A Day in the Life of...

10:00 AM - Wake up. Stretch and yawn. Get out of coffin.
10:02 AM - Remove "sleeping hat." Put on "walking around hat."
10:05 AM - Weigh self on scale that gives output in pounds. Convert to kilograms in your head. Check work by weighing self on scale that gives output in kilograms. If correct, smile and nod to self with hands on hips. If incorrect, just shake head in disappointment.
10:08 AM - Brush teeth. If already brushed teeth the night before, disregard.
10:10 AM - Prepare self a mimosa. If no orange juice available, just drink champagne. If no champagne available, huff glue.
10:20 AM - Order more glue.
10:30 AM - Call in bomb scare to work. No work today!
11:00 AM - Go to corner store for breakfast, chat with cashier named Amy, who doesn't know you're dating each other.
11:35 AM - Expose self to passing cars.
11:36 AM - Run from police.
11:50 AM - Bring sack full of cats to Chinatown, to trade for new nunchucks.
NOON - Go to neighbor's house, show Timothy that you do in fact have nunchucks.
12:30 PM - Cat nap.
12:50-1:37 PM - Have staring contest with mirror. Note time in "staring log." If time goes up, smile and nod to self with hands on hips. If time goes down, just shake head in disappointment.
2:00 PM - Find a murder to investigate. If no murder cases available, murder Timothy. (Obviously, this will be an easy case to solve, but at least the killing itself will eat up some time).
3:30 PM - Eat up some food.
3:45 PM - Cat nap (in case first one didn't take).
4:05 PM - Check on the rat cages.
4:25 PM - Answer Vogue's letters to the editor, even though they never asked me to.
5:00 PM - Amy gets off work about this time. Bring her a birthday rat (maybe a neckerchief on the rat?).
5:10 PM - Run from police.
5:30 PM - Yell, for no reason.
5:31 PM - Make sure Timegate is in the off position. If Timegate is turned on, search house for stray dinosaurs. If dinosaur is found, lure it back into Timegate with a big, juicy rat.
6:00 PM - Dinner time. Cook a big, juicy rat.
7:30 PM - Work on flamethrower mechanism for giant mechanical crab.
8:00 PM - Time for another cat nap (possible iron deficiency?).
8:20 PM - Call Amy's house phone.
8:21 PM - Hang up phone quickly.
8:30-10:00 PM - Practice swordsmanship with katana, just in case dream about being killed by your landlord was actually a prophecy.
10:10 PM - Bring landlord rent money in gold bullion. Look for clues in his apartment...
10:30 PM - Howl at the moon, for no good reason.
11:30 PM - Use Timegate to go back to 10 o'clock this morning and wake yourself up.
12:30 AM - Brush teeth. If already brushed teeth within last 24 hours, rinse mouth out with diet cola.
12:35 AM - Remove "walking around hat." Put on "almost ready for bed hat."
12:36 AM - Remove "almost ready for bed hat." Put on " sleeping hat."
12:40 AM - Climb into coffin (look out for rats).
1:00 AM - Fall asleep to sweet, sultry sound of voices in head.

TV Show Ideas

1. "In a Pool of Blood" - This would be a buddy cop drama, where one cop is black and the other cop (his buddy) is a vampire, who is possibly also black. Originally there was supposed to be a running gag about the black human cop's name being "Blacula," and when they showed up to interrogate someone for a case, he'd say "Detectives Blacula and Daye." And the guy they were interrogating would assume the vampire cop's name was "Blacula" because he was like a black Dracula, but his name was Daye--this misunderstanding would often be hilarious. This gag was scrapped when I found out there was a movie called Blacula. Also, the fact that the vampire cop's name was "Daye" would cause tension by reminding the viewer of the fact that sunlight would cause the vampire to burst into flame.

2. "Frat BoyZ" - This is like a reality show about frat boys, but with the "s" changed to a "Z," which would make them more edgy and street. Every week, the boyz (let's say their names are David, Serg, "Da Koop," and Mr. Frog) would get involved in hijinks, or sometimes shenanigans. One week, David might have to drive Serg to pick up his girlfriend at the airport, but they'd get lost, and they would call Da Koop, but his phone is off, so they just get his voicemail. That's actually a terrible example, but if you imagine how mad Serg's girlfriend would be, it's kind of funny. Also, there would be a website where you could ask the boyz some questions.

3. "The Cat Whisperer" - People would call up this cat expert to come over to their house and help them out with a "problem cat." Then the cameras would zoom in real close and you'd see him whisper some stuff in the cat's ear, and the cat would start cleaning up the house, or serving the owner tea. The only difficult part would be finding a person with this kind of magic power over cats. If one can't be found, we could probably just rig the cat up with marionette strings and make it look like he was doing chores. Either way, the basic premise is very sound.

4. "Cockfighting Tonight!" - This would be a high-class gentleman's betting show, similar to "HBO Boxing," only instead of highly trained human fighters, we would rile up a couple of roosters with razor blades tied to their feet. We could also have celebrity commentators. I was thinking Colonel Sanders would be good, but then I realized he was dead, so maybe just his ghost, if we can find out which agency represents him. (Note to self: possible crossover episode featuring cat whisperer? Investigate further...)

5. "Monday Night Cockfighting" - Obviously, television's cockfighting needs won't be served by just one night of cockfighting a week.

