can't always tell wit some women.

Heres a pic of Neil Young lookin' kinda like my Uncle Thom when he was young and on cocaine.

Well my boss Sammy made me go to the farmers' market da other day even though we ain't got nothin' to sell but some old moldy apples from yester year. At teh markets in the city there ain't nobody 'round this time of year, but dere was a guy dressed up as Mr. Redlegs an' it was somethin' terrible, lemme tell ya. Mr. Redlegs has a gigantic head like da moon, and he got big soulless eyes that look down in ta the depths of your heart an' I swear he knows all, just like da devil. I don't like his grin; he looks like he's planning something, an' that somethin' involves dicin' you up and feedin' you to teh coons. He came over to me and picked up an apple an' just held it dere, starin' at me like he was thinkin' about smashin' it against my head. "Take it!" I scream at 'em and he just stands dere wit that horrible grin and mustache, an' I swear he smelled like beer. He don't say nothin', he just keeps standin' dere for what seems like forevers, so I close my eyes and pray an' when I open them he's gone. I don't know why the Reds hire him, 'cuz he's gotta be the most evil thing in the whole wide world.

Don't look at 'em too long our he'll take your soul!

Hillsdale Paranormal Society's Guide to Performing an Exorcism Pt 2

You ain't fooling nobody, Trent, I'm gonna beat your ass.

So I gotta admit, I was kind of a jabroni yesterday in not finishing my guide to performing an exorcism. Finding Bigfoot was on, and I gotta keep up with the latest research, though, I tell ya'll, I think that Bobo dude is really a bigfoot in disguise, there's no other explanation for how that dude acts and probably smells. But anyways, I don't like to leave a bro hanging. So let's get all hypothetical on your ass and lay out a possible, nay, probable, scenario. You've got your candles, your ancient bible, a solid bro complete with a boom box playing the Funky Bunch, and you got one possessed chick all writhing on the ground like she's an Olympic gymnast ready to get down and dirty. "Why's it a chick?" I can hear ya feminists asking. Well, sorry to burst your bubble, Gertrude, but chicks are more prone to demonic possession because of their periods and shit. This ain't something I'm making up; remember when I said demons are basically second class bros? They're always looking to bring more little jabronis into the world, and since chicks can get pregnant, that makes them prime targets for demonic possession. So let's start where I left off.

Step four: don't INITIALLY bang the possessed. I can hear ya'll bitching about this one. "What, Gordy? Why would we get nasty with a possessed chick?" Well, this ain't the Exorcist, brothas, these girls aren't peeing out green pea soup and twisting their heads around. You see, the demon wants your seed so it can fuck it up and make a Daemon kid who'll command rottweilers and grow up to be the president. So that possessed chick will be showing her boobs and twisting around, and doing her damnest to get in your pants. I don't care how hot she is (with the possible exception of Elizabeth Banks, damn, I'd sire a whole race of jabronis with her), you gotta keep it in your jeans, which is a challenge for all bros, I know. But ya gotta be strong, son. Exorcisms are hard shit.

 

 

Step five: perform the ritual. So, you gotta put it all together now. Get your solid bro to hold down the demon possessed chick. Arrange the candles in a pentagram (BOOM, BETCHA DIDN'T EXPECT THAT, RIGHT?), light said candles, play the Funky Bunch (Good Vibrations), and read from the old ass bible. By now, the possessed babe should be screaming and hollering and probably yelling all kinds of crap about rape (demons love to throw that shit at you). You should have two sparklers in your hands now. Light that shit up and draw a cross in the air. That'll piss her off even more, and she might start trying to seduce your solid bro with her boobs, but he's gotta be strong. Now you gotta turn up the Funky Bunch and start dancing. "What!?" I hear ya'll saying. Yeah, you gotta lay it down like you're at prom and your date will only sleep with you after she sees your bad ass moves. Demons are helpless before the power of dance; few know this, but dancing is God's gift to us to fight evil.

