The Krampus Speaks Out

It's that time of year again when I dust off the ol' child kidnapping sack and start spreading holiday cheer. I've been busy lately--children seem to be getting badder and badder--and who else is going to drag their little souls down to hell? Not Saint Nick, I'll tell you. Well, let me let you all in on a little secret--Santa doesn't like kids anymore than I do. We simply perform our delegated tasks and keep our prejudices to ourselves. Maybe I would like to be the gift-giver one year. I dunno. Could be nice, though it would take a substantial makeover for me to not look terrifyingly demonic. Trim the horns, cover my hooves, hide the tail. Keep my tongue in my mouth. All that sounds like a big hassle. Nope, I'll stick to my job, and Santa can stick to his. I have no problem being the bad guy.

But, and this is a big but, could somebody leave some cookies or something out for me? Santa doesn't need anymore, I'll tell you that. The guy's pushing three-bills, and he's like what, five-nine? Why's everybody feeding him cookies? Are you all trying to give him a heart attack? I on the other hand am a very fit 190. Almost shredded, in fact. If I shave the hair on my stomach, you can see my abs. I have a very demanding fitness regimen. Just joined a Crossfit in fact. A couple cookies won't hurt me. Maybe I'd spare one of your brats if a few chocolate chip cookies were left out for the Krampus. Certainly wouldn't hurt, right? Do what you want, though.

The holidays are a difficult time for single people, myself in particular. It's always hard to keep a girlfriend when she finds out what I do for a living. I try to explain that somebody has to do it; why not me? Somebody has to take out the garbage. Somebody cleans the sewers. It's kind of snobbish to break up with somebody because of their work. I've done other things during my life. This is just what I'm doing now. I don't consider this to be a permanent position, despite the fact that I've been doing it for over four-hundred years. Let it be known that I'm working towards a promotion, and a big pay day is coming. Hell takes care of its own. You could be dating the future CEO of Walmart. Just keep that in mind, potential Mrs. Krampus.

Have a great Christmas, everyone. Children, watch out for the Krampus. Oh, just so parents know, my position affords me a certain moral flexibility. If you want me to take a particular kid, leave a note and three-hundred dollars under their pillow. Hell is very cool about bribes. Just a heads up.

A Brief Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I want a toothbrush for Christmas. It has to have a green handle. I like soft bristles, not hard ones, because hard bristles strip the ivory from my teeth, and I want to be able to sell my teeth eventually. The black market on ivory is hot. My wife tells me that I am not an elephant.

I also would like a nine-millimeter Glock so that I can shoot all the birds in my yard. They are spies sent from the fairy land, and I'll be damned if I let them fly back and tell all of those poofters what I'm doing. This is America, goddamnit. There are laws against stuff like this. Please also include plenty of ammunition, in case there's anything else I'd like to shoot.

It would be nice to receive a dog that does not bark. My current model does nothing but bark, and sometimes he says horrible things. He is a very bad pervert dog. He smells like rotten eggs and he will eat anything, and I mean anything. I once removed an intact rubber glove from his stool. His digestive system must be a straight shot. Please replace him at once.

A copy of E.T. The Extraterrestrial would be a nice stocking stuffer. It is a classic film about a little girl's friendship with a disfigured homeless man. The government comes to break it up because it turns out that the homeless man is a child predator. They shoot him and push his bicycle into the lake and it's a happy ending.

I am eating eggs right now that are so burnt that I believe I am consuming blackness. For Christmas, I would like to learn how to cook.

P.S. Please do not come down the chimney because my evil dog will attack you, and the last thing I need is another law suit. Thank you, Santa, for everything you do. You are a magical person.

Hey, Like, Call Me, Maybe

I just met you. You seem like a nice person. You have all the attributes I usually look for in a mate. You smell like evergreen, like I'm walking through a forest or just spilled a bottle of gin on myself. It's a fine smell, though. I could get used to it, is what I'm implying. And you have such nice teeth. Do you brush them often? Use whitener? You're telling me they're natural? Wow. I'll have you know that I often pick my mate based solely on the condition of his teeth. You're racking up the points here, bud. The fact that you're wearing clothes closes the deal. I like you. You are special.

This is crazy. I mean, I like never do this. I just met you, you know? For all I know you could be a serial killer. Or I could be one. But how much you trust random people says a lot about what kind of person you are. I'd rather be gullible and fun-loving than a paranoid shut-in. The mathematical odds suggest that you and I are not, in fact, serial killers. However, the odds are much higher that you could take advantage of me during a date. So you see what I mean when I say that this is crazy?

