August 9th.
The Missing Ben Network.

Some of you may have noticed that Ben, my heart, my lover, my friend, and sometimes my masseuse has been missing for quite some time. I have not received one abusive and drunken e-mail since at least March. All the letter bombs I have gotten don’t have his signature on them and the singing telegrams with overuse of the phrase “all up in that rump roast” have ceased entirely. That’s just a little joke, Ben isn’t actually gay, I am and he just humors me. But it goes without saying that “…” Not to mention that I am worried about Ben. It isn’t unusual for him to estrange himself from me (is estrange a verb?) for periods, but not once in the years I have known him has he been gone so long. I have become so distraught I issued a housewide manhunt and when he was found in neither the meat drawer, the meth lab, or the rumpus room my consternation reached levels bordering on shrugging and muttering “cocksucker probably got lost in the Billiards room with the Candlestick and that explains why Professor Plum is still sleeping on the fucking couch like he owns the goddamn place. This ain’t no motel 6.”

Since Ben’s disappearance I have receded further and further into my own drug addled brain which causes me increased dementia and incessant updates. I use Ben as a sounding board to keep my pathetic kind of isolated madness from reaching levels that cause it to lash out at the general public (sorry Jen, Jon, Cory, Corrie, and Grant) but in his absence I have become unable to recognize when I am acting creepy or (more often) be able to excuse my psychosis by reminding myself that someone gets me so long as they never meet me. A lack of his sage advice has also resulted in my increased agitation and that means I have started trying to interact with the populace. The results have been less than encouraging. Here’s a list of my recent forays into the company of others:

DJ Flaming: The PND horror could have been avoided had I not initially called her up and found out about her rocky relationship with her fiancé. Naturally I immediately allowed my meddlesome brain to interfere in the whole affair and now not only is she (last I heard) going to marry the monster (probably eloped over the weekend) but has changed her number. I’d like to believe she moved out of the state, but more likely it is to avoid me and whoever else might have an opinion of…you know…what’s it called? Fucking reality, that's right. Although since that doesn’t apply to me, forget it.

Howard Stern: While not actually Howard Stern, she does have a strange resemblance to him with her curly dark hair and a strange taste in clothes. I looked up Howard not too long ago because I knew she was trapped in a small town with a wrecked car, a shitty job, and little recourse to socialize. Not to mention I felt I owed her an apology for behavior of mine years before. This taught me that having Burnz try to be nice to you is an experience that can best be done singularly by covering one’s self in napalm and then smoking a whole pack. It might not go off in a grotesque display, but the odds are that it probably will.

Trixie: Oh, this was brilliant. I can’t mix with new people. I make them uncomfortable. I am sure there is a friend of Trixie's, if not law enforcement division that probably has now heard about me. I got into the habit of recording conversations I have that I know I won’t remember. Apparently I do this just to feel humiliated later. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t drink and dance. Don’t drink and call ex girlfriends. Above all don’t drink and talk to people you don’t know. Now I can’t even apologize without making it more pathetic. Anyone wanna lay money on my number being blocked? I’ll give you two to one odds.

Pinstripe: At least I can make an ass out of myself in front of the same gender. There’s nothing your pacifist friend likes more than getting sucked into a fight and having the piss beat out of him because you can’t keep your goddamn mouth shut. Phrases to avoid in public: “I like that [insert color]. I can never seem to pull it off because I am straight, but it looks great on you.” “I don’t need to drink to feel good about myself, can I get you another round?” “Don’t worry. I hear impotency is genetic.” “It’s refreshing to see a girl your size wearing something like that. Shows moxy.” And “now’s hardly the time to bring it up, but I’ll point to you when I need a good example of what special ed kids can accomplish.” So my highly witless and immature behavior landed us in trouble with a few people. I came out ok, Pinstripe kept trying to be diplomatic. Poor guy.

In just over a week I have managed to make 4 more enemies. No, for the most part I don’t think they even register as hating me, I’m used to that. I think it’s just on the level of pity and contempt. Which I will come to grips with by a lengthy bed wetting period.

The point is that without being able to run things by Ben I turn into a gibbering idiot in my life and not just on this site. So now I am going to try to figure out what happened to Ben to keep him from my oh so warm text embrace. Here’s my theories:

Woman: Women make me and Ben stupid(er) and is the most viable reason he would disappear from me. He’s either found a real fuck minx that has him locked into a constant debauchery which can rival that I had with the inflatable Sinclair dinosaur in Boise or he’s got a ball busting twat that cut off his fingers and has him chained to a radiator somewhere in Asia. That’s what they do in Asia right? That and wear cymbals on their head. Funny ass Asians.

Jail: Almost as likely as the woman scenario is that he got himself locked up for a few months. Again, like me his vices include many many kinds of crime-u-tainment. His love of harboring known fugitives (thanks bro) as well as violent and reckless antics has invariably come to haunt him and now he is spending his time locked in a cement block with his toilet about eight inches from his pillow. At least this is temporary and with enough plastic explosives I can fix it just fine (would work for the woman problem too, but they regenerate limbs like a fucking lizard). USE YOUR CALL WISELY BEN!! A lawyer looks good on paper, but a Burnz is so much more…pyrotechnic.