6. "Extreme Cockfighting League" - This would be a third cockfighting show, but without a lot of the gentlemanly rules of the first two cockfighting shows. It would feature ladder matches and "melee" fights that had upwards of twenty or so roosters fighting at once. If possible, handguns will be attached to some roosters, as well as some sort of rigging so they can pull the trigger with their wings.

7. "That's Not My Son!" - I think this one is pretty self-explanatory.

8. "Are You Smarter Than Your Mirror Image?" - A quiz-game style show where you try to buzz in and answer questions before your reflection in a mirror does. (Note: for obvious reasons, vampires will not be allowed on the show)

9. "Sexy Horse" - This show tells the story of a woman who moves to the big city to find love. Also, she has the head of a horse, so dating is difficult for her. Most of the scenes would involve her discussing the men in her life with Randi, the gay latino that lives next door to her. She works in a bakery, so she can be around all the apples, which for her are like kryptonite, only instead of killing her, they make her want to eat apples. Anyway, her main love interest is this blind guy that doesn't know she has a horse's head, and there are a bunch of contrived plots where he almost finds out about her deformity. This show is about loving yourself for who you are.

10. "The Gamble-Hound" - A western with a twist. Taking place in an old Colorado shanty town called Little Creek, it features a cowboy named Spud who gets deputized right before the sheriff dies, meaning he's the only law. He spends his time protecting the good citizens and handing out life lessons. The twist is that the town is actually in Nevada, and Spud's name is really Darren. Oh, and Nevada is actually on a spaceship. A spaceship filled with vampires.

Election Day

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Moses Rameses the Third, and I am running for President/Emperor/Ruler/King/Technopope of your quaint, yet enchanting country/planet/plane of existence, which you call [insert regional nominative here]. Below are some vital things you may want to know about me, specific to your electorate, compiled by my representatives for your browsing pleasure.

Name: Moses Rameses III
Party: New-Satanist/Retro-Federalists Coalition Party
Age: Epochal
Governmental Experience: Emperor of Mirror-Berlin
Magicks: Black/Red
Marital Status: Inter-species polygamist (first wife, Mrs. Boots, visible in above picture)
Murders: 5,934
Convictions: 0
Favorite Musical Genre: Jazz

Platforms:

Healthcare: If you are unhappy with your current healthcare, I will gladly regale you with tales of my own bomb-ass healthcare, at a rate of $10,000/hour. Also, to cut down on unnecessary procedures, more expensive surgery will be done with less anesthesia. This way, we can punish whiners and ring-wranglers.

Defense: Replace Armed Forces with squadron upon squadron of hyper-intelligent baboons, many of which will be armed with laser rifles. All intelligence agencies will be replaced with my gentleman spy friend Winston Saxon. Don't let his quick wit and strong haunches fool you, ladies: he a deadeye with a pistol, and he's killed more people than polio (he even killed polio).

I will expand the Iraq War to cover all of the Middle East and Israel, distracting everyone while we steal all the gold from Switzerland's vaults, and most Swiss people's homes. If necessary, I will further expand the war to parts of Europe and Africa, as well as many parts of America itself. Australia is my backup; the importance of controlling the world's kangaroo population, I believe, need not be explained.

Abortion: Mandatory. I will not waver on this, because I hate children--especially human children. For people I don't like, abortion will be retroactive.

Gay Marriage: Mandatory. For people I don't like, gay marriage will be retroactive.

Economy: America, like Icarus, has flown too close to the sun, and our wings are melting, because they're made of wax. I think what I'm getting at is that we need to manufacture huge metallic wings for the Earth. I am willing to spend literally trillions of dollars and billions of human lives on this endeavor, even if so-called "scientists" claim that it is nonsense, and that I probably thought it up while high on peyote.

Drugs: Peyote for everyone.

Climate Change: I will enforce a hefty tariff on all sunlight entering the atmosphere. The positive side effects will be two-fold: first, we will see a drastic reduction in sunlight hours, meaning that my running mate, Dracula, will feel more comfortable outside; secondly, the money gained from the tariff will help fund my hyper-intelligent baboon experiments.

Energy: Burning immigrants.

Immigration: See Energy.

Returning Prestige to the Presidency: Washington asked to be called "Mr. President," because he hated the idea of America becoming a monarchy. I demand to be called "His Most High Eternal Slayer of Dragons," for reasons that are my own. Don't call me anything else, or I'll pretend not to hear you and then have my gentleman spy friend Winston Saxon sneak into your house and wreck up the place.

Jobs: I promise to achieve 100% employment by the second year of my reign of terror. How? I will use all of my Swiss gold and pay people to dig holes during the day. Then, at night, a second crew could come by and fill the holes. The next day, a murder crew would come in and murder both of the first crews. Then, a fourth crew would come in to eat the first and second crew. A fifth crew would then be paid to argue with the fourth crew and the murder crew. A sixth crew would then come in and draw a picture of the argument. This process would continue until enough crews had been created, or until I got bored.

Taxes: Payable in blood (for my running mate, Dracula).

Thank you, and remember to vote Moses in '08!

