Oh No! Have I Been Buttfucked?!?!

Has this ever happened to you?

You go to a frat party on Saturday night and drink like Willy after landing on the other side of the reef. You get so drunk that you realize how terribly outdated and scientifically inaccurate your Free Willy reference is. When you wake up the next day you're not sure whether or not you've been buttfucked. It's all a jumbled amalgam of dreams and memories, the line between perception and reality is as blurry as your vision after your third bottle of Robitusin.

Well your troubles are over! With my patented system you'll be able to tell whether or not you've been buttfucked in just minutes! Here's how it works:

Use Common Sense: Sometimes it's easy to tell if you've been buttfucked. Make a bodily and mental check list.

• Make sure your butt isn't sore, torn, bleeding or otherwise damaged.
• Check to see if you feel utterly ashamed of yourself without knowing quite why.
• Check your bum for excess moisture. Unless you're running a marathon or living in an equatorial climate, it should be relatively dry.

Hallmark even makes a, "Sorry I buttfucked you while you were in a state that may or may not have resulted in your inability to remember whether or not you've been buttfucked," card! If you get one of these with a couple of twenties stuffed into it, the chances are good that you've been buttfucked!

Those were some of the more obvious signs that your poopshoot's been violated but there are literally THOUSANDS of indicators that you've been buttfucked.

Call now and you'll get your "So You May Have Been Buttfucked" investigatory kit and a smiley-face paper bag Shame Mask. Call in the next twenty minutes and you'll get a jumbo-sized tube of lidocaine absolutely free!!

What are you waiting for?!?! You may already have been buttfucked.

Why I Don't Vote

When I was a younger man I decided I would not vote. Chalk it up to youth or ignorance, but I had decided that the system was fucked and couldn't be fixed. Not only had I made my decision, I was proud. You couldn't shut me up on the subject, were it to arise.

In retrospect I see now what a buffoon I was. Conceptualizations of what a democratic republic should be aside, there is a far more legitimate reason not to vote. Registering to vote gets you on the list to become a juror in our court system. My job provides for paid time off so that I can better help my community. So jury duty in itself is not so terrible. In a lot of ways it would be more like a vacation than a civil obligation.

What worries me the most is ending up on the jury that convicts a super villain. I've seen it happen a jillion times in the comics, cartoons and the recent barrage of super-hero movies.

You start out with a Hero you need to introduce. Let's call him, "Hypothetacles." See, he's the new hero on the block and he's making a name for himself in a town we'll call, "Hypothetropolis." Hypothetacles will start off fucking up some gang-bangers and drug dealers just to get his name on the street. But eventually wading through an ocean of mooks without breaking a sweat will begin to bore Hypothetacles. Simultaneously, he will realize that while he's stopping crimes as they happen, he's not really getting ot the root cause of crime. This will lead him on a witch hunt through Hypothetropolis; killing them all and letting god sort 'em out.

As Hypothetacles moves up the Goon Ladder, his opponents will become fewer but far more powerful until he reaches the mastermind of all crime in Hypothetropolis:

Villain X

Nobody knows who Villain X is since he always wears a mask and kills anybody that has ever even been in the same room with him. Naturally, though, after an epic duel that nearly kills Hypothetacles, Villain X will be brought to the swift and fair justice of the Hypthetropolis Justice System.

That's where I come in. See, I help convict Villain X and save Hypothetropolis from certain disaster. It's a good day for everybody but Villain X and we all live happily ever after...UNTIL THE SEQUEL!!!

That'll open up with a rash of killings in which all of the victims were jury members who helped convict Villain X. Look, I'm not a very important man, so I have little doubt that I'll be one of the first people to be turned into yogurt or have my bones teleported out of my body as I'm kicked from an airplane at 17,000 feet while bing cut in half by the flechette rounds from the devastator cannon on the powered armor belonging to Cybermax, Villain X's right hand man.

My only real hope is that I'm funny enough to be the last remaining juror. After all, Hypothetacles is going to need me to be the bait for his cunning plan to catch both Cybermax and Villain X by turning their powers against themselves. And let's face it, Hypothetacles is no comedian. Where else are we going to get the comic relief we all know and love?

So if any of you are thinking about registering to vote, take a minute to really think about whether or not you're comfortable sending a super villain to the local Insane Asylum. You've seen the the kind of people that run these things; they're all stupid enough to be fooled by a hologram of Lex Luthor and Otis playing checkers coming from a homemade projector consisting of transistor radio parts and Kool Menthol cigarettes.

Is it really worth the risk?

A Stalker's Practical Guide to Suzy

First things first: Suzy's full name is Suzanne Matilda LeFleur. Her phone number is 555-0999. Her address is 3541 Rain Cloud Road. She lives in an old Victorian that's been converted into several apartments. Suzy's on the third floor, north corner.

Suzy is the Goddess above all others in my Pantheon of Obsession.

Hiding Places: Suzy's next door neighbor is a 75 year old widow named Mrs. O'Whighans. She lives alone. She doesn't have any family and she lives in the house Mr. O'Whigans built with his own hands. As such, her house is far too big for her to utilize, maintain or patrol. She is also going deaf and is addicted to Drain-O-dipped cigarettes. This is the perfect house for stalking at range. I have a key to all the doors in the house, including the attic. The attic window is just 35 feet away from Suzy's living room and bedroom windows.

Suzy's...Mind...OVERPOWERS

If you're going to enter Suzy's home, it's best to do it when she takes what I like to call her, "Power Dump". She does this as soon as she gets home each night around 5:30. She keeps a key to the apartment in the little potted plant just outside her front door. All of Suzy's closets are deep and have slats in the doors.