Death: See woman. I doubt this one because frankly, it would take an act of God to kill Ben and even then I don’t think he would rule out becoming among the undead.

Kittens: I knew Ben had a bun in the oven and caretaking of offspring for his species can take up to nine months depending on the size of the litter. Naturally he laid the eggs inside his mate to eat their way out, so he’s having to care for these critters alone. It’s so hard for a single mother in this workaday world, especially when you have to find enough Ruthenium for a hungry brood on this planet. God I hope this climate is moist enough…or dry enough…yes I just looked up a random element and am not going to read about it so I know nothing. Don’t e-mail me about it either. SWT4NES would know. Yes, I think that stands for SWEAT FURNACE and yes I dated someone that I would call that. Fuck I miss her…she knew the difference between Lanthanoids and Actinoids. *sigh*.

So that’s been my Ben update. I miss Ben and as a result am pouting and generally throwing around my excessive intellect and emotional underdevelopment the combination of which seems to make me capable of recalling Lanthanoids but also hugging people for no apparent reason. God it’s good to be me.

Oh, for those of you that managed to track the site down, I am happy to put up an article you write me if it is good, but if not then you have to suffer with my crap or start your own site. Submissions welcome though.

August 4th.
Loving The Burnz.

Normally the phrase "Loving The Burnz" refers to people who adore the scorching sensation that comes from snorting a line of speed too fat for their temperament. In this case it is about the experience of loving me. I'd like to tell you that I am much easier to take, but I can name off a few women that would happily trade a corroded septum rather than spend another moment in my presence (hi Emily, Lauren, Darcy, Tara, Miranda, Erin, Mary, Sara, Melissa, Lara, Annie, Lauren #2, Misti, Carly, Erin #2 and #3, Meagan, and oh so many others). These ladies had an unfortunate encounter with The Burnz, a man so ridiculous he puts an article before his name. Since then I have tried to rescue women from getting involved with me by citing references to my personality from those that survived the horror (vouch for me Janet). It availed nothing. This led me to believe that women were not only blind, but also dumb as posts hammered into concrete beside a toxic waste dump. I literally feel it necessary to cite relationship references to try to avoid the insipid pissing and moaning I get from you, dare I use a 40's term, broads.

With this same "full disclosure" concept in mind I have learned that when I talk to people I will often tend to reference this site rather than go through the painful process of actually talking to them. I use my multitude of quips, quotes, lies, and bullshit from past updates rather than come up with something that might be misinterpreted as original and/or prevalent. I figure if they can read then a good half of them can read this site. So it saves me the time and energy of alienating someone personally. To this end I am making this update so that in the future I won't have to try as hard to explain myself to the ladies, but instead can link and forget right to here. So this is going to be all about everyone's favorite drunken writer: Me and the ugly experience had by those poor, foolish women that decided to try to love a human downward spiral.

About me: I drink. I drink a lot. You want an example? Open my trunk. It looks like Pabst and Natural Lights are my official sponsors. When I say a good night is drinking a case of King Cobra 40's and listening to the police scanner, I am not kidding. I'm a volcano of white trash. I'll happily sit in the ripped out car seat from the back of a 1987 station wagon that is now sitting in the lawn. I'll sit in a kiddie pool during the summer sucking down cheap beer, reading a trashy romance novel in whatever clothes I happened to be wearing, probably unbuttoned (Joanna, Erin, and Kasey will give me a witness). I've passed out under a truck, in a stranger's house (sorry), on a wood pile, in a dogloo, and naturally in a police holding cell…three times. That doesn't include my trip to detox.

I'm moody and anti-social. I decided to put these gems together. When I was 14 they told me I was bipolar and that it was damaging my nervous and circulatory systems because the body isn't meant to jump back and forth over and over on a daily basis. I figured I would give myself a heart attack before those Nazi cocksuckers could ever get their hands on me. Thanks to grease, booze, stress, and other pretty pretty vices I am doing a damn fine job. My goal is to bleed anti-freeze before I die. I shift between frostily sullen and flamboyantly gregarious for absolutely no reason. I generally loathe people and on the occasions when I am fraught with a desire for company I inflict them with my presence in what turn out to be often awkward situations. Mostly I just live like a Morlock. I am one night away from naming a porcelain statuette and petting it while having lengthy conversations about our upcoming state of the union address.

I don't like looking at people when I talk. I often make large hand gestures that make me look like an albatross trapped in the jaws of either a really gentle shark or a really stupid killer whale. I have a vocabulary that reads like the FCC's banned list. It's impossible to avoid getting sucked in to my Hunter Thompson, Buffy, or anti-Bush monologues.

I watch and enjoy professional wrestling. I went to dinner with a girl once and then got drunk with her at a mall out of a squeeze bottle I carried in my jacket full of orange juice and vodka and to be honest if she could stand me today I'd marry her (Lauren). I would take a date to a railroad yard or a dump to shoot gigantic rats. I like Seth Green, Sunday afternoons, and the color purple. I have done the electric worm while wearing heeled shoes, a ruffled shirt, tinted glasses, a puke yellow jacket and a scarf (a forest print in neon green). I had to stop at three different places to get condoms for the first time I got laid because it was a shitty town that apparently didn't like to fuck. I got the ribbed kind. That was genius when you're laying another virgin. What girl doesn't like feeling like you just inserted a cylindrical cheese grater in her? If it makes you feel better I couldn't get it up for the next 3 days. Thanks pressure! Instead I threw a tub of ice cream at her and shoved her into the bathtub with cold water with the intention of leaving her outside for the night. I figured it was good survival training and if she wanted to land a husband that should go at the top of the "fuck me" resume.