Badges

A guide to my merit badges and what I got them for:
1. breaking a swimmer's arm
2. mutant squirrel breeding
3. twirling

4. absinthe production/binge drinking
5. Indian murdering
6. dog sewing

7. starting forest fires
8. Biblical cocaine consumption
9. planting a tree that grows human hearts

10. pumpkin smashing
11. book burning
12. building perpetual motion machine

13. fried chicken eating
14. eyeball piercing
15. human caging

16. bird-watching
17. bell-cracking
18. telepathic control of magnets

19. personal rocketry
20. blackmailing a politician
21. Jewish heritage

22. moldy pancakes
23. biting off a snake's head
24. sniping

25. beating a polygraph
26. living at the bottom of the ocean
27. high school-level addition

Skoolz

Back in high school, before I became Supreme Ruler of Hypnotopia, I was not a popular child. I like to think that it was because others thought I was too cool for them in a James Dean sort of way, or that they were in awe of my massive brain, and the way the green light reflected off of it in my See-thru SkullDome(tm). But looking back, I realize that it probably had something to do with my pulsating death aura, and the effects it had on human skin. I had some friends, of course, like Baron Firebrand, the Insatiable, and Old Tom. As his name suggests, Old Tom wasn't really a student, but more of a hobo who lived down the street and paid me in hard candies to lure my fellow classmates to his "shack of pain," whatever that meant. Still, he was a friend. I also had a zombie friend named David, but he was eaten by a condor when we were still freshmen.

I tried to become more popular, by joining some clubs and extracurricular groups and keeping my grave-robbing on the down low. I joined the baseball team, and even hit an in-the-park home run my first time, mostly by refusing to drop the bat as I circled the bases and wildly swinging at anyone who came within several feet of me. I was disqualified for putting five opponents, two teammates, and one argumentative umpire in the hospital. My coach came to the prison to tell me he was kicking me off the team, so I caved in his sternum with another baseball bat I had sneaked into jail. Where did I hide it? It is a mystery even I cannot answer...

I still wanted to play sports, though, so when I got back to school I joined the basketball team, which for some reason refused to let me use my baseball bat on the court. I wasn't very tall, so I mostly rode the bench and drew pictures of various crimes against nature that I wanted to create, like the "manticorsican" (a beast with the body of a lion and the head of a Corsican sailor). When I did finally once get to play, I knew what I had to do to prove my worth to the team: I placed the ball under my shirt so it looked like I was pregnant, pulled down my pants, and "gave birth" to the basketball. Did I also possibly shit my pants? Yes, but that's my secret. The ref was unamused by my antics, but that might have been because I kicked his five-year-old daughter in the face afterward. I guess I figured at the time "well, I'm probably getting kicked out of this game anyway, so I suppose the least I could do is steal that girl's teeth and make a necklace." So I did that, and then I sold the necklace to Old Tom for sticky handful of Jolly Ranchers. Back at school, people considered me a hero. No wait, not hero, madman--they considered me a madman.

I was also kicked off the rugby team when I mistook the ball for a condor egg and stabbed it with a knife, because of my hatred of all things related to condors (I hope you can read this story in zombie heaven, David).

It was around this time that I realized my place was in the lab, among the formaldehyde, test tubes, and three-legged dog fetuses, where I could do the preliminary studies that would later win me the Nobel Prize for Unicornology. Only one person could actually rival me in the lab: Brainallax. Man, he was smart. No one was as smart as he was, not even Brainallax. We became rivals; if I built a thirty-foot robot, he had to build one thirty-five feet. If that robot had ice breath, mine had to have flamethrower hands. If he then gave his robot a laser katana, I had to kill Brainallax, because nothing tops a laser katana. Afterward I would have to put his body under my shirt so I looked pregnant, and then "give birth" to the corpse (this is called "doing the dingo").

I did have a modicum of luck with the ladies, and many of the more effeminate men. If I couldn't get a particular lass to go out with me, I'd just convince her with my "mind control ray," which is what I called this heavy lead pipe I once found in a ditch. One time a raccoon ate my date's face, but that's a different story altogether. My first real girlfriend was Marilyn Monroe (no relation) who worked with me and King Kong Jr. on the school newspaper. We dated for about six months, and it was so cute: she'd insult me lovingly, and I'd follow her home, pretending to hide in the bushes. Then I'd climb up the ivy trellis on the side of her house and watch her get undressed--often, she'd roleplay with her friend Arthur for my benefit. Sometimes she'd even get her dad involved in our little games; he'd run outside, firing his shotgun into the night and screaming my name, but he knew it was all in fun, and so he'd always shoot to wound and not to kill. One time she got the sheriff to play along, too, although I'm not allowed to talk about that.

These memories are the kinds of things, like our love of hard candy, that never leave us, no matter how old we get or how many people surround our murdercastle with torches and pitchforks. We can try to run from them, or tell the sheriff they didn't happen, but we always get drawn back, looking for our lost youth, like a zombie searching for a kid, only the kid is really the zombie from before he was dead, and also the zombie has astigmatism and needs glasses--but you know what? No one's going to prescribe glasses to a zombie. The point is we're all that zombie. Or possibly the kid, I'm very bad with metaphors.

My Travels (or The Time I Killed a Whole Town)

Like everyone does once they graduate from college or, in my case, prison, I spent a large portion of my first year of freedom traveling this great land we call America. I've been all over the place; I've seen New York, New Jersey, New London, New Mexico, and other places, some of which don't even have the word "new" in their name--though these places were, of course, inferior, and I spit on their memory. I've seen the Grand Canyon, and also the Tiny Canyon. What, you don't know about that one? It's down the street from the Grand Canyon (ask for Perro). It's okay, I guess, but they shut me down when I tried to open a churro store there, so I had to kill the mayor--not the mayor of the Tiny Canyon, the mayor of Boston. Look, it's a long story, that's what I'm trying to say.