Step six: BOOM YOU'RE DONE, SON. That babe should be demon free now, so if she wants to get down, you should be game. Don't leave your solid bro out of the action, though. Normally, I'd advise against a threesome, since that's some French shit, but after an exorcism, anything's cool. YOU HEAR THAT, ART? THERE'S NO REASON TO BE AFRAID. Until next time, internet.

Hillsdale Paranormal Society's Guide to Performing an Exorcism, Pt 1

Hollywood has no idea what they're talking about.

After the rousing success of the Bigfoot guide, I thought I would do everyone a solid and lay down the knowledge once again. Keep note, bros and broettes, an exorcism is the real deal, and no pretenders should mess around with demons and evil spirits, 'cuz if you don't know what you're doing, that's a good way to screw your life up something awful. My boy Trent didn't know the first thing about exorcisms, but like an idiot, he tried to summon up beelzebub like a jabroni, and all of a sudden he's got Crohn's disease, and can't do anything without shitting his pants. That's the thing with demons: they get a kick out of making your life miserable. They fuck with your bowels, your game (Jesus, I won't go into this one), and even your finances. I knew a guy who messed up a ritual, and there goes his 401k and any hope of retirement. So this guide is for all of you out there that have a demon problem, but don't got no sense of how to handle it.

Step one: identify your demon. Hop on the internet and purchase yourself a good book on demonology. Demonology was a big thing in the middle ages; unfortunately, we're too close-minded a society to accept that THEY LIVE AMONG US. Imagine one of your second class bros. Take a look at said bro. I'm gonna bet that he's fat, and that he's wearing Insane Clown Posse makeup. He probably has no money and no job. He usually forces his way over to your pad, and chases off any ladies you've managed to meet. He smells like an outhouse, and won't quit talking about that time in Call of Duty when he killed ten dudes in a row. This is what your average demon is like. He's a second class bro, easily amused and annoying as fuck. Figure out who he/she is so that you can get him the fuck out of your house.

Step two: bring a solid bro. Just like with Bigfoot, you need a solid bro around you during an exorcism at all times. Demons fear the strength of the bro-union, and they're weaker around a strapping young dude in J.Crew. Make sure your bro has something silver to wail on the spirit in case it's a ghost, though if it's a demon (and most nasty spirits are demons), you're pretty much fucked. A boom box is a must, demon or spirit; both hate the sweet grooves of Marky-Mark and the Funky Bunch, so have your bro bring one and carry it around at all times like a boss.

Step three: scented candles and a bible. BOOM YOU JUST GOT SCHOOLED, SON. Scented candles and the word of our Lord are the primary tools to sending that demon back to hell with all the other jabronis. I've found that apple cider scented candles are just about the best. It helps to have a very old bible, because just like vampires, the older a bible is, the more powerful it is. Just flip through and read some random words in the middle of all your candles. Choose a passage that's boss like Sam Jackson from Pulp Fiction. Actually, just memorize his lines.

I'll give ya'll part two real soon, so hopefully you're not possessed and in need of further knowledge. If you are, contact the Hillsdale Paranormal Society through the proper channels. I'M NOT PUTTING MY NUMBER ON THE NET LIKE A FOOL so use your brain and remain sane. STAY CLASSY, INTERNET.

Ask a Meathead: Conan Brothers Q&A

You can bet this guy isn't a men's rights activist.

FeministsRNazis asks "What do you guys think of the men's rights movement? Seems like something you'd get behind."

Dave: We don't get behind anything.

Arnold: Unless it's willing.

Dave: Have you ever seen any of these guys who advocate for men's rights? They're either fat, have a neck beard, or look like a child molester. And everything is feminism's fault.

Arnold: You can't find a parking space? Blame feminism. Got arrested for being a peeping tom? Blame feminism. Pooped your pants in a public place? God damn feminists.

Dave: A man should be able to poop his pants wherever he pleases without fear of repercussions.

Arnold: If you have to bitch about women oppressing you, then you are a pussy.

Dave: That goes back to what I was saying. The men's rights movement seems to attract the kinds of guys who can't get a date, and who won't acknowledge the fact that they're completely undateable.