Surviving Me: Wear a helmet and carry beer that tastes like dirty water. I'm violent, but easily distracted by anything that can give me a buzz so arm yourself with a whole bandolier full of crap alcohol. I'd stop in the middle of resuscitating a crippled child to take a drink so offering me a beer when I grab the lawn gnome and have "that look" in my eye is like throwing down a smoke grenade. The 5 -7 seconds it takes me to imbibe is ample time for you to run to your car.

It's time you came into the wonderful wonderful world of sewing. Unless you can drive yourself to the hospital with jagged glass shards protruding from your arm I'd suggest getting really handy with a cross stitch. And buy some decent thread you lazy sow! Surviving me will teach you the art of self defense and survival. You'll have to learn to live on a diet of drywall shavings and carpet. You'll be watered once a day at the same time you take your fire hose shower. You'll learn to concoct a replacement dental plate from items you find around you or the other bones you have right there in your very own body. You'll learn the fine art of crying silently so as not to arouse my ire. Surviving me will be the best thing that ever happens to you since sliced bread!

Don't ever start with me. Don't even think about it. If you want to start with me, finish it right now no matter how hard it is to make that make grammatical sense. Don't bother me with your insipid friends or I will make a goddamn "You must be less than this weight to enter" sign for the house…sow. Unless they are there to be milked I do not want to meet them. Frankly, even if they are to be milked I am not interested in talking to them. Have them try a salad once in a while. I'm not a charisma factory darling. Please don't make me try to talk so they good understand yes.

If you have a problem, I have the solution. Read my book "100 ways to SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCH!" It will give you a simple step by step process to try closing the enormous yaw god gave you to punish my people for eating the Quince. It comes with wire to help you and one of your girlfriends really "throw down" with the hip style of silence.

That's the digs kiddies. I am not in the mood to write something good so instead I threw this random shit up instead of a real update. As always, send your pussy hate mail to the same place and then play another round of hide and go fuck yourself.

August 3rd.
It Was This or Bite Off My Tongue.

This graph represents how lazy and sloppy I am.

Since man crawled out of the ocean he's had a burning desire to eat. He didn't have a burning desire before crawling out of the ocean because the water would have put it out and then he would have just been embarrassed and had to make up elaborate lies about how he totally intended it that way. Actually, it is possible that he did have a burning desire and was politely but firmly asked to leave the ocean for being "one of those species". Only God knows, and he isn't telling no matter how many times we attach jumper cables to his testicles. But we'll keep trying and I swear, if he cracks, you'll be the first to know.

My burning desire to eat was satisfied the other night by being a patron at a sushi and robata eatery. For those of you that don't know Japanese, robata means "dead but creepy thing". I thought it would be good to try something new, something fresh, and maybe even dangerous. To my delight the food was certainly new, fresh, and dangerous. My companion on this adventure will hence be referred to as Trixie. The talking cat that helps her repress her gag reflex will be Montgomery I will be Capt. Periwinkle, but if you say it to my face, you'll be keel hauled. Avast.

When I arrived to meet Trixie, she expressed that she was peckish. Naturally I immediately looked her up and down and declared "you're damn right you're peckish - you're peckish all the way to the bank!" She then greeted me in the typical method of most females by kneeing me smartly in the groin and spitting on me. Yep, I think it's going to be one of those painfully random updates. Trixie and I started driving around looking for a place that served food. When we decided that we weren't going to sell out and go to Bennigan's (the only restaurant for miles) we figured rather than going to a place that served food, we'd try the sushi restaurant. She claimed to like Sushi and suggested I try it. She said it was good*.
*(Editor's note: women lie).

I'm never going to hear the end of this.

Thankfully, it was a Sunday night, so the place wasn't very busy. In the dining room (or dojo for our Japanese readers) it was just Trixie and I and a table where they seated a flock of contaminated Estrogen carriers that spent the entire time talking about dragging men behind their cars and what sauce to use on a man's ears after he tears them from his skull to try to stop the pain of hearing about "Sharon that you work with. Not Tom's Sharon, Sharon Sharon." Let's all pause while the webmaster shudders at memories that can never ever be erased. Anyhow, since the restaurant (and I use that word ironically) wasn't crowded, the service was excellent which is never good in an oriental restaurant because it just means they have more time to stare at you while thinking about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I made the wise decision of ordering the Seaweed Salad. Yes, it was actually called that, yes it actually was that and yes I actually ordered that. I was young and foolish back then. Since Trixie was the expert (and I use that word ironically) she handled the rest of the ordering. I knew I was in trouble when none of the following words came out of her mouth: with cheese, biggie size, extra mayo, or special sauce. I also knew the evening was going to be worse when she also avoided the phrases: lube, hardcore, right here, or the pill. After a few minutes they brought out the salad. What a tasty treat that was. I couldn't tell if it was worse because of the hideous texture or the taste. The whole concoction was like a wrestling match of disgusting. As if the sauce and the seaweed were in a grudge match for the Revolting World Championship Belt. I mostly just shuffled it around with my chopsticks and surreptitiously checked out the harpies at the other table because I was too much of a coward to check out Trixie and too much of an idiot to keep up my end of the conversation.