But here's my number. All ten digits. Treasure this number, for I never do this, because it's crazy. Call me only between three and four a.m. on weekdays when Jupiter is visible in the sky. I keep strange hours, okay? Unfortunately I can't tell you about my work. I'll have you know that it is ordained by God himself. That's right, the big man. Or woman. Or genderless entity, which is probably the case. Someone has to hunt the vampires. I'm sorry, what did I say?

Call me, okay? I don't want to sound desperate, but the last couple guys I gave my number out to never did. Maybe they found my instructions bizarre; maybe I misjudged the connection between myself and them. Maybe back alleys behind deserted buildings aren't the best place to give your number, but whatever. I'm beyond society's rules, I'll have you know. I do what I want.

Maybe call me. I may have come off just a little too desperate. I have plenty of suitors. Handsome men. Men with all ten fingers. Men who aren't vampires. Like, if you think you're looking good, then, yeah, try your luck. Call me. Maybe.

Conan Brothers Q&A

Arnold: So Dave, I got a screaming headache behind my left eye. Feels like there's a ton of pressure behind there. I think it may be a tumor.

Dave: Anything's possible.

Arnold: So if my replies to some of these queries are a little off, keep that in mind.

Dave: I'm sure no one will notice.

AnkleBiter69 asks "What's the deal with box squats? Are they any good? The only guys I see using them squat nowhere close to parallel."

Arnold: I like touch and go box squats. I don't know about sitting your ass down and getting back up box squats like the Westside guys do."

Dave: Those guys don't squat anywhere close to parallel. I mean, they're strong, obviously, but you can't really claim a 1000 pound squat when you're three inches high.

Arnold: You're just jealous.

Dave: I don't really give a shit.

Arnold: Touch and go box squats help me minimize my lateral hip shift, which is a tendency to favor one side while squatting. I squat very wide, probably slightly above parallel. When I squat without the box, I use a closer stance and I go much deeper. There's a carryover. It's almost like a paused squat.

Dave: Arnold likes them. I don't know.

FuckdaPolice asks "What's up with all the cops killing black guys?"

Dave: Why are you asking us this?

Arnold: We're authorities on everything, Dave. And the answer's obvious. Cops hate black people.

Dave: Cops are stupid. It's a shitty job, with shitty pay. Doesn't exactly attract the right people.

Arnold: Hey, don't go stereotyping. I used to know a cop who wouldn't give me a ticket when I was high and drunk while driving.

Dave: What a great guy.

Arnold: I'm just waiting for our fascist overlords to cut the bullshit and fully implement a police state.

Dave: Aren't we all?

Arnold: Then we can use our guns. America, fuck yeah!

                                                          Dude looks like Porky Pig.

ImFollowingNotStalking asks "How do I get a girlfriend? I don't got game."

Dave: Wear belly shirts, have huge muscles, and take shit from no one.

Arnold: Farting and pissing your pants works also. At least, it attracts the kind of women I like.

Dave: Who proceed to fart and piss all over Arnold.

Arnold: The bedroom is a goddamn warzone, Dave. It's all about who survives.

Dave: And that's enough for this week. 

