WEEKLY LIMERICK!!!!!!

The Long and Winding Lad


There's a strange little lad from Kent,
who's member is curiously bent,
when asked why that was,
he said it's because
he enjoyed sticking it wherever he went.

Devil Farts in Hand, Smells It

Never shake hands with the Devil

In addition to tempting mankind into sin, possessing the bodies of unbaptized children and spreading depravity and corruption through-out the land,  the recent discovery of a series of ancient Biblical texts show that Satan, the great opponent of God, was also  fond of farting into his own hand and smelling it.

"It's a logical extension of the diabolical aspect," says religious iconologist  Kip Zachwell, "traditionally cleanliness and godliness have been closely associated with one another. So have evil and foulness. Certainly it [farting into one's own hand and smelling it] falls into the latter category."

The newly discovered texts now nicknamed "The Stinkhand Scrolls" were discovered in a series of burial caves in the Shav'id Mountains east of  Jerusalem.

Though written in Aramaic the scrolls have been translated into English.

The following passage clearly describes Satan (or Lucifer) checking to see if any one is nearby before reaching his hand back, farting solidly into his palm then bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply:

"...And a mighty tremor built so that the ground shook and Lucifer took his hand and placed it to his crack [literally: his rupture] and there issued forth a foul noise and the air hung heavy and then Lucifer raised his hand to his face and smelt of it and the birds fell dead from the heavens."

Other passages in the scrolls suggest that Satan is an emotionally unstable drunk and a selfish lover.

Furthermore 666, the so called "number of the beast" once thought to be the mystical designation of evil is revealed in the scrolls to be merely the area code of Satan's actual number in Los Angeles, the last seven digits being 714-2987.

Theories that the scrolls are actually a series of angry letters from Satan's ex-girlfriend Clarise have yet to be substantiated.

Brilliant Child King Builds Army of Robotic Spiders To Get Back at His Mother

Mwha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!!

DRAZLO, KROSKOVIA- 3 year old King Brahmkin Sal-Hourtz Grakto vowed last night to use his vast political power to get back at his mother for not allowing him to stay up and watch the Kroskovian sci-fi classic "Kracktiv Slorvo"  for the 10th time.

King Grakto, who is the acting regent in Kroskovia following his father's mysterious death last February, has pledged all of his country's resources towards the construction of an army of robotic spiders with which to exact his revenge.

"This will teach Mama that when her King wishes to watch  Kracktiv Slorvo, he will watch Kracktiv Slorvo!" says an official palace statement issued late Wednesday night.

According to the official blueprints, which were drafted by Grakto in crayon on a series of napkins, the spiders themselves will range in height from 50 cm to 20 meters, weigh anywhere from several kilograms to several hundred tonnes and will carry a payload of neuro-toxin capable of paralyzing an elephant. The spiders will also possess the ability to fly.

"Mama will try to hide but she cannot hide from spiders of this size. Also she will not be able to hide from spiders of this size that fly, as these do," laughs King Grakto.

Production on the army of robotic spiders is expected to begin within the week. 

Grakto's mother, Queen Jemelia Anhalia-Louise Grakto could not be reached for comment.

WEEKLY LIMERICK!!!

GRAB ASSER

There's a generous reward for the capture,
of a deviant young man from New Hampshire,
He runs 'round in the night,
giving the ladies a fright,
as he fondles their rear-ends in rapture.

Terrible Fish Devours Rat, Scares Children

DAVENPORT, NORTH CAROLINA-

Evil in the form of terrible fish

A terrible fish was pulled out of the Davenport City sewer system Friday night, officials say.

The fish, a five foot long monstrosity with razor sharp two-inch fangs and glowing yellow eyes was found after a storm drain over-flowed, vomiting the fish out onto the street a mere ten feet from a school.

"I heard yelling from the street and I thought a student had been hit by a car," says Mark Seeley, a science teacher at Oliver North High, "I came running downstairs and found a group of kids standing in a circle."

Suspecting the worst, Seeley pushed his way through the crowd only to find the terrible fish, thrashing about in an inch or so of dirty water, the half eaten remains of a large sewer rat clutched in it's teeth.

"The thing didn't seem to be particularly bothered by the air," says Seeley, "All told it spent almost an hour out of water without any discernible signs of damage. I don't think it's really a fish." He added.

The creature proved to be very aggressive, lunging at the gathered students and making high pitched shrieking noises using what was later confirmed to be a set of primitive vocal chords.

"The students were pretty shaken up. Several were weeping. Some were reciting prayers. One wanted to smash it with a rock but I didn't let them," explains Seeley, "You don't just go smashing unidentified species with rocks. Not on school property anyway. "

Recruiting the help of the school's groundskeeper, Harvey Whiteclit, Seeley managed to catch the fish-like creature in a tarp and place it in a large aquarium in the school's science lab.

"As soon as we placed it in the tank it started bashing the walls with it's spiked tail and trying to bite at the glass," says Seeley.

The student body of Oliver North Highschool harbor mixed feelings about the fish. 

"I had to see that thing with my own eyes, "says Quint Harris, a senior at Oliver North Highschool,  "now that I have, I wish I hadn't. Why would a caring God create something like this?"

"I don't like the idea of that thing being in our school," says Debbie Clark, a junior, "There's something evil about it. And it's fins are like little hands. Jesus, I get physically sick just thinking about it."

"This is just another example of the absurd emphasis we place on physical beauty" says Kent Grakner senior and Captain of the school LARP team. "If that fish had big blue eyes,  creamy skin and a well proportioned dorsal muscle we'd all be cooing at it. This superficiality just makes me sick. I'm tired of it."

Grakner is widely regarded as one of the ugliest students at Oliver North Highschool.

The terrible fish is currently being kept at Oliver North Highschool with plans of transferring it to the marine bio-diversity lab at Duke University later this week.

As of this writing, its species has yet to be identified.

Excerpt from the Santa Claus Interview

He's dreaming of a predominantly White Christmas

The following is an excerpt from the Amnesty International Interview with Saint Nicholas conducted by Martin Polk on August 12, 2009 in the North Pole.



August 12, 2009

--I met Saint Nicholas at his home in  the North Pole. He led me to a comfortable drawing room and offered me a bourbon and water.

POLK: So, this is actually a very nice...house? Mansion? What do you call it?

SAINT NICK: (Coughs, clears throat) Well technically it's a ranch house.

P: Well it's very nice. And who lives here? Just you and your wife right?

SN: Yeah, me and her. And sometimes we'll get a visitor. Stay a few days.

P: Really, like an, an elf or somebody-

SN: No. The Elves have their own...the elves have a very different idea of hospitality than we do. They live, they live- (motioning far, far away) -

P: But you have them over from time to time though, they must visit and-

SN: No. No I've never had one here.

P: You've never had an elf...what, in the -in the house? In this house?

SN: Well, I mean, they built it, obviously but after that....

P: What, they don't want to or-

SN: They don't want to and frankly I don't want them to. It's mutual.

P: You don't want them to set foot in your house.

SN: I prefer that we keep different social circles.

P: Why, because you work together and you want to separate your work and your-

SN: It's a little more complex than that but...essentially. Yes. Something like that.

P: So who do you have over to the house if not the elves. Are there other people here in...the North Pole, other people like yourself?

SN: I have friends from all over the world. It's not like I'm a hermit up here. We, me and Mrs. Claus, we only work a few months out of the year and the rest of the time we take advantage of the lifestyle my career has allowed us.

P: So, you go travelling?

SN: Yes. God, absolutely. The North Pole is a great place to get work done,-labor's very, very cheap for instance- but it's not the sort of place you'd want to pursue any sort of social life.

(Suddenly Saint Nicholas becomes agitated. He turns to a nearby window.)

SN: What are you looking at! Go on! Get out of here! Go on!!!

(I turn to look and notice a small, delicate face wreathed in jingle bells. It's staring forlornly through the Northern most window. A second later and it's gone. Saint Nicholas has turned red with anger. He continues staring at the window until long after the face has disappeared.)

P: Was that an elf?

SN: (Grumbles something unintelligible, sips his bourbon and water.)

P: You seemed to be very angry at him. Has he done something wrong?

SN: Wrong? Well, trespassing for starters. This is private property. They know that. This place is off limits to them.

P: He just seemed like he was curious. I don't think there was any harm done-

SN: No harm done? Boy, you city slickers don't have a clue do you? They're like ants. You let one in, two more will show up. You let those in, four more show up.  Pretty soon the place is INFESTED. Then you've got problems. Then you've got problems.

(Saint Nicholas swirls his bourbon and water).

P: But they work for you.

SN: Yes.

P: You need them. You rely on them.

SN: They're convenient for me, yes.

P: And do you, pay them for their services?

SN: In a manner of speaking.

P: What do you mean, in a manner of speaking? Do they receive monetary compensation for their labor?

SN: Money means nothing to them.

P: So what do you pay them in.

SN: I'm not going to answer that. Just rest assured it's a sort of currency they prefer.

P: Is it Jingle bells?

SN: I already told you I'm not answering that question.

P: Are you a racist bigot sir?

SN: This interview is over.

Bro to Dude: Chill!

Dude, whatever, I am fucking done taking to you tonight.

Dude, we go back a long time. All the way back to Highschool to when those kids were throwing rocks at me and you said: "Hey you fuckin' dicks quit it!" So you gotta believe that this does not come easily when I say you gotta chill.

But you do. Just take a step back and look at the situation. Look at yourself. Look at me. I'm your bro, dude. We don't act like this. This is not us.