Google image search came up with this for Tempura. Trixie, didn't you know it was people? IT'S PEOPLE!.

Trixie ordered a number of sushi rolls and Tempura (or dojo for our Japanese readers) which is a pile of things fried in some kind of rice batter that makes them look like dandruff flakes under 400X magnification. I felt like a dust mite when I ate it. The rolls came (avocado, something with raw fish, and concentrated evil in a seaweed wrap) with a pile of ginger flakes and a green goo that tastes like what happens when mustard seeds breed with a horseradish. Trixie suggested I try it, which I did. It seems Trixie hates me. I imagine that had this been my first time using chop sticks, if I had asked her how to use them, one of them would certainly be lodged in my brain pan. The goo wasn't too bad when it was put with soy sauce. But that is like saying "losing a limb isn't too bad if it's just an arm" or "losing a sense isn't too bad if it's just smell" which may have happened after tasting that green stuff. My respiratory system hasn't fully recovered. I think that stuff laid gremlin eggs in my esophagus.

The rolls weren't too bad I suppose. They might be trying to climb back up my throat as I write this, but at least they did a minimal amount of squirming on the way down. All in all it was an experience. Whatever else you say about it, it was certainly an experience. From start to finish. I now know that my system has been too rotted by the American diet of twinkies and grease flavored, beer battered, deep fried marshmallows. I have no palette for continental foods. Next time: Escargot and Goulash.

August 2nd.
Put Them in Coach.

I always had a special love of the Joker. He was an intense manic villain that combined the childhood horror of clowns with the evil of more clowns. He was somewhere between John Wayne Gacy and that uncle that everyone has. He was constantly upbeat and frankly I think his character needs his own erotic cartoon. However, as much as I like the Joker I don't think I would plunk down the 7 bucks to see a movie featuring him even if his character was played by a bunch of moths in a blender. God I fucking hate moths.

Recently movies like Van Helsing and Catwoman are taking secondary characters and trying to give them a central role. Now, as an expert on secondary characters having been one in the lives of everyone around me I think it is high time I let my highly intelligent and well thought out voice be heard. How it was I thought out my voice is something that medical science hasn't been able to properly explain even though they continue to probe me on a regular basis whether I make an appointment or not. Although they do give me a sucker afterwards. It just occurred to me I used to go to a dentist that had mints in the waiting room. That's just stacking the deck. That bitch.

Now, I'm no expert on secondary characters, but I think telling the story behind these interesting secondary characters is pure genius! Especially when it contradicts the character of the …character and the plot of the story in which they originally appeared. Clearly Hollywood has the original manuscripts from all of these stories and is just now trying to educate us to the incorrect impression we have been operating under. They must have found Joseph Smith's secret library that he built underground to house the world's various works of media for a time when the world was ready to assimilate it. I can't wait until they release the diagrams of the time machine and the hover car. Now I don't want to toot my own screenwriting horn, but I've got some ideas for other movies that they should make about some other minor characters. These are just outlines, so don't start calling me up for my brilliant and probably sexy scripts for these possibly groundbreaking and doubtfully provocative concepts. But they are still mine, so don't you try to steal them…I'm looking at you Reginald.

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The Facehugger: The hugely popular alien film franchise centers around a small group of people trying to combat the fully grown drone aliens and their queen. So far, one of the most pivotal characters has gotten little more than a walk-on role, and even then it was always non-speaking. This film will tell the story of the life and times of the first facehugger prior to his implanting the astronaut with the alien seed. It will chronicle the wacky romance between the facehugger and President Lyndon Johnson. When LBJ loses a bet he has to share an apartment with the facehugger for 6 months! This mismatched duo start out on a rocky road with the sternly pacifist facehugger trying to stand the warmongering cruelty of LBJ. But when the facehugger receives a notice from the Queen to return to their planet, only by working with the psychotic president can he effectively get off the planet. As they are forced to cooperate each learns a little something about each other, about life, love, and even something about themselves.

Helen of Troy: The Trojan War lasted ten years as the Greeks laid siege to the city of Troy. While everyone is familiar with the story of Achilles, Hector, Paris, and Odysseus, never has Helen played any more than a satellite role. Even in the recent film Troy, she was little more than a wiggling piece of tail. Finally, her story will be told. It is little known that while the war was raging outside, a series of crimes went on inside the city including serial vandalism and rampant cart double parking. While the men-folk were busy fighting outside, Helen took it upon herself to single handedly fight the war on crime. This film will follow her multitude of adventures and misadventures combating the criminal menace inside Troy and keeping kids off drugs. She also headed up a crack team of researchers that cured athlete's foot and designed a low-carb form of jam.

Bosley plots something and THE MONKEY DOES NOT APPROVE! That's just a funny pic that came up when I searched for "Flying Monkey". I mean the monkey part. I inset the Bosley image.