Poetry Time: He's an Animal

He was burnt out before he’d even spoken

Blasphemed with China doll tokens

Rotten straight to his coward’s core

Corrupted by visions of whores

Of golden women with sun-burnt skin

Ivory teeth and manicured fins

Sharks encircling a wounded seal

Its pathetic cries an easy meal

But they tangled with the wrong mammal

Warm-blooded not helpless this animal

The weakest man has often the least

To lose is a win if you kill the beast

And he doesn’t want their pretty dresses

Their shiny rings, their makeup messes

The accessories stuck in their hair

Their weak conversation, their vapid airs

He wants to kiss their greedy mouths

And suck the spoiled child out

He wants to leave them cold and bare

Begging for his warmth, his hair

And when he’s done they’ll see him smile

Drained of lust but full of guile

Overbearing is the hand of man

Stained and calloused, closed, not open

He’s an animal

He's an animal

He's an animal

He's an animal

Hanging with the Goon

Howdy ya'll and happy Thanksgivings! Wat a wonderfull time of tha years. It was a night to remembr at da Goon household. All of my brothras was there--Slack, Willy, Slick, Remus--as well as Uncle Thom, who provided da turkey, which he deep-fried an stuffed with chocolate. We all gathered 'round tha pick'n'ick table an had ourselves one delicieous feast. Slack picked some taters from da garden, an' Willy made an apple pie, or least he said he did, but I think he bought it from IGA. It was 'bout thirty degrees outside, but we made a big fire outta ravioli cans, toiletries, and rotten tires. Boy it smeelled alright! All da coons from da woods came an gathered 'round da fire an started howlin' in dere little coon voices, an Uncle Thom had ta get his shotgun to silence a few of dem permenantly. Den we had ourselves fried coon, which is a tasty treat, lemme tell ya. After feastin', we all rolled 'round on the da ground like heffers loaded wit caves. I fell a sleep for a bit, an had a wierd dream where i was stuck on an island surrounded by waters, an dere was a big squid underneath my island, an he kept lookin' at me wit his giant eye! Damn it was scary. I woke up to Uncle Thom pissin' on da fire and screamin' bout da police, which sent me a running fere da hills, though I figured it out later dat Thom was just havin' one of his walkin' night terrors. In da morn, we had to fight off a pack of coyotes who was scavengin' da turkey carcass. Willy brained one wit an oak branch, an dat sent 'em scurring off. All in all, it was a fine time, an one of da better thanksgivings we had, since da cops didn't come an nobody got arrested.

Well folks, I ain't makin' a whole lotta money right now, considerin' it's winter time, an we've bout sold all da apples at da apple orcherd. Ol' Sammy is in a righteous mood, an wanderin' round all da time like he don't know wat ta do. It's too early ta prune, an we don't got nothing ta do but stack crates an make apple cider. Hernando always takes some an ferments it real goode, an then he and I drink it in da barn while Sammy runs round callin' fere us. We get pretty ripped. One time I saw Jesus comin' down from da clouds, an Hernando saw him too. He said we was no good sonsabitches, which I thought wasn't very Christain of 'em. We don't drink quite as much cider anymore. I fell down through da loft just yester, an sprained my ankle, an now I'm a dragging my foot 'round like a cripple. Thank goodness it was just thanksgiving. Otherwise, I wouldn't have no magic turkey bones to chew on to get me better.

It's Beginning to Feel a lot like Christmas

Well hello there, children. You all seem to have awakened Santa from his slumbers in the back alley outside of Kmart. I guess you're all wondering where Santa's pants have gone. It's a goddamn mystery. If someone could find them, I'd appreciate it. That little boy or girl will get whatever they want for Christmas, or at least whatever's left in this bottle of Jameson. Boy, Santa feel like he got run over by a reindeer, boys and girls. There are thirty-thousand elves knocking around in his head.

Oh Christ, I'm missing my wallet. Anybody see my wallet? Did the goddamn rats run off with it again? I tell ya, there are rats the size of golden retrievers in this alley. I pop out here from time to time to take a load off, and I see them crawling the walls. One time I kicked them away from something they were gnawing on, and it was a man's hand. Shit, I think they may have been about to go to work on Santa when you little guys got here. I got bite marks all over my legs. I'm going to have to get a rabies shot.

Hey there Jimmy or Timmy or whatever the fuck your name is, do you think you could run in and smuggle out Santa a six pack? Maybe just hide it in your sweater? Nobody's gonna frisk a kid. You could be in and out in a minute, tops. Santa feels like hanging out here for a little while longer. Santa's not ready to go back to work. Or just ask Janice the elf to buy Santa another beer. She's the elf with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The one with yellow teeth. Hey, Santa gets it where he can these days. He ain't too particular, if you know what I'm saying.

By the way, where the hell are all of your parents? Why are there ten kids hanging out in an alley talking to a mall Santa? What are you guys, the Little Rascals? The Scooby gang? You sure as hell don't talk much like regular kids. In fact, you all look a little weird to Santa, and that's not his beer goggles talking.

What are you guys, Children of the Corn? Jimmy there's got a mouthful of sharp teeth, and red eyes like he's been smoking weed all night. You guys part of a cult? Hey, Santa don't wanna join. You keep the hell away from Santa. Santa's got mace somewhere. I think it's stuck in one of my folds. Don't come any nearer unless you want those eyes to melt out of your sockets. You let Santa put some distance between this alley and you.

Christ, Santa needs AA. Santa can't be waking up like this no more.

Happy Thanksgiving: The World is Going to End

Happy Thanksgiving. Too bad there's a runaway greenhouse effect in the atmosphere and all of your children's children will be mutants. Let us give thanks.

We are in the middle of one of the largest mass extinctions ever. Let us give thanks that nobody will know what an elephant is in the future. An elephant will be a mythical creature, like a dragon or a unicorn. That's cool, though.

America is sinking beneath a massive pile of political apathy and cultural detritus. Let us give thanks that the public education system will eventually collapse, and literacy will be a thing of the past. They'll still have movies in the future though, right? Well then, who cares.