Now,  I know that I might have been being a bit of a dick but dude, this is the very definition of an incommensurate  response.

Let me explain:

First you were a whiny little bitch when we got to the theater ten minutes late for The Social Network. I know it sucks when you're in the mood for something and you miss it but dude, we're human beings, we adapt to changing situations and it's no reason for you to have been a whiny little bitch

Furthermore, for the record,  I am not the sort of guy who likes walking into a movie ten minutes late. It just ruins it for me. I know we probably only would have missed previews but honestly -and I don't want to sound uncultured or anything- but those are usually my favorite part. That's why I'm not such a jerk about what movie we go and see: I just like laying back, takin' in some previews with my Bro and just chillaxing.

But, if we miss the previews, that's like half the fun for me so I hope you understand why we didn't go see The Social Network and went, instead, to see the Expendables which started 20 minutes later and which I thought was actually a pretty fucking awesome movie and I know you secretly did too.

Secondly,  dude, you ate like all the fucking popcorn. I asked if you wanted to get some and you said no. And so I thought like you didn't actually want any and so I bought a medium one instead of a large thinking I'd be eating the whole thing myself.

Surprise: no.

You decided you were actually very  hungry during the  OPENING CREDITS and started taking big fucking handfuls. I thought you were just having a taste but the popcorn was 2/3 of the way empty by the time Arnold Schwarzenegger showed up.

That is such bullshit and even Chris would agree and you better believe I'm going to tell him about this next time we hang.

Yeah, I know I sound pissed off now. Guess what? I am. Because you totally ruined what should have been a really nice evening by being a dick. And now I feel like a dick because I'm having to tell you to chill out.

Oh and P.S. you remember the reason we were ten minutes late? 'Cuz you had to show me that fucking thing on Youtube about the guy who sees two rainbows and freaks out. That video is 9:38 seconds long. Guess how late we were to the fucking Social Network, genius? Coincidence? Think again.

Man Eats Batteries, Shits Lightning

Thor?

PADFOOT ARIZONA- Harvey Brikkle is your normal everyday Joe. He goes to work at 8, gets home at 6 and is sipping a cold one by 6:30. He's got a wife, two kids, a dog named Gus and an old beat up Chevy named Clementine.

Oh, did we mention that he eats batteries and shits lightning?

Brikkle possesses a rare disorder called Levitas Plasmatoriosis from the Latin meaning "lightning maker".

For an as yet unknown reason Brikkle's body produces an enzyme which allows him to actually store the electrons in regular household batteries and then, using his digestive track,  channel them outwards in a powerful static discharge.

Standing a modest 5'8" and possessing the soft and gentle features of a child, Brikkle, 45, is not an imposing man. Still, the constant dim crackle of electricity emanating  from somewhere deep within his mid-section lends  him a nearly other-worldly aspect.

According to Brikkle it all started when he was 8 years old.

"Dad'd be in the fields," he says "Ma would be in the kitchen and I'd  have my run of the house, and I'd just eat things. You know, whatever I found: pieces of rock, tiny black things, stuff the cat didn't like."

It wasn't long before Brikkle discovered the food that would later make him (in)famous throughout Padfoot.

"My Dad used to collect flashlights," says Brikkle, "at one point he had the second largest personal collection of consumer level flashlights in all of Padfoot. Well, one day he sort of left one out..."

According to Brikkle, he unscrewed the casing of the flashlight and out slid four shiny AA Duracell batteries.

"I 'member thinkin' they was the most beautiful things I ever seen...so I just...you know...ate 'em."

Five hours later the house was on fire and Brikkle's younger brother was dead, his bones turned to glass from a blast of potent electricity seemingly directed from the top-most bunk.

"We was all sad 'bout that o'course," says Brikkle's father Earl, "But also excited because of Harvey's miraculous gift."

As soon as word got out about his unusual ability Brikkle became a local celebrity, touring the radio talk-show circuit, appearing at various State Fairs and even performing,  albeit briefly, in a traveling Circus under the name "Lil' Shock Ass".

Unfortunately, like the polarizing quality of electricity itself,  Brikkle's strange power soon divided the towns people of Padfoot.

"Harvey is THE most off the hook son of a bitch I've ever met," says Angus Mingus, one of the many local butchers, "I seen him blow up a dog once 'cuz it looked at him, or didn't look at him. Don't know which."

"Harvey is the nicest boy I've ever met" says Edwina Sinclair, retired housewife, "He's always so caring and kind.  I don't care at all that he possesses a terrible power."

Brikkle, trying to stem the tide of negative sentiment,  cut back on his performances, relegating himself to dinner theater a few nights a week at various local venues. 

Sadly, following a few minor incidents at Pete's Egg Dog and Steak House, public sentiment began to drift inexorably towards distrust and finally to fear.

Brikkle was soon forced to abandon his life as an entertainer altogether.

"Them was good times," says Brikkle with a tinge of remorse, "but I couldn't do it forever. Gotta grow up you know. Earn an honest living."

Now-a-days Brikkle works full time at the rock quarry and keeps his special talent under wraps so to speak.

"I bring it out at parties sometimes, or you know, special occasions." Brikkle chuckles then goes quiet for a moment. "And every once in a while," He adds, "When it's real quiet and the night's real still. No wind, not a cloud in the sky. I hike up Padfoot Peak, swallow a handful of 9 volts, grab my knees and give 'em one hell of a storm."

WEEKLY LIMERICK!!

HESSIAN OBSESSION

There was a filthy old whore from Dubai,
who more than once thought she would die,
from a spirited session,
with a bearded young hessian,
said she: "it's better'n takin' it in yer eye!"

How To: Cure Cancer!

Heard a rumor, you had a tumor

Uh-oh! Got the lumps?

Don't worry, it happens to the best of us and with this easy do-it-yourself guide you'll be in remission in no time!*

WHAT YOU'LL NEED:

1 tissue culture flask filled with trypticase soy agar

Several syringes ranging in size from 60ml-120ml capacity

1 Tourniquet (a regular ol' belt will do!)

Several blood separation tubes lined with a gel possessing a specific gravity of between 1.060-1.065 g/cm3

A healthy friend with the same blood type as you (no cancer!)

A centrifuge

Rubber gloves

A Celestron 44340 LCD Digital LDM Biological Microscope

A sample of a human retrovirus that has become activated via the removal of the protein ESAT (Ask your local hospital or go on EBAY)


___________________________________________________________________

THE PROCEDURE

1. First take some blood from your healthy friend using the tourniquet and syringe. (120 ml should do).
2. Place blood in separation tubes (split sample among three tubes)
3. Place two of the tubes in centrifuge and set on speed 2 for one hour. Place the other tube in cold storage.
4. Turn off centrifuge.
5. By now the lymphocytes (white blood cells) should have separated from the rest of the blood. They will appear as a white layer almost like congealed bacon fat.
6. Put one of the tubes in cold storage.
7. Harvest a sample of the healthy lymphocytes from the remaining tube.
8. Next take the sample and place in one of the blood culture tanks lined with trypticase soy agar.
9. Administer a small amount (just eyeball it) of the prepared retrovirus to the lymphocytes.
10. Cover and place in a nutrient bath and monitor for several hours.
11. Take a sample and observe under electron microscope. The lymphocytes should now be "infected" with the retrovirus and should appear like this:

Not all retroviruses are bad

(notice the uniform size and color. This is a sign of infection.)

12. Take the tube of un-separated blood out of cold storage.
13. Bring the blood up to body temperature and then combine the retrovirus infected lymphocytes to the healthy blood.
14. Now comes the fun part. Inject yourself with this retro-cocktail! The vein in the arm is fine.
15. If all goes correctly, the retrovirus should act as a blood-hound (pun intended!) sniffing throughout your system for a certain protein which grows on the outsides of tumor walls.
16. The retrovirus delivers genes that allow for the production of T Cell Receptors. These receptors work much like packets of plastic explosive and when they get attached to tumor walls they blow them up! Take that cancer!
17. Obviously this treatment must be repeated under a strict regiment (three times a day in fact) for several months. But if all goes well your cancer may very well go into remission!
18. Congratulations!

Check back Next Week for: How to Kill Your Target!

*For the love of god, don't try this at home folks.

Weekly Limerick!!

PORK

There's a peculiar young lady from Cork,
Who confesses a fondness for pork,
but she gets quite unnerved,
when at dinner it's served,
And she won't let it come near her fork.

We're All Figments of Your Imagination, Kevin

A recent study at the Harvard Center for cognitive theory has conclusively proven  that we are all figments of your imagination, Kevin.

It's true. The numbers don't lie. Nor do the voices in your head that have no doubt been telling you the same thing for years.

The study, conducted by Dr. Philip Stark (who incidentally, is also a figment of your imagination) has generated astounding evidence intimately linking everybody in the world to you, Kevin.

Just as you've always suspected, as soon as you leave a room, that room ceases to exist

Kevin, Kevin, Kevin

until you return to it.

Places like China that you've never been to don't actually exist and won't actually exist until you go there at which point they will be spontaneously generated by your own thoughts and feelings at that moment. 

That movie you saw last week on Netflix, the one with Meg Ryan that you thought was so funny? Guess what. It was a figment of your imagination. So was Netflix.

And that girl you met at the bar who ended up dancing with your friend Chris instead of you? Both of them were figments of your imagination. So was the bar for that matter. So was the ABBA they were dancing to.