Suzy knows you're coming...but she won't know you're there...

Final Thoughts: Suzy's amazing, beautiful and far-reaching. I wouldn't leave her if I didn't have to go to this comic book convention. But I trust you. With that said, know this: if anything should happen to Suzy while I'm away there will be no end to the pain and misery I will bestow upon you. No limit to the delightful atrocities I will inflict to your earthly body. You will be living hamburger, bleating like a little lamb. Nobody will hear you, though, because Mrs. O'Hwighans is going deaf and is addicted to Drain-O-dipped cigarettes and I have the key to her basement....

Suzy....

I Still Like Ska and You Should Be Glad #1

I still like ska and you should be glad. I know, I know...Ska's out like legwarmers and shaving the Bat Signal into the back of your head. But the up-tempo dohdyoh doh doh of the rhythm section and the sassy doodleedoo of the horns make The Rage go away. It doesn't matter how terrible or horrific my day has been as long as I can come home to a ska version of Brown Eyed Girl or a song about Spam. Honestly, there's nothing ska can't fix for me. And you should be glad...

For instance, without ska, your incompetent boobery on the highways and city streets would drive me to kill each and every one of you in a decidedly Bolivian Drug Lord fashion. I'm not here to intimidate you, but there would definitely be a blowtorch and a rusty pair of left-handed safety scissors in the deal. So how 'bout this: Turn on your blinker when you're going to turn, turn off your blinker when you're not going to turn, put on your makeup when you get to the whorehouse, pay attention to the goddamn traffic lights, fuck off with your blue uber-bright, harnessing the power of the sun headlights, hang up your FUCKING CELL PHONE AND DRIVE!!! I'll let you keep listening to your Earth-shattering mega-booty bass thunder box in the hopes that it renders you permanently sterile.

But above all else, always remember and obey the one cardinal rule:

Right Lane Slow
Left Lane Fast

You do that and I"ll listen to ska instead of flaming whatever you have that's flammable or raping whatever you have that's rapable.

Now, where's that Save Ferris CD?

George Clooney Hair

Some day I'm gonna' get me some George Clooney hair. Not actual hair from his head, but a stylish haircut reminiscent of George Clooney. Dashing George Clooney, ruggedly handsome George Clooney, suave and debonair George Clooney. There's just something about George Clooney....he's a ladies' man and he's a man's man. He's tough and he's macho and take-charge when he has to be. He is powerful like the rhinoceros. Yet, when the time is right, he's loving and caring, tender. If I had George Clooney hair, I'd be one step closer to the man I want to be....

But more importantly, George Clooney is rich. Filthy, stinking rich! He wipes his ass with $100 bills. He eats California condor egg omelets for breakfast and he cleans his teeth with an ivory, gold inlaid, jewel-encrusted tooth brush. If I had George Clooney hair I could be rich, too.

Because George Clooney has all this money he can better fit into this dog-eat-dog, topsy turvy world. He can get a cell phone. People will know he's George Clooney when he answers his phone with, "George Clooney here..."Because people should know you're important. George Clooney's important. That's why he's on the cover of People Magazine talking about what it's like to be in his 40s. People would know I'm important if I had George Clooney hair.

Money, fame and rugged good looks also attract the ladies. Beautiful ladies with silicone titties, collagen lips and bulimic thighs that don't even touch. George Clooney meets these beautiful women. George Clooney gets more ass than a public toilet. I'd get laid too, if only I had George Clooney hair....

I Love Her

She has legs that go all the way to her buttocks.

And a smile that exposes her front teeth.

Her hair is extruded from tiny follicles in her scalp.

With eyes that provide binocular vision and opposable thumbs for gripping and grasping.

Her lips move as though they are attached to tendons and muscles on her face.

Even her nose protrudes from the front of her face, allowing her to collect microscopic particles for olfactorial analysis.

And her 32 teeth, all insider her mouth, pefectly designed for mastication.

I love her....

How I Got Here

Once, some wild, eight foot tall maniac grabbed my neck, slammed the back of my favorite head against a bar room wall and looked me crooked in the eye and he asked if I'd paid my dues. I looked right back into his eyes and said,

"When I was nine I wore aviator sunglasses and a headband with a fearsome Chinese dragon on it for a week straight. In the sixth grade I started wearing suspenders and a chain with a silver dollar on it like some prepubescent 70's wannabe. When I was thirteen I finally stopped sleeping with my blanky. In the eighth grade I nearly dislocated my right knee doing the half-splits at one of Mandan Junior Highs legendary dances. The summer before my freshman year of high school I started wearing a small, plush, stuffed puppy dog as a necklace. In the 9th grade I finally got a spike hairdo a year after they were popular. The summer before my junior year of high school I was Death in a medley of plays as performed by a traveling children's troop. It was in the 11th grade that I acquired the gift of being able to talk to girls I found attractive without crying nor making them cry. It was the eleventh grade when three different girls asked me to go to the winter formal and I declined. I received my first blow job in the twelfth grade. Which was almost cool except I shot it right away. As an adult I have vomited on myself on numerous occasions in drunken stupors, I still think Tr0n is a fucking RAD movie, I have a tattoo of Bert and Ernie on my flabby, pasty-white bicep and for some reason I feel the urge, nay, the compulsion to tell you about all of this."

"Have you paid yer dues, Dekx?"
"Yes, Sir. The check is in the mail."