Jack Crawford: Jack Crawford has been a chameleon. He was the director of the FBI over both Clarice Starling and William Graham and was indirectly responsible for the apprehension of serial killer Hannibal Lecter as well as the death of Francis Dolarhyde and "Buffalo Bill." The man is a shape shifter, and just in the short experience I have had watching his antics has changed his height, weight, and overall appearance three times. I bet his wife gets confused when he comes home if he alters that often. This movie will be about him before he was the hot shot director of the FBI and back when he was fresh out of the academy and still wet behind the ears. When this by the book cop gets partnered with a loose cannon flying monkey from Oz (the land, not the prison facility) they have to fight the war on crime, if they live through the war on each other. It's a rough and tumble shoot-em-up when Bosley from Charlie's Angels decides to start a heroine smuggling ring. Jack and the monkey are in for the ride of their lives against Bosley as they try to stop the mind-blowing, car-wrecking, pointlessly explosive influx of drugs Bosley is feeding into the country to keep people from huffing glue or paint. Only by coupling their skills can they thwart the drug "menace."

A Bond girl…any Bond girl: Are you ready to lose weight and feel great? This instructional film will be about the rigorous physical upkeep, brutally sparse diet, and inhuman exercise necessary to maintain the hot body of one of the Bond girls. You'll learn how to completely ignore anything that detracts from staying pretty including reading, sleeping, eating (without vomiting), and sitting down. It will have a whole load of fashion tips including how to show a lot of skin, colors that tease a cock, proving you have breasts and a vagina, and how to grow your hair. It's a marvelous parade of brainless women (did I just repeat myself? Little joke ladies, please put the knife away) that will stare vacuously into the camera while they help you, yes you, hippy fat bitches feel lousy about yourselves and understand the disappointment we all have in your appearance.

AHHHHH! What the hell is that? Thanks Internet.

The Cable Installation Guy: We know the man has a lot of sexual stamina and a poor work ethic but who is this man that is just trying to hook the cable up to the TV in the bedroom when he gets sexually assaulted by some lonely housewife that likes to have sex in various positions that seem uncomfortable, but keep her body exposed? What are his dreams? What did he want to be when he was a kid? Did he always want to plug cords into boxes or is there more to him? Does he undergo these sexually exploitive scenarios as a way to fill an emotional void, or does he just have a strong libido and work in a neighborhood with men who hate sex married to women who need it for 45 minutes a day? What is his favorite color? This is an expose about the life of the Cable Installation Guy that ignores the many many many sexual partners he has. It will show the man behind the work belt and his left hanging…tool. It will have interviews with his family, his friends, and the jealous wife that loves him in spite the strange aspects of his job.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe The Joker does deserve a movie. These are some stellar ideas for anyone that has ever been a secondary character - and I know you all are to me - so feel free to develop them and mail me the whole script. Swear to god, we can go fifty-fifty on whatever I can sell it for. Just give me your bank account number and I will deposit it right to you without having to actually meet you or touch one of your disgusting appendages. Perhaps next time I will look at movies that combine tons of characters from various genres. Goodbye for now.

July 31st
UFNIS (United Federation of Nasty Individuals and Supervillians) Meeting Minutes #114-B.

Good afternoon everyone. Thank you all for coming out, especially the Vampire representative as we know it is a bad time for you, not only being daylight but also the Christmas Season. If it’s any consolation, none of us like tinsel or garland very much except the holiday strangler. And a big welcome back to the toxicology crew. They’ll be hard at work Monday morning, and anyone suffering from withdraw from the sub-par noxious fumes we’ve used in their absence can make sure to talk to them after the meeting. They’ll be back at work Monday morning and while I will let them explain it, I hear good things about the venom sacs they brought back with them. With that out of the way, we’ve got a whole list of items to cover today.

Item #1: Someone left a sack of crushed kittens in the office copier causing some technical problems from fluids in the electronics. If anyone has any information about this your anonymity will be protected. If no one comes forward with any information we will be forced to allow Doctor VanZisdale to use his brainwave helmet and I am sure that none of us want a repeat of the Mole People’s Genocide incident. Some of you are still secreting Freon and having eye ruptures.

Item #2: It appears as if a visitor was permitted to use the handicapped bathroom in the lobby and survive. This is a team and as a team it is the job of everyone to activate the furnace chute. The giant activation levers are all clearly marked. As you are all aware it is part of our mission here at UFNIS to make sure the “differently abled” leave here only in a bag, a box, or a pile of ash. Let’s all try to go the extra mile to make this a fun and terminal working experience.

Item #3: Depth Charges are only to be taken out by members of the Unholy Navy and unauthorized personnel are not to handle them. As an addendum to this, they should not be dropped in the tank of the Were-Fish. We’ve already had six deaths. While comical, it is expensive to replace the Were-Fish as well as inefficient for us to wait for the blood moon necessary to infect more. Thanks in advance.

Item #4: We want to make sure and acknowledge the Bio-Tech team for their work on the microwave tower. We can already attribute hundreds of Pace-maker related deaths to it’s installation, so let’s all give them a big hand. A note from the maintenance crew to the Gargoyles in general, please clean your own perch on the tower. It’s treacherous for the Stone Golems to try to climb it when it is slick with blood. Thank you.