I did all this back in the 70's when hitchhiking was still a viable option, mostly because people didn't know yet that we hitchhikers are quick to kill you dead for half an erection.


pictured: me hitchhiking.
Anyway, that trip to the Southwest was pretty great. I had sex with a coyote. My only regret is that he wasn't alive to enjoy it. I went to--and lived in--a human zoo, and made friends with the zombies in the Indian graveyard next door (if Prancing Wolf is reading this, I promise I'll email you those pics when I get a chance, man). I remember how their baleful cries of "Brains! Brains!" used to lull me to sleep--now I can't even doze off without someone in the room moaning and scratching. One time a child got separated from his parents on a visit to the human zoo (or, as we called it, the "anthroparium") and wandered over to the zombies. Boy, I've never seen a group of zombies so happy, or a young child so terrified/devoured. The city council denied our petition to make that day a holiday, but we celebrated anyway, with a child-shaped cake filled with jam and human organs. If the banks didn't close, we'd make them close, at gunpoint if necessary. Anyway, we always made sure to invite that kid's parents to our holiday party, but they never showed up. I guess they were really busy.

After a while, I grew bored in that sleepy little town of Hambone--did I mention it was called Hambone? Stupid name. I hopped a ride in an empty car at the back of an astro-train and traveled through a wormhole that dumped out in the middle of Nebraska. There I did a few odd jobs to get some money, just a little something for food, shelter, and Brazilian fart pornography. Maybe a little farm work over here or a little mayor-killing over there--just the normal stuff us hobos do in the small towns we visit. I was working at a carnival, catching rats to grind up into kosher hot dogs, when I met the love of my life, a leopard lady working in the freak show. I gave her the biggest rat I caught that day, and she bit its head off right there, which in carny-speak means "we're dating, my horse" ("horse" is carny-speak for "lover"). We made love day in and day out. Sometimes we'd just kiss in the bushes as my dwarf friend, David, watched us. Sometimes we'd dry-hump in the portable toilets, in case one of developed an instant case of violent diarrhea (neither one of us ever did, but it was nice to have the option open). I kept detailed photographic records of our sexual exploits (Nala, if you're reading this, I promise I won't send those pics to Prancing Wolf). What can I say? We were two horses in love, and extraordinarily horny and weird.

That all ended one day when I walked into our S&M tent with a new pain-bridle and found her sleeping with Hugo, the resident strongman.


pictured: the strongman.
I was heartbroken. I flew into a rage, and threw open the hatch on my rat vault. The whole carnival was flooded with rats. Only myself and about a dozen others, like the stilt-man, escaped the town with our lives.

I guess I needed to just get out, partly because there was a warrant out for my arrest (crybabies--who doesn't like being covered in meaty rats?!), but more importantly I needed someplace a guy could just get lost. So I packed myself into a cardboard envelope and mailed myself to the Big Apple. Having seen that, I stole a schoolbus and drove to New York City.

Something about New York is different. The first day I got here, I saw the Statue of Liberty give birth to a black baby made out of iron (he later became Mike Tyson, heavyweight champion of the world), and I knew I was home, that this was my city. I guess that's why I had to kill its mayor.

The Most Dangerous Game

I have hunted almost every wild beast known to man. When I was 2, I killed my first hyper-lion, at 5 my first robo-leopard, and at 8 my first electro-unicorn. My hunting abilities have been pressed to their limit, but I have always returned from the brink with a few spent cartridges, demagnetized murder-gloves, and a fresh kill to mount on the wall of my pornography mansion; that is, until one fateful day. I shall not recount the events that led to my humiliation. But truly that was the day I learned which animal is the most dangerous game: The Thundercats.

I know what you're thinking: weren't The Thundercats killed in battle with He-Man during World War II? Yes, they were. But they came back to life with the help of Houdini's ghost, and that is why I must mount them on my wall--as revenge against Houdini's ghost. I resolved to kill The Thundercats.

I trained for years in my gravity chamber. I learned languages I didn't know existed, just in case it came up, like when I had to buy, I don't know, bullets or something. I learned to doggy-paddle, in case there was water about. I went to a doctor and had him tune up my 6 extra senses (echo-location, rainbow hearing, acid breath, death aura, astral projection, and rape-vision). I practiced my marksmanship with knives, rifles, and knife-rifles. Most importantly, I studied everything I could find about my prey by breaking into Mr. Terrific's cave and using his supercomputer, may he rest in peace.

In just under ten years, my training was complete; it was time to gird my loins. After getting the blessing of the vampire pope to begin final preparations on the hunt, I assembled a crack team of mercenaries, soldiers, bushmen, and a wizard. Then I murdered them and drank their blood so that their strength might flow through me. So The Thundercats wouldn't be on their guard, I took out a full-page ad in hundreds of newspapers letting them know that, despite what they might have heard through the grapevine, I was certainly not hunting them (this is known to magicians as "misdirection," and to horses as "neigh"). This time, I would get my anthropofelinoid quarry.