Arnold: The poor of hygiene. The socially maladroit. Bronies.

Dave: Part of being a masculine man is taking responsibility for your actions, as well as who you are. It's not feminism's fault no woman will have sex with you. It's your fault because you are disgusting.

Arnold: We don't hate women, folks. I think that's what the men's rights movement boils down to.

Dave: We love women. We are lovers of women.

Arnold: Yes, we all know you're a real Don Juan.

...

FitnessForever asks "What about Crossfit? I'm thinking about joining a box."

Dave: What's he doing with a box?

Arnold: That's what they call Crossfit gyms, for some unfathomable reason.

Dave: We don't know a lot about Crossfit, other than gym membership is expensive, and the workouts are retarded.

Arnold: Hey, keep it PC, Dave. Or don't. I don't care.

Dave: Supersetting twenty rep sets of deadlifts with power snatches seems like a good way to kill yourself.

Arnold: Now you're being a pussy.

Dave: I'm all for going all out in the gym. But I also want to walk out of there under my own power.

Arnold: Yeah, I don't think you'll get very strong doing Crossfit. Might get really skinny and injured, but you need low reps and heavy weights to grow.

Dave: Plus, gyms in general are dumb. There usually isn't enough free weights, and some asshole will be curling in the squat rack, and people give you strange looks for deadlifting on the floor.

Arnold: People are intimidated by your animal magnetism. It scares them when you scream.

Dave: You can buy more weights than you can lift at a used sporting goods store, and build your own gym for under four-hundred bucks.

Arnold: A lot of people like the social aspect of a gym. They don't like to exercise by themselves.

Dave: Other people just get in the way.

Arnold: Now who's socially maladroit?

...

SquatQueen asks "What is the best lift? When people ask how strong your are, what do you cite? Your bench press? Your squat?"

Dave: There is no best lift. All lifts are created equal under the Lord.

Arnold: I consider the squat, deadlift, bench press, and overhead press to be the primary lifts. You have to do these, or at least some variation of them. The squat displays leg strength, the deadlift back strength, the bench total upper body power, and the press is just a man maker. You could throw in weighted chins, bent-over rows, or a power movement like cleans, but every thing else is just assistance.

Dave: In the popular imagination, the bench press is probably the best lift.

Arnold: But when people ask you what you bench, they have no idea what is good.

Dave: I usually tell them one-thousand pounds. No one's impressed.

Arnold: Pressing from a prone position is boring. I like to stand when I lift. Just like when I pee.

Dave: You sit when you pee!

Arnold: I most certainly will not!

Dave: That's why our toilet is disgusting. You have the aim of a four-year-old.

...

DisgustingManlet asks "Have you seen the new x-men movie? Hugh Jackman is jacked, amirite?"

Dave: More like Hugh Jackedman. 

Arnold: Yeah, he's pretty impressive, especially considering his age, and the fact that he's a pretty good actor, and not a bodybuilder.

Dave: Next people will want to know what his routine is.

Arnold: He did Crossfit, Dave. It's obvious. 

Dave: Crossfit is the only way. It's the one true religion.

Arnold: There is no one true religion when it comes to lifting weights. Just brutally hard work, often followed by sweat and blood.

Dave: This is why we can't go to a gym. Arnold bleeds all over the place.

Arnold: No, it's because of feminism.

Dave: Oh yeah, I forgot.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Beneath the autumn moon
There is fog in the graveyard, fog so thick I can't see but a few feet in front of me. The headstones are mossy and crumbling, waypoints for the dead. My feet sink into soft earth, and with every step I smell the ripeness of decay. Something calls out in the night, something that sounds like a loon, a wailing woman's scream. I don't know why I am here, but I have a purpose. The mausoleum rises out of the gloom like a heathen monument, strange creatures wriggling on its non-euclidean geometry. I place my hand on the door and it opens, revealing a deep, dank darkness. I walk down the steps which wind and wind into the subterranean depths of the world. The staircase opens into a chamber where hooded figures move around the body of a young woman, beautiful, with pale skin. The torch light flickers, causing their shadows to grow enormous. I don't look into their faces; I know not to. I approach the woman and feel her skin. It is clammy and cold. "You know what must be done," says a voice. It seems her fate has been preordained.