Item #5: Finally, with the holidays here we’re holding our annual drive for employee recommendations. The outlet with the most heinous suggestions will have an extra week added to their vacation time as well as select the next species to endanger, so let’s really give it our all. On top of that, this year they are rewarding a group of special prizes to the person that can find the most obscure historical act of diabolical cruelty to a child. Note that it must be diabolical, which means endlessly complicated machinations must be involved. Employees cannot nominate themselves or each other nor attempt to commit a new act. Prizes will be given out at the company Christmas Party, which I am told is again being held in Markum’s Rotating Chamber at the Earth’s core. More details will be available soon. Transportation is sponsored by Exxon so there will be plenty of room for everyone. It’s catered by Blitz Mortuary, the Jim Jones Foundation, and Starbucks. Special order menus will be circulated for anyone with special dietary needs.

Item #6: Remember we’ll be having a speaker from The League of Women Voters as well as one from The International Women’s Rights Coalition. I’m sure the topic will be planet ruination like usual. Attendance is not mandatory because that would be disgusting even by our standards.

Item #7: Finally, we’re opening two more UFNIS day care facilities and accepting applications from anyone interested. We’re primarily looking for any flesh eating zombies able to pass as human, reprogramming technicians, and anyone with nail gun experience. A full list of available positions will be posted beside the employee phones.

That wraps it up. We’ll be discussing the holiday advertising promotions next time. Thanks everyone. Remember the monthly open action meeting is coming up. Have a great day!

Recorded by: Burnz / Princess Sparkles
Official Stationary of the United Federation of Nasty Individuals and Supervillains.
UFNIS: Home of the Whopper.

July 30th
Let's All Just Get Along.

Dearest readers. I come to you today with a heavy heart. I have finally hit what I believe to be rock bottom in my condition. Many of you know of my problem…my addiction. Some of you have tried to talk to me about it. Some burned the bridge between us because they could no longer suffer watching what I was doing to myself almost every day. I have lost friends and lovers. I have sacrificed for what I believed to be the easier, softer path. For this I am truly sorry and today I make a solemn pledge to seek the help I need so that I can do what is right instead of what came easiest for me. I only hope you all will understand the heartfelt sincerity in my next statement.

I promise to you I will stop fighting extraterrestrials.

LIVE DAMNIT!

So many of you have tried to reach out to me about how strung out I was becoming. You tried to tell me that the Gerians of Xonox 5 were peaceful and that there was no need for the firebombing I rained down on them from my Hydra Class attack vessel. And I brushed you aside. Your pleas fell on deaf ears…the deaf ears of addiction. Do you remember that day you tried to hold the intervention as I bore into the grossly oversized cranium that sat atop the Gerian Overmind with my chainsaw. You could barely see me for the blue green blood spraying out as you tried to shout your "I feel…" statements over the Overmind's grotesque cries for mercy. At least it might have been mercy, I don't speak Gerian very well, for all I know it could have been a meatloaf recipe or an explanation of the David Lynch film "Mulholland Drive." That seems more likely, because only an alien could get that movie.

I saw it, little by little. Those that used to go on patrol with me through the asteroid belt grew fewer and fewer. Soon I was out there alone, cursing the fools that would let the threat come so close to our borders. I knew we had the planetary missile defense matrix in place, as well as the patrol drones for encountering and reporting any abnormal activity. But my madness knew no bounds. I could see the sidelong looks when I started integrating alien technologies with that of man to increase my combat potential. Like when I added the plasma cooling ducts into my exoskeleton armor so that I could single-handedly invade the magma world of Char 3 "just in case there's some lava alien motherfucker up there" you all saw the darkness that had crept into me. It barely makes sense. How could a lava alien even achieve space travel? Not like you can make a whole lot of quality propulsion systems - much less a hull - out of liquid rock. But I was obsessed.

LIVE!

I promise now that I won't even attack the machinations of the aliens we have already encountered. I will not activate their kill-droids nor awaken the hordes of latent clones we have stored for my own twisted amusement. I will shed the shackles of this debilitating disease and become the man I once was…although I will tell you right now, if anyone else should happen to activate the kill-droids or clones, then I think it would be my duty to stand between them and humanity. As is the case with any other threat that might come along. I mean, I know how to do it best, and it isn't wrong if I just do it a little bit. Just so long as I control it. It wouldn't be a big deal.

Ok, you faggots can die.

I see the doubt. I see the hesitancy to believe me. But I am willing now in a way I never was before. I already have met up with some recovering Extraterrestrialwhackaholics. I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and for once it isn't a plasma grenade thrown into the Hive spawning chamber. It is the light of hope and the light of a new life. No more do I have to stalk to my interceptor craft in the middle of the night or book passage to some exotic planet under the guise of "just going out for a little joyride." I am what I am, and I hope that you can see the person you loved underneath the lots and lots of green blood I would come home covered in. That blood cannot be forgotten, but perhaps one day it can be forgiven. At least by you, I don't think the Overmind is ever going to be able to accept me with open arms or whatever the hell those tentacle things were. I just hope he/she/it found some peace while I stood atop it's still twitching corpse incinerating the brain matter I pulled out. At least it looked like brain matter. Maybe I just gave the thing a really rough hysterectomy. I just killed them; I didn't study every little thing about them.

Thank you friends. Perhaps now I and most of the universe can start the healing process.