Furthermore, as backwards as it sounds,  your parents didn't exist until You were born Kevin. Nothing did.

Does this mean that you're some sort of God Kevin? Some sort of fundamental aspect of the universe and all creation is just a passing whim of yours? Are whole planetary systems built and destroyed in  some grand cosmic dance orchestrated by you and you alone? Can you temper the very fabric of space and time and bend matter to your will using nothing but the power of your magnificent mind, Kevin?

We don't know, you'll have to tell us because we're figments of your imagination too.

Weekly Limerick!!

IN THE NAVY

In the 101st battalion of the Navy,
there's a well known ship's cook named Davy,
All day he peels tates,
for his salty sea mates,
but will not reveal how he makes gravy.

Theater Review: The Ballad of Secular Jesus

Clarence Needley as the eponymous Secular Jesus

By Wade Crevasse


The Funtime Players are a small theater Troupe out of Long Island.

Their previous original production "My Father: My Hero" was a bloated saccharine canker about the war in Iraq that inadvertently  had me siding with Bin Laden by the end.

So it was with a considerable amount of trepidation that I went to see The Funtime Players latest original piece, a musical entitled "The Ballad of Secular Jesus".

To say that "The Ballad of Secular Jesus" is bad would be incorrect or at the very least, insufficient from a linguistic standpoint. Doing so would be like calling the planet Jupiter "large" or the great, frigid vacuum of infinite space "cold".

In fact, "The Ballad of Secular Jesus" is, without a doubt, the single worst piece of art I have ever seen.

Keep in mind that I have been reviewing art performances and gallery openings for over 20 years. I have written literally hundreds of reviews for every form of art imaginable.

I have watched a man eat a jar of caviar while reading Lenin's "April Thesis" only to shit into his own palm nine hours later in order to symbolize how the Bourgeousie and the proletariate unite within the body of the middle class.

I have watched a twenty hour video of a man watching a 20 hour video of himself watching a 20 hour video of himself.

I had thought these incidents to be new lows for the art world but after watching "The Ballad of Secular Jesus" I can see how wrong I was:

"The Ballad of Secular Jesus" is literally worse than watching a man shit into his own hand.

This observation alone should be review enough for many, but for those who are somehow still unconvinced, by all means read on.

As the title implies, "The Ballad of Secular Jesus" is essentially the story of Jesus Christ told in modern times but without any of the religious trappings.

What we are left with is the incredibly bland and morally vapid tale of a 33 year old bearded carpenter who is essentially just a nice guy but: "not the greatest carpenter!" as J.C. himself exclaims every five minutes or so in an on-going song and dance number entitled "Hammer and Nails, it never fails!"

Through the production's alarmingly self-indulgent 242 minute run time we follow Jesus from childhood to adulthood.

A single actor plays the parts of both child Jesus and adult Jesus and the actor, a Mr. Clarence Needley would be well advised to not only not quit his day job, but to never act in anything ever again.

There's a Mary character (played with ear-ringing shrillness by Mandy Draper), a Judas character (Kevin Saint) and an ethereal father character who may or may not be the head of the carpenter's union and is played with all the bravado of a handful of gypsum by Roger Dodds.

There's a whole lot of other useless crap that basically exists only as an excuse to knock-up the already swollen run time with as many song and dance numbers as possible.

By the end of the show the audience was understandably exhausted and visibly angry.

I personally felt violated, poisoned from somewhere deep within my soul in a way I haven't since watching my father die slowly from cancer.

In both cases I was forced to witness something awful that I was powerless to stop. In both cases I raised my eyes to God to beg for mercy and received nothing but silence.

And perhaps this is the point of "The Ballad of Secular Jesus": if there is no god, it follows that there is no soul and if there is no soul then all the horrors in all the world are illusions made by man for the sake of tormenting himself during his brief tenure on earth.

If that's the case then the Funtime Players have certainly succeeded in their mission.

I humbly suggest therefore that we take advantage of what little moral authority we do have by arresting those responsible for this horror and hanging them by their necks until dead.

The Ballad of Secular Jesus is playing at the New Town Theater located at 344 Skillman Ave.
Brooklyn
Tickets are $15 at the door, $10 in advance.

Sarah Palin Found to be Made Entirely Out of Cancer

The marauding clot of free radicals known as Sarah Palin

By Leo French

Following a minor stumble on a patch of wet pavement during the filming of her new reality show "Palin!" Sarah Palin was admitted to the emergency room at Homer Alaska's Frontier National Hospital Saturday afternoon.

There, following a series of routine tests, Sarah Palin was found to be made entirely out of cancer.

"Now let's make this very clear," said Dr. Martin Gebbes, head oncologist at Frontier hospital, "Sarah Palin doesn't HAVE cancer, she IS cancer."

Apparently Palin's entire body is composed entirely of cancerous cells, free radicals that have, due to a series of mutations, begun to replicate themselves out of control -in this case, into the graven shape of Sarah Palin.

"I've honestly never seen anything quite like it," says Gebbes, "usually cancer infects a part of a person's body, never the whole thing."

Cancer tends to come in two different types: benign and malignant.

Generally, benign tumors tend to be kept in-line by the body's own immune system which attacks and ultimately regulates potentially cancerous growths.

Occasionally however, a tumor can grow in such a way that the body's own defenses are not aware of the danger until it is too late.

When this happens, the tumor becomes "malignant" and begins siphoning off valuable resources from normal cells in order to feed itself.

"But the great danger of course," says Dr. Gebbes, "is when a tumor metastasizes. That's when cancer actually enters the blood stream and spreads to other parts of the body."

According to Gebbes, in Palin's case this seemed to have happened sometime in late 2008.

"Before then it [Palin] was definitely something I would have watched carefully for signs of growth, strange discoloration and so on," says Gebbes, "but at least she was mostly relegated to Alaska."

When shown a map of the United States post 2008 with Palin visits outlined in red Gebbes shakes his head.

"If this were a patient's x-ray, I'd give them three months to live. Tops."

When informed of the rather surprising diagnosis the Sarah Palin tumor seemed strangely up-beat saying "now that's what I call goin' Rogue!"

CERN Scientist Speaks: "We May All Be Living Inside the Asshole of a Young Boy!"

"They're where?"

By Creme Bremerton

I-Phone? Check. Wi-fi? Check.  Secret of the universe....er...

While technology continues to make unprecedented leaps and bounds, the big questions still remain un-answered: why are we here? And where exactly are we anyway?

Recently however, a large piece of the puzzle seems to have fallen into place. And you'll never guess where that place is.

"Well it's very interesting" says CERN particle physicist Dr. Adrian Rance, "for the longest time we thought that we were the center of a very finite universe. Then, thanks to a series of breakthroughs we learned that we were, in fact, merely a speck in an infinitely expanding universe. Now, with the Large Hadron Collider and recent experiments in light refraction, we're starting to realize that space IS finite after all and has a very definite shape."

For those "out of the loop" so to speak, the Large Hadron Collider is the world's largest particle accelerator. Over 20 km long and capable of accelerating protons to 9/10s the speed of light, the collider offers unprescedented potential for dissecting the universe around us and finally learning what makes it all tick.

"The LHC is sort of like the world's sharpest knife." says Rance. "For the first time we're finally able to break down the universe to a fundamental level and that's exciting."

Chief amongst the proposed experiments at CERN is the so-called "fabric mapping". By accelerating particles to very high-speeds and then refracting them off of each other the scientists at CERN have been able to create a sort of high-speed "sonar" using particles of light instead of sound.

The resulting information, when properly assembled via computer, is a remarkable, albeit rather clumsy portrait of the known universe.

The more tests they performed however, the more vivid the image became until finally a strangely familiar shape began to emerge.

"For a good day and a half we just sort of stared [at the computer generated image]. " Says Rance. "Then finally somebody just said it: 'You know what that kind of looks like-'"

According to Rance and his colleagues, all evidence from these experiments point to the staggering possibility that Earth, our galaxy and, in fact, the entire known universe exists inside the asshole of a young boy.

"We were as shocked as anyone," said Rance. "I mean, our best guess was that we were all living inside some sort of infinite and self perpetuating 11 dimensional membrane whose properties were by and large governed by the vibrations of impossibly tiny strings made of pure energy. I can honestly say that I never once considered the possibility that we were all simply living inside the asshole of a young boy."

Renowned proctologists were brought in to verify the data. Recognizable muscle groups and other anotomical features were quickly identified amongst the bleary, pixelated images.

"The image quality isn't so good," says Dr. Leonard Ghims, a proctologist at Mt. Sinai hospital in New York, "but it's on par with a regular sonogram from a routine colonostomy. I have to say, if you were to present this to me with no other explanation and asked me to tell you what it was, I'd say with a certain degree of confidence that it is a sonically generated image of the interior of a young boy's asshole. I've seen a thousand of them."

Obviously the religious and psychological ramifications of this discovery are potentially devastating.

"It's awful," says Rance, "I can't do anything anymore without that thought rolling over in my head. I'm shopping for groceries...inside a young boys asshole. I'm washing my car....inside a young boy's asshole. I'm making love to my wife...well you get the picture."

And it doesn't stop there. As Rance points out: everything that has ever happened in our history has taken place inside a young boy's asshole. Every word Shakespeare ever wrote, every symphony Mozart ever composed has occurred inside the untold cosmic depths of a young boy's asshole.

While the exact age and identity of the boy remain unknown, experts agree that whoever he is, he is in decent health and likely between the ages of 9 and 12.

