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I want to be the kind of private detective who figures out that the murderer is actually the woman who hired him.

The kind who sleeps through the afternoon, drinks through the night and uses mornings and evenings to just kind of stare at himself in a mirror and shake his head “no.”

The kind who gets all the suspects together in one room and then says he’s going to reveal the killer, but suddenly all the lights go out and he gets murdered.

Okay, that was a bad example.

I’m talking about the kind of private detective who calls his Tommy gun a “Chicago typewriter,” his whiskey “hooch” and his female friends “dollfaces.”

The kind who says, “Hey, Dollface, I spilled hooch on my Chicago typewriter and now it’s all bunky.”

I want to be the kind of private detective who, when something is broken, describes it as “all bunky.”

The kind of private detective who questions suspects by grabbing them by their lapels and shoving them up against walls.

The kind who conveniently forgets the difference between interrogating, roughing up and making love to.

It’s the same kind of private detective who tells the mayor’s wife a joke where the setup is that the mayor has been accused of murder, the punchline is that he’s guilty and the epilogue reveals that the joke wasn’t a joke at all, but a rather a non-fiction book about the murder the mayor committed and how long he’s going to go to jail for. (1,000 years.)

The kind who uses invoices as coasters and bullets as invoices.

The kind who, if a client complains that their Accounts Payable department doesn’t know what do with this bullet, shoots the client through the heart with a coaster.

I want be the kind of private detective who’s been on the job so long, he sees a killer around every corner, fingerprints on every object and blood stains on every wall.

Like, the kind of guy who sees the whole world as just one giant man-handled sack of blood-soaked murderers.

The kind of hard-up private detective whose life is all bunky and the only thing longer than his face is his trench coat and the only thing longer than his trench coat is the bag he puts his trench coat in when he takes it to get dry-cleaned.

The kind of guy who sees more beauty in a bottle of gin than in a gorgeous, naked woman, and who doesn’t even get embarrassed when he gets caught having sex with the bottle.

I want to be the kind of private detective who, if you saw him and you didn’t know he was a private detective, you’d say, “Whoa. What is this guy? Some kind of alcoholic cyborg or homeless cowboy?”

But then if he handed you his business card, you’d kind of smack your forehead and go, “Oh! Okay! That makes a lot more sense!”

You know, that kind.

Although, the kind that takes Best Western sex pictures for use in divorce hearings would also be okay with me.

Either one is good, really.


Trainsylvania: Off The Rails

Even with his steam-powered sovereign state immobilized along the side of the tracks, Conductor Korlav’s vampire army is growing… and building an airplane. As “Captain” Korlav terrorizes small Midwestern rail yards and depots, murdering and turning young women into bloodsucking stewardesses for his ad hoc redeye of the damned, Agent Lucas Brash is still mourning the death of his partner and lover, Agent Millie Fairweather. Little does Brash know that he’s about to find out he has a son – a disgraced Air Force pilot. If you thought Brash and Fairweather were an explosive team, wait until you see Brash and Brash in this non-stop mid-air adventure that once again reminds us that modern transportation is great… until vampires steal it. Get ready to fly the deadly skies in this thrilling sequel to the film that USA Today called “…exciting…”

Color Me Murder 2

Color Me Murder 2 picks up exactly where the unforgettable original left off, with Cole Preston driving off into the sunset, billionaire Rex DeMarco’s murder solved and scheming billionaire Leo Claymore and his simpering millionaire lackey, Harvey Tigland, in jail. But then Cole Preston’s car explodes! Now it’s up to Rex DeMarco’s wife, billionaire Anna DeMarco, and her nosy gardener (and the first film’s hilarious comic relief) Jose, to avenge Cole Preston’s death… and maybe even fall in love… and get married. Some murder is money blind and all money is the color of blood. Color Me Vengeance… Color Me Sensuousness… Color Me Murder… 2.

President Baseball 2

Trash-talking second baseman Mark “A-Bomb” Arden has been re-elected, and this time, the whole team’s coming with him! Fresh off his side-splitting, tell-it-like-it-is re-election campaign (featuring hilarious filibusters like “I’m all for gun control… if it’s controlling a gun so it shoots you in your whiny liberal pussy!” and “Global warming can eat my fat dick!”), A-Bomb, a proud ex-Milwaukee Brewer, fills all 15 cabinet positions with the top 15 players from the Chicago Cubs, ensuring massive Chicago losses. Meanwhile, approval ratings are down and an evil Saudi oil magnate is threatening to blow up all of America’s oil! Can President A-Bomb and his new Secretary of Homeland Security, second baseman P.J. “Pacman” Ackerman, overcome their past rivalry in time to save the country… and make it to happy hour?! It’s a homerun for America, and a grand slam for comedy!