Maybe there will come a comet, or an asteroid, and it will wipe out all the life on earth, and we can skip out on being held responsible. That would be sweet. Or there's a supervirus due to rampant antibiotic abuse and it kills nearly everyone, and then the world is like the Walking Dead, only without the zombies. That would be so cool. We could walk around in cowboy boots and shoot six-shooters and just do whatever the hell we want without any repercussions. There will be gang fights, rape, and brutal murder just like in a video game. I can't wait.

This is undoubtedly the best time to be a human being in the history of civilization. Let us give thanks that it's all about to come to an abrupt end. We've had it too easy. This whole cycle of pollution and genocide needs some sort of suitable conclusion. A denouement, to use a fancy French word. Maybe in a million years another advanced life form will pick at our ashes and discover that we invented algebra, guitars, and Internet cat videos. Perhaps they'll find evidence of our sophistication, like a charred copy of Entertainment Weekly or a DVD of Ancient Aliens.

Let us give thanks for our mortality, which enables our short-sightedness. It's difficult to plan beyond the time frame of a few years. Fuck it all, you know? I won't be around to see the wasteland my children's children will call home. They can rest in craters and suck on cockroaches for all I care. If life is a struggle, then things are how they should be.

Let us give thanks for reality tv. Let us give thanks for our two political parties. They do a good job. Let us give thanks for minimum wage, tv dinners, credit cards, patriotism, football, and fake titties. Internet porn, too. Don't forget Internet porn.

Happy Thanksgiving, ghost children of the future. You'll probably be eating buzzard instead of turkey. Merry Christmas. 

The Esteemed Critic Plays Dark Souls 2

The initial time I encountered this noble creature, I thought nothing of it. The beast gave me an item and some puzzling words, but then of course, the internet had to intervene and inform me that this ancient dragon is an optional boss, and Dark Souls 2 is all about destroying bosses, so I complied and struck the poor fellow repeatedly until he grew hostile. The area around us is an aerie for lesser dragons, who roost on rocky outcroppings that rise miles above the land. It is one of the most visually striking places in the game, in environ whose beauty belies the frustration that awaits any would-be challenger. Suffice it to say that the ancient dragon destroyed me with one blast of its fiery breath. That was fine: one dies to bosses on the initial encounter all the time, though it is a slog battling one's way back from the bonfire through a horde of powerful stone knights and dragon warriors. But then I died again, and again, and again, so many times that I started ignoring the lesser enemies and running for the fog gate, which resulted in even more deaths, until I concentrated on methodically killing them, for after ten kills or so, they stop respawning, rendering the path more or less clear. The dragon, however, was not having any of my plan. He is a deceptively simple creature; all one must do is linger around his left forelimb, striking it and then venturing out in front of his shaggy head to bait his breath attack. He will half-heartedly swipe at you with his right paw, but this attack is easy to avoid. The problem is that he will very-occasionally flap his great wings and take to the skies, and then you'd better haul ass, because he lets loose with an area of effect flame blast that will kill you unless you have the grym shield, a heavy rock-like thing that has one-hundred percent flame resistance. But you must have great stamina to wield it; if you get caught directly beneath the wall of flames, nothing will save you. The health pool of this monster is also great; so large that my large club + 10 was degrading through the fight. My only strategy was to strip off my armor (if you get hit, you're dead anyway), revealing my dead, decaying flesh, and equip a greatsword to use as backup. Still I died and died, for one mistake and the beast has your soul. We battle upon a flat tower with precipitous ledges, and many times I killed myself running away from the dragon. The fight took on a religious significance for me--every thing that opposed me in life became the dragon. I died and respawned at the bonfire, my health reduced, evidence of my failure mounting. Still I climbed the steps. I whittled him down to twenty-percent health. My clumsy fingers failed me, and I did not block a flame blast in time. I died. I mounted the steps again. I was persistence; the beast could do nothing but wait for me, it had no refuge, no shelter, no respite. I died, but this time, his health pool was almost depleted. No more mess-ups. No more failures. I wacked at his great forelimb, two-handing my giant sword. He is like a tree that refuses to be felled. But persistence is rewarded, and eventually he succumbs after numerous attempts. I am rewarded with a petrified dragon bone and a soul of a giant. Where is the dragon's soul? Is the creature a fraud, a ruse, a forgery? Were my labors wasted on a fake?