"Not that it matters, but he's probably also caucasian," added Dr. Ghims. "You can tell by the size of the prostate."

Top Ten Snake Names

Posted by Randy J. Peasley

1. Slither Hither
2. Scale River
3. Tail All
4. Coiled Hell
5. Time/Space Stop (in form of deadly reptile)
6. Grass Assassin
7. The Lying-In-Waitington
8. Ankle fucker
9. Rape Foot
10. Lil' No Hands

Top Ten Shark Names

Posted by Kent Peasley

1. Kilometer Eater
2. Fathom Hammer
3. Shark of the East
4. Depth Wolf
5. Eat Genius
6. The Under Hitler
7. Gill Demon
8. Bite Captain
9. Neptune's Bastard
10. Fish Impossible

WEEKLY LIMERICK!!!!!!

CRABS

I once contracted crabs from a whore.
they leapt from her gash by the score.
they formed ranks as they landed,
and their numbers expanded,
I fear they shall soon declare war.

Concerning the Discovery of Life on Mars

By Jarvis Wade

Hey, for those who haven't been following the whole Mars thing, here's a quick recap.

So yes, they did technically find life on Mars. But before you start shooting at the sky, realize that these aren't little green men we're dealing with.

They're actually very tiny micro-bacterial organisms buried in the sub-stratum ice around Mars' frozen polar ice caps.

These creatures are VERY simple in structure, hardly even of the order of bacteria. Furthermore, there's still heated debate between scientists on whether or not these organisms can even be considered lifeforms.

And of course that's part of the debate nobody really ever anticipated about the discovery of alien life: since it's alien, how can we use our current standards to define it?

Let's think about this for a second people:

What if we come across digital life forms? Sentient robots? Mindless collectives or, as the current situation holds, proto-bacteria that subsist on ammonia gasses and seem unable to reproduce on their own (apparently one of the big sticking points for these "anti-life" scientists).

If racism has torn our world apart, imagine what a terrible social disease "life-ism" will be when finally begin routinely dealing with other life forms. What standards will we ultimately use to qualify if something is alive or it isn't?

Personally, from what I understand of these "new" life forms they fit the bill close enough that I have no problem extending a hearty welcome to our tiny little pantheon of existence. There's little enough life out there already, no point arguing semantics.

Besides, it's exciting as hell. Evidence that life has arisen not once, but TWICE independently within our own, tiny solar system bodes well for the existence of life on a far grander scale elsewhere in the universe.

So to you tiny, mindless little microbes swirling around the southern pole of Mars: welcome to a very exclusive club. So far there are only two members. May that number expand greatly.

In the meantime, keep watching the skies.

JW

INCEPTION MOVIE REVIEW by Sam Skant

Hey Guys,


So I finally went and saw the movie "Inception" yesterday and here I am with the full review. Warning! Spoilers ahead!

Alright, first of all, the film isn't as "mind crazy" as everybody is saying.

Sure it has it's moments where you just scratch your head and say "Mr. Nolan, you simply have too much time on your hands!" But really, there's nothing much here that you haven't seen before.

Concerning the plot itself. Basically the story takes place in the near future where brains have stopped being able to generate certain vital brainwaves (some sort of evolutionary failsafe to keep species from getting too prolific I think).

The story centers around four "Dream Jumpers" who's job it is to the obtain these vital brain waves at whatever the cost (moral or otherwise).

In order to accomplish this they kidnap special children (teen agers more like) who for whatever reason have brains that produce these vital brain waves when they dream.

They take these chidlren to their lab which (for some reason) is in a giant decrepit ocean liner that looks all grimy from the outside but inside is really super high-tech.

The thing is, they kidnap this one kid who isn't really a kid at all but another brain agent (played by who else but eternally cherub faced Ellen Page). And guess what? She's got her own agenda.

Page plays along for awhile, allowing the four men (Dicaprio, Watanabe et al) to enter into her young mind to try and steal her thoughts or something.

The creepiest part of it is the strangely sexual manner in which Nolan treats these mind "insertion" scenes.

The men all climb into this long -and remarkably phallic- train-like device and then, following this CGI odyssey, somehow manage to transmit their mental algorithms INTO little Ms. Page who lies in a weird gynocologist's chair biting her lip in what anybody who hasn't watched the lead up would assume to be a rape scene. Hmmm....what could it all mean?

The four men end up inside Page's mind and things just deteriorate from there. Of course Dicaprio ends up falling in love with Page's mind. Feels guilty about kidnapping her and mind-raping her and tries to save her.

But of course Page isn't any angel herself and there's this series of predictable double crosses which essentially amount to the "mind bendy" version of the Rom Com meet-cute.

Eventually Page (her mind's version of herself anyway) decides that she loves Dicaprio and escapes through her own mind with her mind's version of Dicaprio as they're chased by Watanabe and several other guys armed with mind guns.

I honestly sort of slipped in and out of the movie. At one point there's a scene where Dicaprio is fighting Watanabe on top of this CGI pyramid with, can you believe it, broadswords while Ellen Page somehow manages to conjure this fucking Golem out of the sand of her own mind to fight him.

And get this: the Golem is made up of all the negative thoughts Page's character has been keeping locked inside for so long which sets up the final kicker:

(Warning Big Spoiler ahead):

Ellen Page wakes up and...

It was all a dream.

Or rather, it was all one big psycho-therapy session for Page's character to come to terms with, you guessed it, getting raped by four men five years earlier.
Of course her psychologist is none other than dreamy Leo himself made intellectual here by wearing a pair of ridiculous spectacles.

Now while some might call that sort of surprise ending "revolutionary" I, for one say that any movie that ends with the main character waking up only to find that the whole movie we've become vested in is a dream is simply lazy story telling and it's got more in common with M. Night what's-his-face's latest trends of sudden, un-earned endings than anything else.

Still, beats the rest of the swill out this summer.


Check back next week for a review of Toy Story 3

DAD HATE

(Transcript from an ad I saw last night on Illinois public access TV)


INT. A KID’S ROOM-NIGHT

A little kid sits in bed.
His father, a jerk in a suit is yelling at him.

DAD
And this room is a mess! I work all day to put food on the table and this is what I come home to?

The kid stares on, innocent, easily wounded by words. Close on the father’s mouth. Spitting with rage.

DAD (CONT'D)
You’re useless! You’re lazy! Don’t look at me like that! Hey! Hey! I’m not done talking to you! Why couldn’t you have turned out more like your brother?

The scene freezes and a muscular BEAST OF A MAN walks in front of the camera like in an old, low budget divorce lawyer ad.

He looks like the MACHO MAN RANDY SAVAGE.

BEAST OF A MAN
(Points to camera)
Hey kids! You hate your dad? Well give me a call. I’ll throw your dad off a fuckin’ roof!

As he’s taking we-

CUT TO:

EXT. BUILDING-NIGHT
The BEAST of a MAN tosses the SCREAMING DAD off the roof in slow-mo.

BACK TO:

INT. A KID’S ROOM-NIGHT
The scene remains frozen. The beast of a man continues talking to the camera.

BEAST OF A MAN
Call 1-800-455-2600 or go to WWWW.DADHATE.COM. Act now and I’ll run your mother over with a fucking garbage truck.

The DADHATE logo spins into frame.

BLACK

INT. DINING ROOM-NIGHT

The FATHER from earlier sits at the table with a MOTHER and the SON from earlier.
Plates of healthy vegetables line the table.

The SON is throwing a TANTRUM.

SON
I HATE IT! IT’S DISGUSTING! I’M NOT EATING IT! I WANT MACARONI! I WANT MACARONIIIII!!!!!!

The FATHER and MOTHER look at each other, exhausted.

The SCENE freezes and the SAME BEAST of a MAN from earlier steps on screen.

BEAST OF A MAN
Hey Mom, Dad, kid won’t eat his greens? Drop me a line and I’ll make him eat all the dirt in the fucking yard!

CUT TO:
EXT. LAWN-DAY

The BEAST OF A MAN holds the KID down and shovels dirt and grass into his mouth.

CUT TO:

INT. STUDIO
The BEAST OF A MAN stands in front of a graphic backdrop that says: KIDHATE.

BEAST OF A MAN
Call 1-800-455-2600 or go to WWW.KIDHATE.COM. While you’re at it make sure to check out our other services:

As he’s talking various STILL IMAGES flash across the screen.
Each image shows the BEAST OF A MAN throwing the specified object off a fucking roof.

BEAST OF A MAN (CONT'D)
DOGHATE, BRIDEHATE, BOSSHATE, TAXHATE, BRAHATE and SHARKHATE.

Back to the BEAST of MAN.

BEAST OF A MAN (CONT'D)
Act now and I’ll kill you my fucking self!

Overcome with rage, he runs towards the camera.

BLACK.

CUT TO:

INT. STUDIO

THE BEAST OF A MAN sits in a chair in the middle of the studio.

The KID and DAD stand behind him, smiling warmly.

BEAST OF A MAN
Hey, sometimes I joke about breaking your yappy dog in half or killin’ your fucking kid but hate is no laughing matter. I’ve got a chemical imbalance and it’s turning me into a monster.

The father lays a nervous hand on the BEAST OF A MAN’s shoulder.

BEAST OF A MAN (CONT'D)
I’m trying so hard.

The BEAST OF A MAN smiles awkwardly at the camera.

A RAINBOW SPATTERED LOGO which reads: “TOGETHER WE CAN” floats across the screen.
The sound of a flute.