Explodercycle 2: American Nitro

Boasting an all new cast and freshly secreted adrenaline, the explosive second chapter of the Explodercycle story moves the exploding motorcycle action from the beaches and montañas of Brazil to the highways of America. With the 120 mph blood-smuggling schemes of former Explodercycle commissioner Delmar Piston foiled, the circuit’s back up and riding, with an epic cross-country race from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. But what happens when three cult members disguising themselves as Explodercycle competitors decide to build their bikes out of a disassembled nuclear bomb, ride the bikes (the bomb!) to the capital, reassemble the bomb and then detonate the bomb? Can rookie U.S. Marshall, and the sassy gay car thief who he accidentally handcuffed to himself, win first place in this high-octane transamerican road trip to hell and adventure, and in the higher octane road trip to save the capital? *Spoiler Alert* Yes.

Doubt 3

John Patrick Shanley returns to write and direct this hard-hitting follow-up to his award-winning sequel to Doubt, Doubt 2. In this new chapter, repairs have been completed and St. Nicholas in the Bronx is re-opening. An aging Sister James finally watches the last episode of HBO’s The Sopranos. She thinks Tony probably got killed at the end. But she has so much doubt.


Children, lock up your parents! The knee-slappinest, toe-tappinest husband and wife rock ‘n’ fun band is back… and this time they’re taking you to court! The food court, that is! Veteran kid’s music outfit Rock, Paper, Smile! would like to announce the release of their new album, We Find the Defendant… YUMMY!, available in stores everywhere on Tuesday, July, 14th, 2009.

What better way to say, “Pass the ketchup!” to the hot dog days of summer than with a zany new food and laws-themed set of guaranteed hip-shakers by the same wacky folks who brought you such jammin’ hits as “Red Light, Stop! Green Light, Rock!,” “Liars Can’t Dance!” and “Abe Lincoln’s Bio-Diesel Birthday Machine”? It’s a one-step recipe for an all-you-can-party buffet of family entertainment!

Why a themed album? Isn’t that TOO MUCH FUN?!?!

“We wanted to find a way to take two things that are really important – food and the law – and mix them with our trademark blend of catchy melodies and fun, quirky lyrics,” explains guitarist and vocalist Cindy Paper. “When you’re as wacky and zany as Rock, Paper, Smile!,” adds her husband, keyboardist and vocalist Mark Paper, “too much fun is the expected amount of fun!”

With 12 irresistible new tunes, We Find the Defendant… YUMMY! is stuffed so full of delicious ditties and scrumptious songs, your ears will need to buy a bigger belt… but first, they’ll come back for seconds!

I’m a pop cop! / I read Coke®s and Sprite®s their Miranda rights / I put ginger ale in jail!

Drinks with fizz, meet the soda fuzz! “Pop Cop,” a chugging (pun definitely intended!) power ballad about a dentist-turned-police officer arresting sugary beverages for assaulting teeth, will have your fingers snapping and your mouth clapping!

But don’t worry! Sometimes a little sugar is okay…

The lollipops escaped from jail and chocolate bars are jumping bail / Both are guilty of lacking nutrition, but Argentina has no extradition / It’s a South American candy fiesta!

Ole! Pass the salsa. No, not the dip! The popular Latino music! “South American Candy Fiesta,” Rock, Paper, Smile!’s first journey into the funky musical jungles of our neighbors to the south, adds a twist of jalapeno to the rich stew of rock and silliness you’ve come to love! But be careful… It’s caliente!

And what’s this? Rap, Paper, Smile!?

The pepperoni pizza was arrested doing 80 in a ’67 caddy with a chicken patty lady / his attorney was spaghetti with a side of mahi mahi / and the jury was a dozen oily rolls of tuna sushi!

The sizzling “Guilty of Yummy” celebrates the 21st century’s newest musical trend, hip-hop, in a family friendly way that every rhyme-hungry homie can enjoy! Crank up the bass, and the laughter, with this roof-raising courtroom drama that puts the “con” back in “condiments”! It’s fun to the izzle!

We Find the Defendant… YUMMY! features nine other delectable musical confections, including “Brunch is Like Justice,” “You Can’t Bribe a Judge with Broccoli” and “Blueberry Pancake, Attorney at Law.”

Mark and Cindy Paper have been writing and recording music together as Rock, Paper, Smile! for 13 years. Their previous albums include It’s All of Your Bee’s Wax!, Wiggle Your Piggle! and the critically acclaimed Pants-Ants Exterminator.