With my trusty Omni-gun, a crate of beef jerky, and enough ammo to choke a wolverine, I mounted my battledog and bounded across the Atlantic toward mighty Africa. From there, I took a plane to regular Africa, home of The Thundercats. On the way, I purchased a hundred pounds of hamburger meat to pay my guide, the Hamburglar. When I arrived at his hut, he said "You got that 200 pounds of hamburger?"

"No," I said, "I have a hundred."

"That's not what we agreed on," said the Hamburglar.

"Yeah, well, life is tough, you want this meat or what?" He did, but that first night in camp was pretty tense, and if pressed, I would say that my tough-as-nails bargaining style negatively affected our enjoyment of the ritualistic pre-hunt gay sex.

The next day, the hunt began. Panthro was the easiest to kill: we waited until he went to pick up his halfling child from daycare, and then blew up the daycare while he was inside--easy. Something, however, felt wrong about it. After an hour of sifting through the pieces of dead children, I realized why I felt so bad: Panthro had been obliterated and there would be nothing left to mount. Curses! In my zeal, I had lost a Thundercat. I saved some bits of his flesh in anticipation of creating a Panthro clone, that I might mount it later.

Tygra tried to blend into the jungle, but I burned that shit down and shot him in the heart.

I trapped Jaga's spirit-form in a dreamcatcher, and then smashed the dreamcatcher against the side of a boat (not my boat, the Hamburglar's).

As the strongest and most skilled Thundercat, Lion-O proved more difficult to kill than the molestation charges that exist for me in 38 states. He was too powerful to take down with a frontal assault, so I had to use a hypno-umbrella that shot silver bullets, which was very expensive (it cost 300 pounds of hamburger).

Cheetara, the final Thundercat, was the hardest to kill, mostly because she was so fast--like some sort of speedy cat (a leopard?). I came up with a plan: I courted her for 18 months, gaining her trust, and eventually proposing to her in front of a beautiful African sunset (which I thought about hunting and mounting). I promised her the moon and the stars, as well as all the pistachios she could eat. She was carrying my child inside her. Then, on our wedding day, she ate a piece of the wedding cake I had poisoned with mercury, and victory was mine!

I had destroyed The Thundercats, and it felt wonderful. Pizza tasted cheesier, jokes sounded funnier, and all my pornography seemed more violent. I was finally at peace.

Dearly Beloved...

A eulogy for my friend Craig--

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a hero. Craig T. Nelson was a father, a husband, a friend, and the world's hairiest chessmaster. He wasn't an actor, so if you're here for the funeral because you think it's for the guy from "Coach," you are confused and I'd like to ask you to leave.

What can you say about Craig that hasn't already been screamed about him by his victims? A lot, since he killed stealthily, and few saw him coming. He was opinionated, I think we all know that. When he was a young lad, he joined the American Anarchist Party, not because of political ideals, but because he loved violence so very much.

I guess, really, it all goes back to his childhood. The accounts differ as to whether his mother was a sweet little lady from Mississippi or a jackal, but they all agree on one point: she was probably a jackal.

He was destined for heroism from a very young age. One time, when Craig was a baby, two snakes climbed into his bed. He strangled those snakes to death, just like the mythical Hercules. Then he used his powers to bring them back to life, and they bit his mother to death (make "biting snake" sign with index and middle fingers). Now an orphan just under two-years-old, Craig found himself in need of a job, so he started a coal mine; this was how Craig invented child labor.

Craig never went to school; he learned everything he needed to know by kidnapping scientists and eating their brains. I never quite got how that worked--I asked Craig, and he explained it, but I couldn't understand him with all that brain in his mouth.

Craig grew up fast. By the age of three, he was sixteen-years-old. He got married at eighteen to Lulu, a homunculus he built out of his own skin flakes, rose petals, and some dog turds. She smelled awful, but boy, could she cook! She made the most delicious Italian food, and Craig let her know it. He was always quick with a compliment, almost as quick as he was with his temper--and his fists. After his poo-wife dried up in the sun during a trip to the beach, Craig had a string of failed relationships with a nurse, a succubus, a circus ringmaster, and a female version of himself from a mirror dimension. At one point, he tried to remake Lulu, but she didn't cook or smell the same, and he had to flush her down a giant's toilet.

Craig was also very proud; his respect was hard-won, and he didn't consider any man his equal, unless that man was Dracula. Personally, I think that's just because they were both allergic to garlic, but Craig was a tough read. He'd talk about Dracula all the time. So much so, that this one time, Craig's son Danny said, "Hey, if you love Dracula so much, why don't you marry him?" Well, Craig just stood up calmly, and punched his son's head clean off sure as shootin'. Course, as we all know, the joke was on Craig, because not six months later, Craig and Dracula were joined in holy matrimony--and I've never seen a happier couple in my life.

Craig was a large man, and he would often use this size to his advantage at his job as a car salesman, just cracking his knuckles all scary-like until someone signed that lease--and boy howdy, if you didn't sign that lease, you better have some garlic on you, or he'd punch your head clean off! But he was also big of heart. Several years ago, when our community was being ravaged by werewolves, Craig took it upon himself to clean out the neighborhood with nothing but a bucket of deer blood and a hunting rifle. I tell you, that man was possessed! Nothing could stop him: not the danger of the hunt, not the long hours; not even the sheriff, when we found out that those weren't werewolves at all, but a bunch of neighborhood pets and the Jenkins boy.