July 29th
Number Two Peru, Holla Back.

By now you should be fully rested from the brief time out of the Peru National Day merriment. If your party was anything like mine, then your woman of the day cried herself to sleep while the man stuffed cotton into his bleeding ears and took enough Demerol to make Robert Downy wince. While she rested, her cherub face no longer twisted into a replica of one of the dragons painted on the side of knock-off firecrackers, he should have started preparing the food. Here's an ancient Peruvian recipe that has been in my family for generations and that I will now spit pointlessly into the endless, ravenous maw of the Internet.

Mama's Peruvian Surprise.
Ingredients: 2 Gallons Mash Whiskey.
Enjoy.

Old secret of the original Peruvian Mariner's passed down from inbred father to inbred Son / Nephew for just this special occasion…and most Sunday mornings if there is yard work to be done. Apply liberally to esophagus / stomach for the next 8 - 10 hours. For a more home cooked feeling, batter woman unconscious upon her reawakening with the empty bottle.

Best way to see a woman: on the floor, in the dark, through a blur.

So now the table is all set, turn down the lights for the next phase of your PND celebration. When the lady emerges from her slumber to find the man sitting in the semi-dark she will assume romance is in the air. I set her mind at ease by declaring I was beginning the "Migraine" ritual of PND and then started the ceremony with the tribal words of the first Peruvian man back in 1821 on this day: "So if you could keep the fucking lights off, it'd be swell." I may have muttered something about not wanting to look at her puffy, bloated, tear-streaked face…it's a little hazy.

Now the woman should be seated to complete the ceremony. Again, since she has now rested, this will be entirely her show for a time between the next few minutes and several arduous months depending on how seriously she takes the holiday. She will begin by using a husky voice to placate the man with an insincere apology so that he doesn't immediately immolate her in his deep fat fryer. Now she will begin a lengthy recitation of the situation in her relationship with the ex-fiancé, occasionally asking for advice on how she should proceed. Once she has laid out the entirety of her ex-fiancé's shortcomings she will require the man's phase to start.

The man, who has been dozing fitfully throughout her long-speech (the reason for the low lights) will use his "man-dar" to realize it is time to respond. This can be tricky for those who were not raised in Peru and haven't been exposed to the rich culture surrounding this day. Since all sexual cultures require the male to give endless platitudes to the females, he might be tempted to use one of the more common ones, specific to geographic location. I have made a brief list of common mistakes made at this point. Avoid these common verbal pitfalls men:

•America: "Of course you are still sexy."
"No you don't look fat."
"Of course I like your cooking."
"Fluffy must have gotten hit by a truck; there is no way I would have had her put down. I loved that cat."
"Yes, you give great head. Lots of guys call their girlfriend dead tongue."

•China: "Your foot bindings look lovely today."
"This rice is delicious; did you use the fresh water?"
"Of course if we have a daughter we won't leave her on a hillside to die. Scouts Honor."
"It's so nice of you to use a Mao quote for everything. It's one of your quirks that I love."

•Iraq: "I can barely see your eyes. I will only hit you with a small rock."
"I bet you could survive if I threw you off this tower."
"I swear I will not touch any of those 40 virgins when I get to the Promised Land. I will wait to see if they let your whore ass in before I consider it."
"I will kill you filth of the land!"
(not sure if those were accurate for Iraq, research is for real webmasters)

•Mexico: "No, of course I don't mind working in the corn fields all day to support our 15 kids."
"Thank you so much for cleaning the dishes while I walk the Donkey and sleep under a tree in a huge hat."
"I'd never sell you as a sex slave to a drug lord. You're my little Chalupa."
"I love the new colors. I always wanted to live in an orange, pink, green, yellow adobe hut with a giant crucifix hung on the wall over our bed."

None of this on PND. Especially not two.

Those are the big ones that come to mind. But you men all know yourselves well enough to know what I mean. You must repress this desire to spout the first thing that comes into your mind. You must use a new platitude. Pick from your stockpile of "Rebound Sex" platitudes for when you meet that recently broke up girl who is heartbroken. The traditional Peruvian response is along the lines of "You should leave him. He is making you unhappy."

In my particular case, there is a curiosity that some of you may have experienced which I will now relate. I am about as good at relationships as Nebraska Cornhusker players are good at not raping just about anyone they can lay their meaty hands on. This would make me the clear choice for romantic advice. Perhaps this was a custom I was previously unaware of. It is possible that the only reasonable choice for a man to properly celebrate PND with is an emotionally retarded chimp with poor grooming habits, worse grammar, a collection of Barbra Streisand plates that he sings to, and runs a website that ends sentences with the words "Elevator Shaft". If that is the case, this girl has had the best PND ever!

Wrap up the night with a feeling of total frustration and contempt for all things.

Hopefully this basic guide to PND has been helpful. Happy PND you vile emotional vampires and foolish shoulder's to cry on. Party on!

July 28th
This One's For You, Peru.

As most Americans are no doubt aware, today is a very special day. Like most people in the country I often forget a holiday as enigmatic as this one. Today is official Peru National Day (PND). On this day in 1821 Peru declared it's independence from Spanish rule. For those Peruvian readers that just stood patriotically, please sit back down so that I might help our American brothers in their quest to fully recognize this, a most glorious day.