 ...

 A summer's day, in a small town

I walk down quaint streets, watching the traffic ebb and flow lazily like the waters of the river. A dilapidated building with broken windows and scorched sides beckons to me. Its parking lot is full of green glass, sharp shards that cut into my feet. I look down and realize that I have no shoes. A degenerate man with food in his beard makes himself known with his laughter. He sits beneath the overhang of the building eating a hot dog covered in mold. A stink wafts up from the nearby river, a healthy, fetid rot. "What do you want?" I ask, standing a few feet away, my feet bleeding. He shows me the hot dog and belches. He seems to be clad in trash bags and newspapers. His eyes motion toward the building but he does not move. Through the broken windows I see an orange glow, artificially bright. The degenerate chews down the hot dog like it is the most delicious thing in the world.

...

A gig, location unknown
I wake up in a laundry room, surrounded by dirty clothing. Through the double doors I come into a bar. There are only a few people here, and every one seems to be missing a limb. A man with a hook for a hand greets me by spitting in my face. A guitar is thrust into my arms, and I am forced onto a stage. They scream and demand that I play for them. All they want to hear is "The Midnight Rider."

 ...

 A Monday; I can tell by the ache in my bones

The garbage man comes and picks up the garbage. I read my newspaper on the porch, a pipe in my mouth, the family dog moving his bowels in the neighbor's yard. The paper says that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, but I flip to the funny pages. My wife comes out and fetches me for breakfast. On the table is a plate of sausages, biscuits, and scrambled eggs. My son sits down, a child, and I watch as he greedily consumes his meal. "He's getting big," says my wife. "It's almost time." I nod my head and smile, but I do not know what she means.

The Tragic Expedition of Commodore Ulysses L. Gruffudd

June Fifth, 1800
We move down the briskly flowing Ohio, the humid air and sun's light on our backs, producing much perspiration and discomfort. Colonel Whittaker spends most of the day hiding underneath a wool blanket, for his blood is favored by the hordes of biting insects that have seen fit to accompany us on our journey, and they do plague him most terribly. Beneath the wool, he sweats and loses so much water that I think he is becoming delirious, especially considering the strange subjects he chooses to discuss with himself. It seems the Colonel is in need of female companionship, and he calls out to a presumably unsavory wench named "Bertha," who must've kept him company some time in his past. The men are taking many liberties with his illness, and some of them call out to the Colonel as Bertha, telling him lies and making promises that I know they will not keep. I end this practice when I encounter it, yet I cannot keep the Colonel safe from humiliation at all times of the day.

June Sixth, 1800
We pass a small Indian village, and though the men make much noise and banter about with their arms visible, the natives are friendly, at least for savages. We stop and trade goods with them, and find that they speak English quite well, better, in fact, than most of my crew. Beauchamp, that most evil French-Canadian, did saunter around the ladies, begging them to touch his beard, which they did not do, his facial hair being inhabited by all sorts of squirming beasties. Still, Beauchamp propositions the savage women most crudely, and I had to intervene between him and an Indian brave, who, I gather, was not pleased with the French-Canadian's idea of romance and courtship. After that incident, we took our leave hurriedly, our welcome worn out, and back in the safety of our boat, I took the opportunity to lecture Beauchamp, explaining how his licentiousness and irrepressible libido have endangered the lives of everyone on this expedition. He stood there while I berated him, chewing a bit of bear fat and looking at me most unnaturally with his piggish French-Canadian eyes. "Cap'n," he says (here I try to approximate his crude speech with my eccentric spelling), "when yas been in the wilderness as long as I's have, ya have to get yur romance when yas can. Sometimes that means wemen, an' other times, that means bears." I ask if the barbarian truly means he copulates with animals, and he gives me such a terrible grin that I banish him from the cabin. I fear his propensity for making mischief will cost us dearly some day.