It's a tragedy that Craig chose that dark night to put on his murder-hat, climb in the car, and speed down the highway, stink-mouth drunk and screaming at the world. I was in the car, listening to him scream himself hoarse--then he said he was hungry enough to eat a horse, and we pulled over and he gave me a horsey ride on his back. Craig loved horses. I think that's why it just makes sense that he died there in the rain, kicked dead by a horse just passing through the forest for no good reason.

On second thought, Craig wasn't really a hero at all; but Craig was my best friend, and for that I'll always thank him. I'm not a religious man, but when I think about Craig, and the life he led, I know that he's up there looking down on us. Hell is the one that's up, right? As I said, I'm not a religious man, I don't really know. Either way, we can all agree he's in hell. Thank Gob, or whatever that guy's name is.

Reviews of the AFI Top Ten

Thoughts on the American Film Institute Top Ten List of Movies:

1. Citizen Kane (1941) - This movie is about a rich guy who dies saying "Rosebud," probably because his favorite flower was a rose his bud had given him (I started watching this movie really late and fell asleep). The back of the dvd box said this movie was the first to use a moving camera. Geez, guy, you're giving me vertigo with all that shaking! 1/2 star.

2. The Godfather (1972) - I was very excited to see this movie, because I thought it would be about God's dad, who I could only assume was even more powerful and easily angered. Could the Godfather ground God? Would we see God get spanked? No. Instead it was about a foolish mob boss or some other such nonsense. 1 star.

3. Casablanca (1942) - One of the worst travel brochures I have ever seen, narrated by some guy with a melted face. You'd think they didn't even want tourists! 1 star.

4. Raging Bull (1980) - I waited the whole movie to see the bull that everyone was talking about, but none ever showed up (not even a regular, non-raging type). Maybe bulls were expensive back then. Instead, there was a bunch of boxing scenes. They should have called it Raging Boxer instead; otherwise it doesn't make sense. -1 star (add 2 extra stars if you imagine the main character as a bull).

5. Singin' in the Rain (1952) - Apparently some movie about a gay weatherman. 1 1/2 stars.

6. Gone with the Wind (1939) - This just didn't make sense; if this takes place during the civil war, before movie cameras were invented, then how are they filming it? No stars.

7. Lawrence of Arabia (1962) - I didn't enjoy this movie, because I saw it the same day I found out my house was haunted. No stars.

8. Schindler's List (1993) - This movie is about the holocaust, which is depressing. They should have made it about something happy, like Santa's list. 1 star (add extra star if you imagine the main character as Santa).

9. Vertigo (1958) - This movie was okay, but for sheer vertigo-like effects, you really need to see Citizen Kane. 1/2 star.

10. The Wizard of Oz (1939) - This movie was so inaccurate and full of plot holes! Everyone knows flying monkeys need to be fed blood, or they climb back in their cocoons. And the witch was killed by water? That water wasn't even blessed by the vampire pope! I was going to give this movie no stars, but then I read on the internet that a midget hanged himself in the background of one of the scenes. 3 stars.

Dear Son

Dear son,
Aha! You finally found the letter I left for you in the crawl space. If you cannot read yet, DO NOT GIVE THIS LETTER TO YOUR MOTHER. She will use it to poison you against me. Margaret, if my son has given this to you anyway, know that you are a fucking bitch who ruined my life, and that I DON'T WANT YOU TO READ THIS.

Okay, son, I will assume you can read if you've made it this far. If not, please go learn to read first or NONE OF THIS WILL MAKE SENSE. First, I would like to apologize for my absence in your life. There were too many things I had to do. If I have since become President of the World, then you already know that I had big plans in the works. If I failed in my bid, then I am surely dead and altering my intricate plans in a bid to become President of Hell.

Either way, there are some things that I wish I had been around to tell you. If you know what's good for you, you'll not disobey them. If I am president of the world, I will punish your disobedience; if I am dead, I WILL HAUNT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.

Anyway, here you go:

1. First, what is your name? Margaret mentioned that she wanted to name you Jonathan, after your grandfather. THIS IS A NAME FOR ASSHOLES. You should take this opportunity to choose your own name, and demand that everyone use it, at knife point, if necessary. Here are some suggestions: Thørlief Magnüssen; Deathbird of the Falconing; The Mountain Impossible; Dr. Wundigore; Rex the Blood-Drunk; Clancy; and Dragon-Murderer the First. If you're saying to yourself "Suck a dick, Dad, I've already changed my name to Machine Man Zero," then perhaps there is still some of me in you yet!

2. Do you ever feel full when you eat a meal? Probably not, and I think I know why. When your mother was pregnant with you, I force-fed her human meat. THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE THE HUNGER! You are a cannibal. Deal with it.

3. Your mother may have told you lies about me. Did she say that she met me while I was in the Marines or some other such nonsense? LIES! I was getting in adventures as a hobo, and it was the only time I was ever truly happy. That's right--YOUR MOTHER GOT PREGGERS BY A HOBO. That brings me to my fourth point...

4. Your mother is a whore.

5. Are you are in your teens yet? If so, you may have very important thoughts and questions about things larger than yourself. To answer them: Yes, God does exist. And yes, he hates you. And yes, he has the head of a goat and lives in the center of the sun (I HAVE MET HIM).