CELEBRATE!

In Peru, great festivals like the "Aiyayayaya muchachos grande platter" are held. Actually it's just that one kid that is always dancing in the street because he hasn't learned not to stand on that spot of tar in the fucking scorching Peruvian sun. In America, we don't officially recognize this day as a fully national holiday, mostly because we aren't in Peru. We don't care about Peru because I think all they export is dirt and (from what I have seen) really godawfully ugly websites. In America we celebrate in a much more respectful manner than the filthy, gun-toting Peruvian cretins who still haven't learned how to properly celebrate independence like we have. Namely getting drunk and falling asleep on a lit gas grill so we permanently look like an ad for char-broiled idiot.

In America PND is celebrated in the wee hours of the morning. Much like Christmas. Only, instead of waking up to get delightful presents on PND, Americans celebrate by having the women call the men up in pre-dawn hours to drag themselves out of their cozy little hobbit hole to come rescue the ladies from their asshole ex-fiance. The girl that called me we shall call DJ Flaming (not cuz she's gay, although she does dress effeminately). Can't you just feel the Peruvian pride right now? But brush back the tears from your eyes brothers and countrymen because there is a whole heapin' helpin' more to come. For that call is just how, as Parliament Grand Funkadelic says you "Tear the Roof off this Sucker(note: translated for white people)".

Just when you think you can't top that bling-worthy beginning, the "hipness" arrives with his big bag of junk funk in his junk funk trunk and busts the amp up to three, or ten, or forty-one or whatever amps go up to before they "bump." So I go to retrieve and console this woman like the fun loving, six-shooter-in-the-air-firing, hyphen-using, Peruvian hound dog that I truly be. Next, we get right into the festivities like we are back in the mothercountry of Peru (or New Mexico for some of us). I show up and ultimately get to spend a marvelous six hours of "College Aged Girls Gone Wild Bitching" in the uncensored, no holds barred, doggy-style cage match that DJ Flaming sees fit to use. Oh, but the fun doesn't stop there. Right now we are just taking a siesta from the uninterrupted sonic beats that DJ Flaming can throw down with just her vocal chords and what seems like an endless supply of tears, mucus, and whatever this white crap that women get on my shirt when they cry. Even when I am across the room. I promise that this will be a PND to Remember. More to come.

But I'd like to take this opportunity to act as a responsible webmaster (read: unwashed insomniac loner) to inform the public of how to have a safe and responsible Peruvian National Day. Because as we all know, guns don't kill people, Peru does.

CELEBRATE!

•Ladies: First off, when you call the man of your choice, you must be shrill and unintelligible over the phone. This will make sure that your man is awake and has sufficient panic to get his Peruvian National Day going. Ideally, you should alternate between sobs that run the entire gambit of human hearing as well as some that can only be heard by dogs and low flying bats. Partway through the conversation the man should have to shout over you to insist that you start using button presses to indicate "YES" (one press) or "NO"(two presses). If you fail to sufficiently deafen him, your day is only going to be salvageable if you make sure the first words out of your mouth when you see him are derogatory and or accusatory. Here are some tips you too can yell as he walks through the door:

1."Why did you let me move in with that son of a bitch?"
2. "If you hadn't ignored your messages all week this never would have happened." (It is irrelevant if you left messages for the man.)
3. "Look at me, I'm a wreck…not that you even care."
4. "Thank God you're here, any minute…I might have done...something." (prop required: Large knife, bottle of pills and booze, noose, razor, or open garage door with car running)

Feel free to mix and match for best effect. Customize them, try your own, and always remember: Have Fun With It!! Now it's important for all you ladies out there to be safe. You want to achieve maximum effect with minimum muss and danger. Don't actually use any of the props recommended and in the event your man of choice is not available for your call. Have some pathetic fallback guy in mind so that some party pooping guy doesn't spoil your day.

DANCE TO THE MUSIC!

•Fellas: Always always always keep your phone in a safe and accessible location. I paid dearly for the start of my day for not taking my own advice. I had laid my bed in it's usual place, which is across a moat of ravenous alligators, in the center of a pit of hot coals, and resting atop a pile of broken glass and rusty ritualistic circumcision tools. This almost gave a rocky start to my celebration. So don't make my mistake or you just might find yourself a burnt, castrated meal for some amphibian! If this is your first PND, prepare yourself for the inhuman screech about to come out of your phone first thing in the morning. Women do not have vocal chords as men do, instead their larynx is replaced at birth with the engine intake of an SR-72 blackbird. They can activate this at will, so ready your ears for the experience by tying a howler monkey's mouth right beside your ear while a friend or family member beats them savagely with a broom stick for four solid hours or lie in a sarcophagus and discharge heavy firearms if you are like me and do not have any friends. Make sure you too are familiar with the crying ritual in which you must employ alternate communication methods other than speech. Or your lady friend will be disappointed and you'll be stuck at home doing some stupid gay bullshit like sleeping or relaxing…homo. The Early part is easy on you. She's already wound up for a hot time on the town, but you need to crank up the party machine before you're ready. They'll provide the amusement: You just keep the tissue handy, use the phrase "that bastard" and prepare to get shit on your shirt that makes you look like you just walked off the set of Ghostbusters 2.