BLACK

BAD EGGS: Another Chapter in the Unabridged Suicide Note of Ricky Myron

CHAPTER 41:

BAD EGGS

In addition to the various barns and sheds dotting our decrepit estate, a flimsy, ancient chicken coop stood in the corner of the property like a threadbare wraith.

The “coop” was home to all manner of fowl from chickens of various breeds to turkeys to ducks and geese.

I will not lie, the living conditions inside the coop were abysmal. The outdoor area was completely covered, top to bottom in chicken wire. Mud covered the ground there for a full ten months out of the year. The various birds paced around inside like convicts, picking fights, raping each other, eating each others eggs and shitting inside the empty nests.

Inside the coop things were no better. A fine powder made from ancient chicken droppings, straw dust and bird dander coated the floor and a grey haze fogged the air like smoke. Here the surliest chickens would roost in nooks and crannies, leering out from the haze with the psychopathic hatred of hard lifers.

Upon entering the coop to feed the inmates one could expect to be shrieked at, lunged at and pecked at. Geese would chase you with their necks down and their mouths open hoping to give you such a pinch that you’d think twice about ever setting foot in their neck of the woods again.

Usually, being an animal lover, I would suffer these pecks and jabs without complaint pulling a Jesus and whispering “forgive them o’ lord for they know not what they do” or else chuckling happily and saying “good one pal!” while wiping the trickle of blood away from whatever open patch of skin I was foolish enough to leave exposed.

Of course patience is valuable only because it is finite and tolerance, while often mistaken for weakness, is in fact a brand of wiry strength that, when stretched past it’s range, tends to snap back with remarkable force. The kind of force that leaves welts.

On that note, there were two birds that not only tested the patience of my family and friends, but exceeded it as well. They were known, unaffectionately, as the “Shit-head Roosters.”

The Shit-head Roosters were identical to one another. They were short, maybe eight inches tall, had ridiculous red combs on top of their heads and long, wicked barbs on the backs of their feet. Their feathers were a sort of muted gold mixed with a dark, hateful blue. They were meaner than hell.

They were so mean that they had either been kicked out of the chicken coop by the other chickens (a feat comparable to getting kicked out of a maximum security prison for being too tough) or else left on their own because beating up other chickens was getting too easy and they wanted to stick it to the lanky monkeys outside.

One generally associates chickens with ground fowl, which is valid as they are usually spotted on the ground. Roosters, however are called roosters because they like to roost. In fact, most chickens are possessed of a limited flying ability and, by flapping like mad, can usually gain branches twenty or so feet off the ground.

The Shit-head roosters had therefore taken up roost in a tree right outside of Guthrie and Candace’s house which, in turn, was kitty-corner to the chicken coop. With the exception of late autumn, the tree was usually covered with a thick camouflage of leaves which made the Shit-head roosters all but impossible to see. Coming home from work after a long day, Guthrie or Candace would inevitably be exhausted and their minds would not be on self-defense but on bills to pay, chores to do or issues having risen at work.

The Shit-head Roosters’ standard method of attack was to wait until their prey was a little bit past the tree, maybe three feet or so, and then leap off their perch. Slowing their descent by flapping, they would then land on the back of the person’s neck and begin kicking like mad with their talons.

Usually they would do this one by one, tag-teaming a person by alternating attacks. Other times, when they were feeling particularly nasty, they would descend in unison and wreak a special type of synchronized hell.

Once engaged, the Shit-head roosters were surprisingly difficult to detach as their claws could clutch through the fabric of one’s shirt while their beaks did terrible work to the scalp and neck. Seeing a person flail under the attack of the Shit-head roosters was both humorous and terrifying. The victims would stumble back and forth screaming obscenities and clutching madly at the air, begging for somebody to get the damned things off.

If you were in earshot you would, of course, wish to oblige. The thing was, you would have to count how many roosters there were before you went in to help because if you only saw one, that meant that the other was sitting there, waiting in the tree for you to come closer so that it could jump down and kick you in the neck too.

The roosters never did any real damage. There were cuts that bled and torn shirts and scratches but nothing life threatening or disfiguring in any permanent way.

But it happened a lot.

It happened especially to Candace and Guthrie and, understandably, they grew tired of it. The roosters didn’t seem to understand that, when the gloves came off, they were really no match for an angry human being.

The only thing that kept Candace and Guthrie from retaliating in kind was their pervasive love and tolerance for all living things. They could have destroyed the roosters if they wanted to. They could have lit their tree on fire and waited on the ground with machetes and stew-pots. But they didn’t. They just suffered and bore it. For a time.

I wasn’t there for the actual breaking of the levee but I have heard it recounted enough times to feel like I was. It was night. It was winter and Guthrie had gone outside to fetch some wood for the fire. The tree was missing quite a few leaves by this time but it was dark enough that you couldn’t see anyway. Guthrie made it to the wood shed alright, loaded up a full bushel of wood and started back.

As he passed under the tree he heard a familiar flapping sound and one of the Shit-head roosters landed on the back of his neck and started kicking. Guthrie dropped the wood in surprise. It landed on his foot and hurt.

Cursing he scrambled with the rooster. He had just managed to dislodge the first rooster when the second landed on his neck. This one didn’t just kick; it leaned forward, muttered something ugly and bit his ear.

With the second rooster biting through his earlobe Guthrie turned around just in time to see the first rooster in mid-flight traveling back towards him, eyes down, beak open in rage. The angle was just right.

Guthrie pulled back his foot and kicked. The rooster sailed up into the night sky like a well kicked soccer ball –a good forty feet or so from what I understand- decided that he’d had enough and flapped his way over the house and was gone. I believe he was taken by eagles shortly after.

Perhaps the other shit-head rooster paused briefly to watch his twin disappear over the roof and into the wilds beyond. Perhaps it turned back to Guthrie with a look a redoubled fury, it’s eyes flashing the words “you killed my brother.” Perhaps Guthrie and the second rooster battled long into the night, like Beowulf and Grendel’s mother at the bottom of the lake. Or perhaps, after watching it’s evil twin disappear over the rooftop, the second Shit-head rooster let out a tortured crow of defeat and, detaching itself from Guthrie’s torn and bleeding neck, let itself fall to the ground where it remained for the rest of its days, a broken ex-villain.

Although I never actually got the full story as to how Guthrie’s battle with the second rooster concluded. I am guessing that the latter version is closer to the truth.

With it’s brother gone, the other Shit-head rooster became a shadow of it’s former self. It ran from people and other chickens, ate at night, slept fitfully during the day and spent most of its time roosting in that same tree, waiting, waiting for that familiar flap of wings on the wind and the days to come where he and his brother would once again swoop down from the branches of the great tree and kick the necks of passersby.

Nature Nurses Vulture causes shoot out

Hey guys, it's R. Myron again,

Just wanting to thank everybody for coming to last night's String Theory Festival.

It was one hell of a show. Rutger Hauer M.D. opened followed by Sluggy Baby. Next up was Kitty's Got An Erection followed by The Brown Gift and Sayonara Motherfucker.

Of course saving the best for last, Nature Nurses Vulture was (as usual) totally fucking creepy and hats off to those of you who stayed for the whole show.

For those who didn't, perhaps a little catch up is in order (especially for those of you who left friends behind and couldn't manage to contact them until early today).

So, after the first set, which ended with Vulture's timeless classic "Yes Vagina, There is a Santa Claus", the rest of the band took five while lead singer Karl Dumgrot dimmed the lights and announced to the audience that he was HIV positive (he's not).

Of course, no one else in the audience knew this and several of his ex-girlfriends (who happened to be there) FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.

One of the ladies who will remain nameless (at least until the inevitable court case releases its verdict) rushed the stage and proceeded to just BEAT THE LIVING SHIT out of Dumgrot calling him all sorts of things ("blood traitor" being my personal favorite).

Of course due in part to these colorful epithets, (as well as the fact that Vulture's shows tend to be a little hmm...should we say "theatrical"? ) At first everybody thought this was all part of the act.

It wasn't until Dumgrot grabbed the mic and managed in a squeeky voice to yell for help that security jumped to it and escorted the young lady off stage.

But that wasn't it. Not quite. On her way to the door the young lady in question managed to grab one of the security guards service pistols and PROCEEDED TO EMPTY AN ENTIRE CLIP in the direction of the stage miraculously hitting nothing.

So, nobody got hurt except for Dumgrot who arguably deserves it because jokes like that really aren't that funny (except when they are).

Concert goers were detained for a few hours following the "incident" to answer questions so that should probably explain why your friends didn't meet you for drinks afterwards like they said they would.

Regardless, the concert was wild, the music was crazy and the venue ("Contagion" between 1st and Gilly) was awesome.

Hope to see you at the next String Theory Festival which is slated for September 11. Venue to be announced!

How To: Summon a Demon!

WHAT YOU'LL NEED:

1. An altar (Preferably one stained with blood.)

2. Sacrificial material: (I like to use prime rib but any type of high quality meat will do. Although please note that generally Demons find meat substitutes (i.e. Boca, Tofurkey etc...) to be offensive and will often punish with fire if these offerings are made.

3. A summoning medium (essentially any sort of liquid will do but bodily fluids tend to hold special favor with these creatures.)