6. When you get a boner in class, that means I'm thinking about you.

7. Horses are nature's prostitutes. You will know what this means when the time comes, my sweet colt.

8. Look deeper in the crawl space. I have left a set of blueprints, along with directions detailing steps for building both a ballistic knife and a murdercycle. BUILD THESE! If you are wondering why these blueprints look and feel like they are drawn on catskin, IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE.

9. Star Wars was based on my life. GEORGE LUCAS WILL BACK ME UP ON THIS. If he doesn't, let me know so that I can haunt the shit out of him.

10. Don't follow the crowd too closely. Usually there will be stuff to hide behind, so you can lick your lips in the shadows. If you are patient, a fat or sickly member of the crowd might fall behind the others. THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO POUNCE. The fat child might scream, but don't worry: the crowd is much too noisy to hear him.

11. You can never be overdressed. When you go for a job interview, look around you. Many of the goobers in competition with you are wearing collared shirts with pleated khakis. THAT OUTFIT IS FOR ASSHOLES. You should always wear a suit to an interview, if not for any other reason than your velvet cape, leather gloves, and domino mask look stupid without one.

12. Speak loudly and slowly, because not everyone can always hear you, marblemouth. Also some people are deaf, or don't speak English, and in these cases volume will be your only weapon. Note: if I am President of the World, there will be no deaf people or non-English speakers. If I am not, they will have been DRIVEN MAD BY MY HAUNTING.

13. Always watch where you're walking, in case someone left gold nuggets lying around. YOU CAN NEVER HAVE TOO MANY GOLD NUGGETS.

14. Most importantly, I want you to realize that LIFE IS REAL. AND IT'S REAL HARD. You might think it's all a bed of roses, but underneath those roses, there are snakes. And the snakes all have different markings, because otherwise they can't tell each other apart. But there're so many markings, you don't know which snakes are poisonous, so you just get hungrier and hungrier for snake meat, but there's nothing you can do because YOU ARE ALLERGIC TO POISON, and then you prick your finger on a rose thorn because you aren't paying attention to what you're doing.

AND THAT'S LIFE.

I love you.
-DAD

Encyclopedia entries from a more awesome universe: Adolphus H. Hobbiton

(left) Hobbiton during a rare moment not spent at super-speed.

Adolphus Hugo Hobbiton (February 15, 1819 – ?), the sixteenth Techno-President of the United Columbian Emirates, successfully led his country through its greatest internal crisis, the Hundred Year Cyborg War, only to be assassinated--allegedly--by his own self-aware, steam-powered laptop computer/prostitute. Before becoming the first Satanist elected to the Techno-Presidency, Hobbiton was a triple-amputee, an award-winning Indian hunter, a member of the House of Representatives, and an unsuccessful candidate for Shadow-President of the Mole People.

As an outspoken champion of the expansion of slavery, state-sponsored rape farms, and the controversial "death by having poison put in your butthole" capital punishment statute, Hobbiton won the Hyper-Satanist Party nomination in 1860 and was elected techno-president later that year. During his time in office, his powerful magicks (among which was the ability to summon dragons) contributed to the effort to preserve the UCE by helping him to breed manticores with breath hot enough to melt elven steel, out of which most cyborgs of the time were made. He introduced measures that resulted in the blinding of every man, woman, and child--and even some breeds of dog--issuing his Emancipation Proclamation in 1863 and promoting the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, which mandated that private citizens not interfere with the vast clouds of autonomous chlorine gas that roamed the Forbidden Zone. When the House of Representatives attempted to block these measures, Hobbiton had them executed by filling their buttholes with poison.

Hobbiton closely supervised every aspect of his administration, especially the selection of top staff, including Mecha-Godzilla, whose economic policies were instrumental in driving Hobbiton's nemesis, Superman, to madness. Historians have concluded that he handled the quarreling factions of the Congress of Trees well, bringing leaders of each faction into his cabinet and forcing them to cooperate, or be burned by the black gaze of Sig Yuggoth, ambassador to the Realm of Pain. Hobbiton's reign, however, was lucrative for a number of UCE cartels, including the Union of Phlogisten Workers, who awarded Hobbiton their highest honor, The Golden Lemur (the lemur was a species of mammal that, like all carbon-based creatures, became extinct after the San Francisco Fire of 1890). Additionally, he managed his own reelection in the 1864 techno-presidential election after many of his top aides fell victim to a pandemic of stabbings that had swept through New York, Redpool, and Reverse-Boston.

Opponents of the war (also known as "Cyberheads") criticized Hobbiton for refusing to compromise on human sacrifice. When his own party asked why he was so adamant about the issue, Hobbiton leapt from his metal throne and shouted, "I'm going to fucking kill every one [of you]," before methodically ripping out, with his teeth, the throats of each and every one of his constituents (this would later be known by historians as "The Quickening"). Conversely, the Radical Satanists, a neo-luddite wing of his party, criticized him for "issuing milk from his ugly tits to feed the machine scourge." As was his right by the Protocols of Kuma Te, Hobbiton challenged the leader of this faction, Jesus, to a magical duel. Fearing that Hobbiton would be far too powerful after drinking so much blood in The Quickening, Jesus hired a band of ninja werewolves to attack Hobbiton in his home, a flying fortress named "Warhammer," the night before the duel. Hobbiton, having learned of this ambush in advance, built a second Warhammer as a decoy and populated it with orphans full of ultradynamite (recently invented by Evil Thomas Edison). When the ninja werewolves entered the false Warhammer, Hobbiton ignited the orphans remotely, killing everyone inside (this event is now known as the Louisiana Purchase).