June Seventh, 1800
A terrible incident occurred today. Coming around a bend in the river, our pilot, a Mr. Greeves, stops the boat and begins pointing into the water, making much commotion and tearing the men away from their duties. "Leviathan!" he screams, and we all look into the waters to see a catfish of most unnatural size swimming beside the our craft. I take out this journal, and begin to make a sketch of the monster, when LePiere, one of Beauchamp's companions, leaning too far over the side, slips and falls into the water. The men extend oars and yell for LePiere, yet the enormous fish, noticing the thrashings of our man, swims over and takes LePiere in its jaws, pulling him under and out of sight. We wait for some time, praying for LePiere's escape, but the man never surfaces, and eventually we mark him down as another unfortunate causality. The morale of the crew suffers, and I capitulate to their demands for whiskey. I take a glass myself, and it helps me fall into a deep slumber.

Hanging with the Goon

This is a pikture when I was a boy. I always had a goode smile.

Well hey ya'll, we got some bad new taday. It turns out that witche docter that Slack went to misdiagnozed him. He don't got sifaless, he got the herpe, which is a problem, since all those remedies he be takin' are for sifaless, and not the herpe. Da real docter he went to tells him he gotta take his medicine and not spred the herpe all over the world like a plauge or the zombie apocalypise. Slack tells him that tah's gonna be a problem, since he's real good wit the ladies and lady-folks. The docter just shakes his head and tells him to take his medicin and try to not breed. I must admit I'm feelin' pretty bad for Slack right now. The herp is not something you want to handle by yourself, and now that we know he's got it, we're gonna have to get 'em seperate drinkin' water and quarters so that he don't inject us all. Reuben wants to burn 'em in a pit like we did Petunia when she got rabies, but I told 'em we'd get in a heap of troble, and that we just gotta buck up and give Slack the treatment and care he deserves. After I said that, Reuben went and got a a carton of bad milk and he waited till Slack came in from fishin' and he dumped the milk all over his head and punched him in the face. Slack went limp and collaped on the floor, so Reuben took his heels and drug 'em out into the lawn and covered his face in honey. He says if the animals don't get 'em, than he'll let 'em back into the house. I guess he went to dat witche docter and got some more bad advice.

I got in trouble at work yester for loafin' about. My boss, ol' Sam, he don't like us loafin' and smoking cigaretees while we're pickin' apples, 'cuz sometimes the cigarette butts get trown in with the apples, and dat cushtomers find 'em, since Sam don't like washin' the apples like he should, which ain't goode, 'cuz he likes to nuke the orchard to kill all the buggies and funjuses. I think Sam really wants to kill that Bigfoot he be seeing all the time prancin' about the orchard, though I imagine you'd need a lot of pesticides to kill a Bigfoot. Maybe I outta take the initiative and sit out one night wit my .22 and a David Bowie knife and lie in wait for that Bigfoot to saunter under my apple tree. I think I coud take 'em: Bigfoot ain't that tough, and I bet he's half as ornery as Slack when he's got the herpe showin' all over his face, and consequentiially can't get no love from any of his ladies.

Which brings me to my next point: its hard gettin' love in dis town. Ive been doin' my best and tryin' to bathe every three days and keep my teethers brushed, but I sweers by the moon and the stars in the skye that can't get me no legitmate date. Deres this girl who runs the drive by liquor store and she's always struttin' her stuff in Daisy Dukes, so the last time I was dere I told 'er I'd a like to get to know 'er better and take her out on the town, maybe to some nice place like Ponderosa. She says dat she would be happy to come, but she's herd about town dat I got the herpe. I told 'er that that's an egregious error, and my brotha Slack is the one who actually has the herpe. That didn't work, though; she says the herpe is mighty contagius, and it's likaly that I got it from livin' wit Slack and sharin' the same quarters as he. I decid to just roll with it and I tell her that yes, I got the herpe, but I don't spread inbetween outbreaks. She gives me a good smile, and tells me she'll meet me at the Ponderosa. Score one for the goon and the herp! I'll haave to member to brush my teethers extra good dat night.