4. Chalk (for drawing diagrams and summoning circles).

5. Suitable music. To set the mood. I’ve used many things over the years but I’ve found that the B side of the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom soundtrack works perfectly. Purchase it here:

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom [Original Motion Picture Soundtrck]

6. Some incendiary material. (I use lighter fluid myself.)

7. A fire extinguisher.

8. Snacks, drinks and other refreshments you may personally require.

_________________________________________________________________________

THE RITUAL:

First of all you must decide what Demon you are going to summon. There is a vast pantheon of demons and dark servants out there and each has it’s own particular benefits and dangers!!

For this particular guide we are going to be focusing on summoning Radishangar, a minor plague imp of the Valtenzarg and a former servant of Grantack the God Eater (If the scrolls of Golti-Marchi-Brolian can be believed anyway!! Thanks Pam -ED).

1. To begin with, clear your summoning space of all debris. Make sure you have removed any and all posters or packages with visible brand names from the walls and surfaces. Demons are a very critical lot and will judge you on your political and even artistic preferences.

Next: take your chalk and, on the floor draw an isocolces triangle. Make sure the triangle is exactly 4 feet on it’s two longest sides.

Next: draw a square around the triangle, containing it.

NOTE: Make sure that the two sides are exactly the same length! If Radishangar is not summoned inside an isocoles triangle he will speak only lies!

ALSO: Make sure the square is completely closed otherwise Radishangar can escape and spread disease.

2. Place your offering on the altar.

No real ritual is needed for this. Since you haven’t summoned Radishangar yet, he will not be paying attention to what you do at this point.

3. Next, turn on Indiana Jones (I use a cassette. If you’re using a CD, use track #7 and just keep it there on repeat for the duration of the ritual.)

Say the following words in a deep, clear, strong voice:

NOW IS THE TIME OF THE GREAT INCONGRUITY
WHEN THE DOORS OF THE VALTENZARG WILL SWING WIDE
AND THE WRITHING SERPENT OF GOLTI-MARCHI-BROLIAN
WILL EMERGE IN A FLOOD OF DARKNESS AND ALL LIGHT BEFORE IT
SHALL BE CONSUMED BY THE THOUSAND AND ONE MOUTHS
OF GRANTACK THE GOD-EATER.
HEAR ME NOW AND ACCEPT THIS OFFERING !

4. Now, spray your offering with lighter fluid and light it. Not too much, you don’t want to burn the house down!

5. Once the meat is burning say the following words in a deep, clear, strong voice

(NOTE: try to time it in synch with the Kali Ma chant on Indiana Jones.)

WHEN THE SOULS OF THE RELUCTANT DEAD
GATHER TO STOKE THE FIRES THAT SMOLDER
AT THE BASE OF THE DARKEN CAVE OF BRAG-MILDEN-ZERN
HOME TO THE NINE TORMENTORS OF RADISHANGAR,
THERE BEATS THE HEART OF THE ONE WITH NO NAME.
FORGED IN THE TALLOW OF HUMAN BONES
HIS FIST BEATS THE ANVIL OF GOD
AND CRACKS THE VERY MANTLE OF HEAVEN.

6. Now take your summoning medium and spray a little into each of the four corners of the square.

(I like to use one of those condiment bottles that chefs use to put sauce on their dishes. You can get them for $1.50 at any restaurant supply store.)

NOTE: Remember, if you’ve decided to use urine or another bodily fluid, make sure to keep the bottle out of the kitchen or at least label it: SUMMONING MEDIUM to avoid confusion.

7. By now your offering should be pretty well cooked. Time to put it out. If the lighter fluid has pretty well exhausted itself, you can just cover the offering with a bowl or something else to snuff it out. If the lighter fluid has managed to catch fire to your altar then just use your fire extinguisher to put it out.

NOTE: Do not use a wooden or flammable altar!
However, DO NOT ACTUALLY REMOVE THE OFFERING FROM THE ALTAR UNTIL THE DEMON HAS LEFT. If you do so, the DEMON may believe that you are stealing from it and cause you harm.

8. Once the fire is out, spray the rest of the SUMMONING MEDIUM into the middle of the triangle and wait.

NOTE: Be patient! Demons are notoriously poor with time management and this might take anywhere from 2-3 days. Aren’t you glad you brought those snacks?
You should know that your demon has arrived when a foul odor emanates from the altar. When this happens say in a clear, strong voice:

HARK! HATH THOUH DEMON ENTERED INTO MY DOMAIN?

The demon may or not answer. Do not be deterred.

Be sure to check back next week for how to get rid of the dern Thing!

The Mother of Invention by Slappy and Dactyl

Take one look around this country and what do you see? If you answered filth, trash and stupidty, you’re half right. The answer is, of course, crap.
We’ve got so much crap in this country that our collective rectums might just need another lane installed. Of course there are many different types of crap. Some crap you create yourself and flush away without another thought. Other crap you buy because you see an ad for it on television and then later on, after you realize there’s a reason the human race has gone without said crap for X thousands of years, you throw it in the trash or give it to the poor people.
My job ladies and gentlemen, as thankless as it is, is to review some of this crap before you, the person, waste your hard earned/stolen time/money on it.
Fellow Citizens! I have spared no expense scouring the internet in search of products that you, the person, might find captivating, ingenious, erotic and yes, even beautiful.
I have chosen three such products and put them against every test I know to see if they are worth the suggested manufacturers retail price to you, the person.

So without further ado:

Product #1: Solid Gold S.E.P.

I found this on Amazon.Com. Guess what S.E.P. stands for. Sweet Emotional Promise? Soul Empowerment Package? Septum Elongation Pills? Wrong. How about Stop Eating Poop. That’s right, for all you scat-o-vores out there who flunked out of shit-eaters anonymous because you just couldn’t make it through the day without eating out of the toilet, here’s the product for you.
Originally designed for dogs, Solid Gold S.E.P. contains a compound called Cyanocobalamin which is more commonly known as vitamin B-12. Usually Cyanocobalamin is made by bacteria inside the colons of healthy mammals. However, when something is amiss diet wise (or when said beastie is infested with various intestinal parasites) the production of Cyanocobalamin is reduced and must be replaced via other sources. That’s why you tend to see dogs eating each others shit so often and why, as a dog owner, you should be proud when you see another dog eat your dog’s shit. It means your dog is healthier than that dog.
Anyway, bottom line: if you (or your dog) are suffering from a Cyanocabalamin deficiency and can’t stop eating the shit of other mammals, Solid Gold S.E.P might just be for you. As far as my own personal critique goes, perhaps I am not the best person to review this particular product as I have never felt the urge to snack on scat. Still, after mixing Solid Gold S.E.P. powder in with my morning smoothie for a week I can honestly say that I still go to the bathroom without fork in hand and when I come across dog feces in the park, I still tend to walk around it.

Solid Gold S.E.P. (Stop Eating Poop) 3.5oz for only $8.09!!
Rating: 2 out of 4 Stars
It tastes like shit!


Product #2: The Biniki “Butt Bra.”

It sort of makes sense actually. The bigger you are, the more gravity loves you. The traditional “breast bra” has proved widely popular over the years -barring that brief stint by young female arsonists during the ‘60s- so why not a butt bra? Why not indeed.
Apart from sounding like the word “Bikini” spoken by a profoundly retarded man, the Biniki looks like a Bikini made by a profoundly retarded man.
The Biniki is designed to offer support to sagging buttocks by propping up each cheek with a thick band of nylon and then supporting that weight by strapping around one’s mid-section, just above the pelvis. The size can be adjusted via an easy to use “three-ring system” and further adjusted by using a series of leg-hoops just bellow the buttocks.
Again, the premise is sound and really, in this vain culture, it does make sense or at least is consistent with our penchant for not making sense. Perhaps it is that I am a male and am not used to wearing similar devices across my chest. Perhaps it is that I only weigh 135 pounds and have the taught gluteal musculature of a 19 year-old Swedish cabin boy, or perhaps it is that I can’t quite justify paying nearly $30 for something that doesn’t even really count as underwear. Regardless, I was NOT sold on the Biniki.
I wore the hellish contraption for a single day in a variety of locations. I went to dinner with the Biniki. I promenaded my way around the city wearing the Biniki. I went to the bathroom wearing the Biniki and I even went dancing with the Biniki.
Let it be known that the Biniki does work. Both my buttocks were lent ample support throughout the evening. Let it further be known that the adjustable straps worked like a dream and I rarely felt like the Biniki was in control. Let it be also known that, while wearing the Biniki one becomes afflicted with an almost unbearable sensation of having to defecate. Constantly. Perhaps I was wearing the Biniki too tightly, perhaps my posterior was too slight to require the assistance of the Biniki. Regardless, walking around all day looking like you have to take a shit isn’t my idea of high fashion and I’d prefer seeing a slightly sagging bottom over a clenched face any day of the week..

The Biniki “Butt Bra” By KarinArt Inc.
In White or Black $29.95

1 out of 4 Stars.