Even with these road blocks, Hobbiton successfully rallied public opinion through his rhetoric and speeches; his "Fuck You, Buddy" Address, in which Hobbiton simply listed all the words he could think of that denoted testicles, is but one example of this. At the close of the cyborg war, Hobbiton held a moderate view of Reconstruction. On the one hand, he hated cyborgs and wanted them summarily executed by melting, which everyone agreed would look sweet. On the other hand, Hobbiton was secretly at least partially cyborg himself, and desperately wanted to drink the electricity of his opponents. In the end, he satisfied both his sense of justice and hunger by melting the cyborgs who had fought against him and drinking the electricity of his allies. His possible assassination in 1865 would be the tenth techno-presidential assassination in UCE history and made him a martyr for the ideal of national unity. It remains to be seen whether the pop singer/synthesizer player who founded the Rolling Stones in 1935 is really Adolphus Hobbiton or just his ghost.

Tattoo Man

Children in the neighborhood know me as "The Tattoo Man," or "Mr. Tattoo," because my body is covered in literally thousands of tattoos--many of which are not at all obscene or indecent. They also call me "Candypants Samson," for reasons which my attorney will not allow me to divulge. In either case, children have learned to both enjoy and fear my presence--let us leave it at that.

But on the topic of my tattoos! Often as I walk down the street, body illustrated, trousers stuffed to the gills with candy, people ask me things like, "Hey buddy, why you got them tattoos?" or "What does that tattoo mean?" or "What are you doing to my baby?" Well, to the last question, I say hey lady, mind your own business. But as for the other queries? Why, let me tell you...

The centerpiece of my bodily ink mosaic, as you can see, is the name "Mary." Since I cannot remember whether or not this was a woman I impregnated with my seed as part of my plan to create a race of radioactive supermen, I am forced to assume she is.

The cross symbolizes the time that I was turned into a vampire, and later vampire pope.

The tattoo of a phoenix viciously raping a church mouse holding a copy of Catcher in the Rye is, I believe, self-explanatory.

The tattoo of Cary Grant's face on top of my real face, when viewed at just the right angle and light, makes my face look really fucked up.

The two dogs nuzzling on my right shoulder represent my parents, who met each other while dog-murdering.

The angel wings on my back are a reminder of the time I killed heaven, and many of its inhabitants (this was instrumental in my election to vampire pope).

The "x" tattooed on my left hand memorializes the first time I killed a hobo, while the "x" on my right hand memorializes the first time I made love (also with a hobo).

The skull on my chest represents how awesome skulls are.

The tattoo on my thigh of the full text of Ayn Rand's Anthem is not a tattoo, but a birthmark.

The pirate flag on my shoulder represents astronauts, because when I explained what I wanted to the tattoo artist, I was high on PCP.

The tattoo of a young child's grinning face reminds me that life is full of happy accidents, like unaccompanied children.

The beakers and chemical equations tattooed on my buttocks are from the time I tried to irradiate my vampire seed to create supermen, for purposes that are now unclear even to me.

The image of a horse riding a man makes me laugh, because why the fuck would a horse ride a man?

The tattoo that says "I want to impregnate you with radioactive vampire semen" lets everyone know that I am always looking for love, and my love is part of a whole radioactive vampire superhuman breeding program deal, which will hopefully get me re-elected vampire pope--if you can't get on board with that, I don't know what your problem is, guy.

Because Don Knots is my hero, there's a tattoo on my back of Don Knots taking a dump behind a bush.

I could fill books about all the great stuff tattooed on my body! People often ask me for advice when they think about getting their own ink. I think the most important thing is honesty. As Batman said, "To thine own self be true" (Ed. note: Batman did not say this). If you're vampire pope, well then sing it, sister! Even if people think you're a "menace," or a "freak," or a "convicted felon," remember that this is America, where you have the right to look how you want to look, molest whoever is too weak to fight you off, and even be a vampire. God (of vampires) bless America!

Worst Jokes

These are three of the worst jokes ever written:

A duck goes into a doctor's office and says, "My beak is chapped, do you have any ointment for that?" The doctor looks at the duck and says, "I'm just an optometrist."


A horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "Why the long face?" but the horse just horsekicks the bartender's chest in, because it's a horse.


A white guy, a black guy, and a Mexican are on a life raft in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, when they find a magic lamp. They rub the magic lamp and a genie comes out. He says, "I will grant you each one wish for freeing me from that lamp. What is your command?" The white guy thinks long and hard and says, "I want an acoustic guitar so that I can entertain my friends on our long and frightening journey," and a guitar magically appears in his hands. The black guy thinks very long and hard and says, "Even with my new friends, it is very lonely on this boat. I would like my wife to be with me on this long, dangerous journey" and the black guy's wife, who was of indeterminate race, magically appeared in front of him. "And what would you like, sir?" the genie said to the Mexican. The Mexican though very, very long and hard. "I hate the sound of guitars," said the Mexican, "so I wish that we were all deaf." And magically, they had all lost the ability to hear, even the genie, who was bad at magic.