 
Dark Souls 2: 6 out of 10. Remarkable combat, life-lessons, but it's still a video game, and we don't award perfect scores to video games because we are a snob.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

At the bar in Philly, the place I call home
I sweep and clean the toilets, and in the basement, I beat the rats to death with my beloved club. My coworkers are sociopaths, narcissistic morons who will do anything for fame and fortune. Our bar is frequented by alcoholics, homeless people, and ladies of the night. My father, whom I live with, owns the bar, and will come down on his fat, squat legs and berate me for not eating garbage with him. He is a troll, a creature better suited to sleeping in a sewer than walking on dry land. You have to pay the toll, you have to pay the toll...sometimes, I sniff too much glue and I cannot remember who I am, or what I am supposed to do. In the night, my dreams tell me that this is just another short stop, a brief sojourn on a journey that will last eons. I take solace in this as I kill rat after rat, my club raining down justice on them. But who am I to judge? Are their lives really worth any more than ours?

In a New York apartment
The sitcom lights burn down on me from somewhere up above. I am in a suit and tie, as I am wont to do. My best friend is complaining about how he cannot get a date; all he seems to do is complain about women. He doesn't realize that he is in love with the married one, the tall, goofy roommate he has lived with since college. I would love to bang his wife, but that is how I communicate with women. I cannot divorce myself from the sexual element, and this has begun to worry me. In my pocket there is a tally of all the women I have slept with. It numbers in the hundreds. I often wonder if there is anything I wouldn't do to sleep with a women, and I come to the conclusion that no, there is not. The city will crumble, as all great cities do, and all I will be left with is my list and scattered memories, some of which I wish would lie buried. It is time to go play laser tag.

In a Seattle apartment
My brother and I argue about an obscure Italian opera that neither of us really knows much about. Our father, a disabled police veteran, sits in his hideous easy chair and tries to drown us out with the television volume. His dog, whom I fear is becoming sentient, stares at us from across the room, his eyes sending dark designs. I pour my brother and I glasses of sherry, and I observe him ogling our English house keeper. My brother is in deep denial about his homosexuality. So am I, I suppose.

 

In a New York coffee shop
I sit and listen to my short, bald friend, and I realize that he is the worst person I have ever met. His pathetic schemes grow crazier by the day; his inability to relate with other human beings is beyond depressing. My neighbor comes by and tells us about the garbage disposal he installed in his shower. One day, they will find him in a gutter, naked, with strange messages tattooed on his chest. My arch- nemesis, a rotund postal employee, passes by the window, his hands stuffing mail into a trash can. All I do is make pithy observations. What else can I do?

The Terrible Comedian Would Like You to Laugh at His Jokes

What's up, people. How's it hanging in the ghetto? I got out of my Mercedes and saw two black guys hanging out at the entrance, and I was like, "shit, are they gonna rob me?" I see you two fellas are in the front row. I hope you brought your laughing hats with you. Be sure to not take the stickers off the bills. Hey guys, thanks for not robbing me. I know it probably crossed your mind, hah.

So has anyone been on an airplane lately? What's up with all the crappy food? I mean, do they really think anyone's going to eat processed fish and vegetable lasagna? I mean, the vegans and the lesbians might. You sir, or ma'am, what do you say? You look like you might be a lesbian or a vegan. You look like Michael Stipe after three months of chemo. Oh shit, you really have cancer? Sucks to be you.

So my girlfriend has this thing about oral sex. She won't do it. Says it's gross and demeaning. I'm like "Suck my dick, baby! God wouldn't have given you a mouth and me a penis if he didn't mean for you to suck it." I actually called my priest and had him try to talk her into giving me a blow job. He tried to tell me that there's no passage in the Bible supporting oral sex. "Good thing I'm Jewish!" I told him. She still won't suck my dick.

Boy, this is kind of a hard crowd tonight. What's eating you guys? Were you expecting Jeff Dunham and a puppet with his hand up its ass? Would somebody like to come up here and be my puppet? I have a lube, hah.

If I had come out in a plaid, sleeveless shirt and a camo hat, would I be getting a different response? You guys look like you might appreciate a good redneck joke. Well, except for you black people. Some of that stuff's racially insensitive. You guys don't have much of a sense of humor unless I'm dropping the F-bomb continuously like Chris Rock. "Motherfucker this, motherfucker that." I try to keep my stuff fun for all ages. Motherfuckers.

Hey now, no need to throw shit. That bottle almost hit me in the forehead. How am I supposed to entertain you if I'm being pelted with glass? Do you poor sonsabitches not know how to watch a comedy show? Hope you're not pissed about the ten dollar cover charge. Maybe next time I'll up it to twenty to weed out some of you bad seeds. Oh shit, did I say "weed?" Now you guys are getting overly excited. I didn't say that I had any weed. You lazy pieces of shit.

All right, all right, I think this show's over. You assholes want to boo and throw shit, you can do that to each other. You're missing out on the best part of my routine. I had some knock-knock jokes to tell. But seriously, go fuck yourselves. I'm outta here.