Product #3: Hello Kitty Vibrator

Hey Kids! What’s creepier than hell?!! Turning a beloved icon of childhood innocence into a tool for having super intense orgasms at the push of a button!
Wow. I can’t believe this thing really exists. I had actually heard rumors for years but I had placed them into the same camp as KFC Popcorn Chicken being made from chicken tumors. It just doesn’t make sense. And yet, the pink monolith standing before me now attests to the fact that not all rumors are false and some dreams do come true.
The Hello Kitty Vibrator is specifically a vibrator. That is, it was made specifically to provide sexual gratification. At least, that’s my opinion based on the shape of the thing as every word on the box is in Japanese. Perhaps the product was never intended for sale outside it’s native land? Who knows. What I do know is that the vibrator is pink. The shaft is six inches long or so, rounded at the end and has a little statue of Hello Kitty herself (does this mean Hello Kitty is a Lesbian?) mounted atop the device. The shaft then extends from her groin like a gigantic hemorrhoid or an obscenely engorged clitoris.
Presumably one grasps Ms. Kitty by the torso and thrusts the shaft wherever it is needed. One does not orgasm from sheer cuteness alone! There is a switch located on the shaft (labeled in English) that turns the quiet but powerful motor on. This causes the entire device to vibrate intensely. When placed in contact with certain areas of the body one may experience sensations of euphoria quickly followed by intense guilt and shame when one notices Hello Kitty’s innocent face staring out from whatever orifice she has been plunged into.
I will not delve too deeply into my personal experience with the Hello Kitty Vibrator. Needless to say, there are some things that words cannot describe, perhaps should not describe. Furthermore, like the Biniki before it I realize that the Hello Kitty Vibrator was probably intended for use by a woman, in this case probably a young Japanese woman. But, as I mentioned in my mission statement earlier, I have spared no expense either financially or emotionally in bringing you, the person, the most accurate and honest reviews possible. That said:

Hello Kitty Vibrator Massager Masturbator - New From Japan $48.00!!!!
4 out of 4 Stars and worth every stinking penny.


.

Lunchtime!

Another chapter in the unabridged suicide note of Ricky Myron

CHAPTER 13:

OUT TO LUNCH


Instead of getting their provender from regular grocery stores like all of the normal children’s families, my parents shopped at a food co-op. Here they purchased strange, shadow-world versions of regular food items. We had hot-dogs and we had milk and cheese just like all the other kids, only our hot-dogs were organic, had a distinct greenish hue to them and were made weekly by a strange woman with one tooth named Labyrinth who lived alone with her dogs and oxen in a little house near a swamp.
Then there was halva which is a Middle Eastern delight made from sesame seeds and honey. It was the only sweet item we were allowed to eat as children and it tasted roughly like somebody had pissed on a handful of sand to make it clump and then, deciding that was too cruel, poured sugar all over it. Another item we saw far too much of was organic peanut butter which came in large plastic tubs with lids that were sharp at the edges and hard to remove .
Within these giant, sharp edged tubs was a grey, cement-like substance void of any flavor. One did not, could not, spread this substance. It had to be chipped out with a sturdy knife and positioned -like stones in a garden- onto a slice of bread or else perched in chunks on top of a banana like some precarious Wiley Coyote trap.

In addition to the varied horrors my parents unearthed at the food co-op for our daily consumption, my mother also fancied herself a baker and, as such, for the first 15 years of my life I did not so much as taste real bread. The loaves my mother baked were nutritious certainly, succulent in their way and even moist and chewy once the leathery crust had been breached. However, the loaves were also quite heavy as my mother, a germaphobe from birth, had never fully felt comfortable around yeast. Consequently, it was not unusual for a single slice of my mother’s bread to weigh in at half a pound. Granted these slices were usually generously cut as the crust often deflected all but the sharpest blades and even these it would only allow in at strange and glancing angles.

Furthermore my mother, having lost depth perception in one eye due to a bacterial infection transmitted to her via the bite of a diseased harbor seal, would often hack off slices of bread that were nearly two inches thick on one end and paper thin, almost sharp, on the other.

Two such slices sandwiched together with a similarly cut hunk of cheese in the middle would create a sandwich weighing over a pound and towering in at a colossal 4 ½ inches high. For a young ten year old mouth, such a monolithic object was simply impossible to consume given the scant half hour allotted for school lunch breaks.

To make matters worse, my parents, thrifty in all things, had decided to save money by purchasing non-disposable lunch bags, hideous contraptions woven by machines out of thick, bright pink nylon. The basic premise behind these bags was sound: Never buy another paper bag again! Save the trees! Impress your friends with your progressive thinking!
Fine idea.
In theory.

However, my mother (bless her sweet soul) never thought to wash the bags after using them. For the first several weeks this was fine but, over the course of the school year, the errant drops of mayonnaise mixed with the stray crumbs of salami and the occasional blobs of peanut butter to create something that was altogether “unfine” and, more likely than not, toxic as hell.

It was bad enough showing up to school with patched jeans, bowl-cuts and dog-shit sandwiched into the antique waffle-soled shoes we had inherited from Good-will but to also sit down to lunch with the other children and watch as they pulled forth from their designer back-packs sleek, disposable paper bag lunches and proceed to draw forth from these all manner of sterile, pre-packaged foods, was excruciating.

Every day we watched as these well dressed, handsome children traded items from their lunches back and forth, items with recognizable names but unfamiliar tastes. Items such as “Snack Pack Pudding,” “Twinkies” and “Fun Fruits” switched hands quickly while we were left like beggars at the window, slack-jawed at this opulence, bewildered by this bizarre ritual of commerce we were never invited attend.

Every day we’d watch them as they relished the taste of their savory processed meats. Every day we’d wince in jealousy at the sound of the plastic un-peeling from one of their fancy, individually wrapped slices of cheese.

All the while we’d sit there, in our corner of the cafeteria, dreading the moment when hunger would get the best of us and we would be forced to reach into our ancient burlap back-packs, retrieve our own, bright pink non-disposable lunch bags and reach inside to see what horror mother had made for us that day.

There usually wasn’t much suspense as the lunch menus tended to be quite limited in their variety. Generally we would each receive one of three possible entrees:

A Cheese Sandwich which consisted of two 2 inch slices of homemade bread with a ½ inch wedge of cheese inside. To this would be added an almost obscenely large piece of iceberg lettuce and a generous smear of my father’s own homemade mayonnaise which he would prepare each month in bulk, the dregs of which would often sour by the end of the fourth week.

A Tuna-fish sandwich. Which consisted of two 2 inch slices of homemade bread with an entire hockey-puck sized can of Tuna fish in between.
A peanut butter sandwich made with that waxy grey, indigestible organic peanut butter and homemade “jam” made from such lovely fruits as the jalepeno.

To either of these would be added a fresh apple which my father would pick from the tree every morning. The lunch would then be completed by a thermos alternately filled with either milk or orange juice. These were seldom washed thoroughly between refills, my mother preferring to simply fill them with soapy water and let them sit over night.

One day we had all received cheese sandwiches. The sandwiches were huge and revolting looking. We took bites in unison, the uppermost borders of the sandwiches disturbing the bangs of our three identical bowl-cuts.

As if trained, we each pulled back from the sandwiches in unison as we realized that our mother had yet again managed to bake three to four of her impossibly long hairs into the dough of the bread. My sister choked and then almost vomited as one morsel of bread spelunked it’s way down the shaft of her throat while suspended from her mouth by a strand of hair.

Eager to wash down this savory bite we each reached for our thermoses only to discover that our mother had forgotten to empty out the soapy water from the night before and we were each greeted by a mouthful of bitter grey liquid with flecks of old milk floating liberally throughout.

As we were sputtering and coughing and trying to keep our composure I noticed a final bit of devilry emerging from my non-disposable lunch bag. Apparently the little wad of residual lunch matter at the bottom of my bag had begun attracting flies for there, peeking out the end of the bag, were the black, lacquered heads of several large maggots. Scooping them quickly back into the bag, my siblings and I left the lunch table in a hurry.

Although every one of my classmates (with the exception of Jason Delano who was slow and picked his nose in class) was dating by the fourth grade, neither I or my siblings had a girlfriend or a boyfriend until we were at least sixteen years of age. I can only imagine then, that whatever intrinsic sexual appeal my siblings and I may have had at that age was wiped out on a daily basis whenever our fellow classmates saw what it is we were made out of.

I know that I’m shallow enough that, if I were to see a girl with maggots in her lunch, I would probably not want to kiss her, or even really be near her. Regardless, to this day I don’t eat as much as my friends do, I smell my food before I eat it and I have a strange and unhealthy obsession with processed cheese.

Timebomb: Another Chapter in the Unabridged Suicide Note of Ricky Myron

CHAPTER 3:


Bella died on a cold afternoon in late November. She had led a rather good life as far sheep go and I didn’t feel particularly bad about her death. I found her on my daily rounds, flat on her back in the grain room, her four spindly legs splayed up into the air. The other sheep were keeping their distance from her, not out of respect or even really out of fear but out of some mindless and deeply rooted instinct to not disturb the dead in case whatever killed them was still around, and perhaps communicable.

Already her belly was swelling with what was, most certainly, her death fart: that collection of latent gases in the intestines created from the bacteria actually beginning to break down and devour the cells of the corpse itself . This was going to be a two person job at least so I went and told my father.

He sighed when I told him. “Too bad,” he said, “She was always my favorite,”

“Mine too,” I said.

He checked his watch; it was 4:15. Late November. The sun was already setting. “Is Guthrie home?” He asked.

“No,” I said. Guthrie the farmhand was in town attending a concert. He would not be back until late.

My father fell silent in thought, sucking air over his teeth. “Let’s do it tomorrow then,” he said finally. “We’ll just get rid of her tomorrow.”

That night it snowed three feet. The next day the entire world was blanketed in smooth, candy white and nothing could be seen of Bella but two tell tale points jutting out from the snow like pieces of coal: her front hooves. The ground was frozen solid.

Once more I consulted my father.

“Well,” he said, looking out at the snow. “The thing is, it’s gonna be really hard to get her out in this weather, we’ll just wait until the snow thaws. Then we’ll move her, give her a nice burial. She really was a good sheep.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “My absolute favorite.”

I went over to Candace and Guthrie’s later that night to smoke cigarettes and I told them what had happened. When I told them we had decided to postpone the burial until after the snow melted Guthrie shook his head and said:.

“I don’t like where this is headed.”

The snow remained for nearly a week before finally melting away sometime in December. By the time the snow disappeared completely Bella was looking very bad indeed. As she thawed, whatever bacterial metabolism was still at work inside of her kicked into over drive and she swelled and swelled until she was comically round, her four legs rising into the air so that she resembled a fully inflated set of bagpipes.

“The ground’s still frozen,” my father said, “we’re going to have to wait a week or so for it to thaw.”

Three days later it snowed again and once more Bella’s corpse was covered up completely.

“Hell of a thing,” my father said, “I don’t think it’s snowed like this in years.”

For the next two months or so we experienced a winter like we never had before. The snow eventually grew to a depth of nearly six feet and, lacking snowshoes, my family and I were forced to perform our chores by walking on all fours across the top of the snow drifts in order to displace our weight enough to keep from sinking through.

It was a comical sight watching my father a wizened and respected University professor, scrambling on all fours across the snow drifts like some muddled werewolf, bucket in hand, the pale moon rising, ghostly and bone colored behind him.

Christmas came and went without a thaw and nobody mentioned Bella, lying frozen beneath lord knew how many feet of snow and ice, but the thought was always there along with the knowledge of the horror that would await us come the first thaw of spring.

In the month of January the weather turned truly ugly. During a brief and deceptive thaw, most of the snow melted away. This was followed by a week of terrible, cold rain and then another deep freeze, this one drier and far, far colder than before. All the rain turned to ice and the wind blew in at a skin freezing negative 30 degrees. The radio advised people not to leave their homes and that if they did, to rub Crisco shortening on their exposed skin to keep it from freezing in the bitter wind.

The animals had it worst of all and we were all kept busy around the clock carrying hot water to the animals and using giant iron mauls to break the ice in their water troughs. At one point the plumbing went out and we were forced to endure the medieval horror of using a toilet that did not flush. Finally, after power outages, fallen trees, hypothermia and an appalling lack of general hygiene, the weather warmed and the ice began to melt.

As the sun came out and the first green buds of spring pushed their way through the soaking, broken earth, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief…until the ice and hardened snow melted sufficiently to reveal what had lain hidden all winter long, frozen, thawed and refrozen perhaps half a dozen times.

By now Bella was so comically swollen that her belly had actually begun to swell past her knees, swallowing her legs at the ankles. Her wool had turned a pea-soup yellow with mold. A smell that was unlike anything I had ever encountered before emanated from her.

We all avoided discussing Bella for a good week or so in hopes that maybe she would become a little less disgusting, but no such luck.

On the Saturday following the great thaw, we were all gathered around eating lunch. My father was very quiet as he chewed. Finally he slammed his fist down on the table and said “This is ridiculous. We’re taking care of this right now.”

He didn’t have to specify what “this” was. We all knew. We had been dreading this moment all winter long.

“Ten minutes,” he said, picking up the phone to call Guthrie. “Prepare yourselves however you need to.”

Ten minutes later my brother Jori and I were standing outside, just out of nose shot of the Sheep barn. The other sheep had begun living on the other side of the pen and I had begun feeding and watering them there. The sheep barn with the remains of Bella had become a tainted place, a barnyard Chernobyl and we were going to venture inside.

Just then Guthrie the farmhand appeared wearing a real working World War II gas mask he had purchased in a moment of prescience years earlier from an army surplus store. His breathing came out hosey, moist and loud, like Darth Vader’s.

The visor had already begun fogging up and beading with moisture and I could barely see his face behind the plastic. Still he looked far better prepared for the task ahead than did Jori or I who had both worn only gloves and heavy jackets.

Finally my father appeared around the corner driving his beat up blue and red tractor “Henry.” Henry’s enormous front-mounted digging shovel was raised up in the air like the arms of some great, mechanical preying mantis. The word “SUPERBIN” was written in giant white letters across the front. He passed us and we followed solemnly behind towards the pen and whatever horrors awaited us there.

Stepping within forty feet of Bella was like walking into a dump on a hot day. The smell was incredible and vast, a veritable aural symphony: countless minute variations on the same hideous melody, all caustic, all absolutely revolting. Yet, we could tell that this was only the beginning. Like all grand symphonies, these opening notes were merely the barest introduction to the themes that would eventually reach crescendos and more potent variations, the likes of which we couldn’t even begin to grasp.

Grim faced, steel jawed, my father positioned Henry and lowered the Superbin to within several feet of Bella’s corpse. Physically, it would be a simple task, quite easy with four able bodied men. We would merely have to pick Bella up and place her in the Superbin. Then my father would drive her away into the forest and bury her. That was it.

We positioned ourselves. Already the smell was unendurable. Jori gagged slightly and my father tossed him a glare.

“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Come on, everybody grab a leg.”

With shaking hands we all reached out and each wrapped our fingers around a cold, bony hoof.

“Alright,” said my father, “On the count of three we lift.” He looked around at the three of us. We all nodded. My father smiled grimly. “ One.” He said. I let out my breath and stuck my head into the comparative safety of my jacket to take another. “Two.” Guthrie’s breath was now coming out in short, gurgling gasps from inside his mask. Jori looked like he was going to cry. “Three!”

And on the count of three all four of us pulled. And on what would have been the count of four, all four of us fell backwards, each of us now holding a disembodied sheep’s leg.

And out came the death fart.

Before our eyes, Bella deflated like a bad balloon and the smell went off the charts.

Jori vomited instantly and noisily as if he had been awaiting a particular cue to do so. Guthrie threw his leg away and scrambled backwards on his hands, eyes wide through his cloudy visor. I screamed again and again and threw my hands up into the air. The leg went with them. My father tossed his away in disgust, said “Jeeeeeeesus Christ” and with his other hand furiously fanned the air around his nose.

“Alright! Alright!” Yelled my father, trying to regain some semblance of order. “Come on, let’s just get this done. Grab her by the wool and turn her over.”

Somehow we managed to overcome our revulsion and comply. We grabbed her by the greenish, matted wool and turned her corpse onto it’s stomach.

“Alright, now lift her by the wool and put her in the superbin!” Growled my father.

We lifted by the wool and, miraculously, the wool held. However, as we moved her, her pronounced sack of udders scraped a hardened hillock of mud, and her entire stomach came off and sat like an apothecarian’s mortar filled with some greenish paste.

“Oh my God!!!” yelled Guthrie, his voice wet and tinny from within the mask.

“Don’t let her go!” Yelled my father.

With a sopping “thud” we managed to place Bella’s corpse into the super bin. She sat there limply and I as I watched her, narrating the events in my head, I realized how the pronoun “she” had lost all meaning. Somewhere between November and now Bella had ceased to be a “she” and had become an “it.” I guess death does that to you. Her status as an entity had been revoked. She was now a thing.

The three of us scattered as soon as our work was done. My father however simply glared at us like we were cowards, secured Bella to the bin with a bungee cord, and, taking a deep breath and steeling himself, knelt to retrieve Bella’s wayward stomach and udder. After securing these he leapt into the driver’s saddle.

There was a roar of the engine and a burst of blue smoke. Normally this smoke was a noxious bother but here, in contrast to the infernal reek of Bella’s death fart, it was like the very breath of god.

My father pushed a lever and the super bin lifted Bella’s remains up into the air. The three of us stood there and watched him drive off into the forest. We watched for a good minute until the trees swallowed him up and they were gone.

When we were out of nose shot of the barn Guthrie took off his gas mask. His face was sopping wet. His hair was damp and plastered to his face. He took a deep breath.

“God, that was horrible,” he said and lit a cigarette.

We both nodded. There was a pause.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he said and he left.

Jori and I continued to stand there for a while. Finally Jori shivered violently as if he was being assailed by rats, said he was going to go take a shower too and went inside. I stood there alone for a few more minutes. Cold wind blew and washed away the ambient stink, replaced it with the smell of old snow and melting earth . Spring smells.

The other sheep were now returning, cautiously, to the barn. When they saw me, they stared blankly for a moment and then started bleating for food. I took this as my cue to go inside too but as I turned to leave I saw Bessie, one of the current batch of Newfoundland dogs, lying near the sheep barn. She was chewing contentedly on something. Something long and slender.

“Hey Bessie,” I said, walking towards her.

She began wagging her tail as I approached. “Whatchu got there girl?” I asked. But no sooner had I asked this than I saw what it was. It was one of Bella’s legs. Bessie had no doubt retrieved the horrid thing when I had thrown it, shrieking, several minutes earlier.

As I neared, Bessie stopped chewing and grinned up at me -the sort of conspiratorial grin one might flash to a fellow gourmet at a posh restaurant. The sort of grin that says “yes, it is as good as it looks and no, you can’t have any.”

Obviously there was a cultural rift between she and I. I left her to what had the terrible potential of becoming a four course meal.

As I walked back to the house, reeking with the foulness of death, as the first organic smells of spring blew in from somewhere, I mused over the possible philosophical ramifications of the whole ordeal. I thought of grand themes: life and death, winter and spring, the whole cyclical nature of existence.

After casting about intently for some coherent message or grain of truth that I could salvage from the experience, I realized, to my relief, that there actually weren’t any. Any at all. Bella’s death and subsequent removal had been completely and absolutely meaningless.