Memorandum to All Staff

Re: Questions and concerns re: recent alterations to the Budget Allocation column on Document 26.a (Funds Request form) and Document 29.d (Expenditure Report form)

On May 15, 2009, the company issued a memorandum to all staff regarding the addition of a fourth selectable option, “Research Purposes,” to the Budget Allocation column on document 26.a (Funds Request form) and 29.d (Expenditure Report form), both of which had previously offered only “Medical Advancement,” “Technological Development” and “Military Prototype” as viable resource acquisition delegations. Since the institution of this change on June 1, 2009, the company has received numerous questions and concerns from multiple departments; the following document has been prepared to address the most prevalent and pressing queries and issues.

Note that, where appropriate, specific questions and comments have been re-stated verbatim to preserve relevant examples presented therein.

Q: Previously, all artillery-related projects were to be allocated under “Military Prototype,” even if said projects were currently unmarketable, but still integral in the pre-emptive development of weaponry for use in pending American conflicts. Should weapons projects that will only prove lucrative in the future, such as anti-mantis missiles or a rifle that can only be fired at women, retain their current “Military Prototype” designation, or be classified under the new “Research Purposes” category?

A: Any technology developed that’s unmarketable as a result of its incompatibility with the current socio-cultural marketplace should henceforth be allocated under “Research Purposes.” These projects will remain under the research designation until such time as all mantids, female humans, et al, require military suppression and/or an official threat of tactical action.

Q: Previously, if a project demonstrated simultaneous potential in more than one of the three available budget allocation categories, departments were encouraged to indicate every category that applied, with the understanding that funds would be divided equally between those divisions. Is this still the case? For example, the laser grenade that’s also a flash drive or the homing pigeon with OxyContin for blood – still dual allocation, or simply “Research Purposes”?

A: From today on, any project that legitimately demands partial funding from two separate budgetary divisions should request funding from the “Research Purposes” budget. Note, however, that the above examples DO NOT fulfill the requirements for dual allocation. Homing pigeons and flash drives already exist and are, therefore, exempt from development funding eligibility. These projects should have always been allocated singularly – “Medical Advancement” for the opioid animal blood and “Technological Development” for the laser grenade. Only projects requiring dual development funding, such as a laser grenade that’s also a cell phone for ghosts, or a manticore with OxyContin for blood, are eligible for dual allocation.

Q: Our department recently worked on developing an erectile disappointment medication, intended to alter optical perception by creating specific distress in neural feedback to create the illusion that the user’s sexual partner possessed a penis that surpassed said partner’s actual penile dimensions in both length and girth. This pill was initially allocated as a “Medical Advancement.” Once the project was completed, it was discovered that the medication was unsuccessful in its goal, but did generate an unpredicted (and still unexplained) powerful empathic shockwave that transmitted the user’s disappointment to their partner, causing immediate and permanent impotence. In a case like this, should funds allocation transfer to the most accurate specific qualification (in this case, “Military Prototype”), or default to the newly created “Research Purposes” category?

A: If substantial evidence for re-allocation of a project to one of the other two specific designations can be provided via the completion and additional filing of Document 33.e, this action is acceptable. In absence of, or inability to rigorously defend, the filing of Document 33.e, please default allocation to “Research Purposes.”

Q: What if a department is working on an extensive, difficult project, tires of it and decides that it’s good enough the way it is, even if it’s only half done and doesn’t do anything? Departments used to not be allowed to do that. Would projects of this nature now be categorizable under “Research Purposes”?

A: Yes.

Q: In the past, a few departments have been using most of the day on Friday to flirt with inebriation and play darts, using a copy of Document 29.d as the board. Previously, each of the three check boxes in the Budget Allocation category counted as an outer bull hit (the company logo is currently the only place to earn an inner bull hit). Now that there is an additional box, making those check boxes 33.3% easier to hit, how should the boxes be scored? Should each one now count as a triple ring hit? If so, which portion of the document replaces the budget allocation check boxes as an outer bull hit?

A: Going forward, count any part of the letterhead itself, including the logo, as an out-of-play area. Score the three pre-existing check boxes (“Medical Advancement,” “Technological Development” and “Military Prototype”) as outer bull hits. Use the new “Research Purposes” check box as the only area of the document valued as an inner bull hit. If problems persist, the company will consider resizing each individual check box to size specifications more conducive to fun, competitive play.

The company appreciates the time and attention that everyone has put into reading the above information and, if applicable, assimilating it into their respective department’s routine and functions. If you have any other questions or concerns relating to the recent alterations to the Budget Allocation column on Document 26.a (Funds Request form) and Document 29.d (Expenditure Report form) that weren’t addressed above, contact your direct supervisor.

Marlie Chaples
Executive Accountant

Here it is.

I’m back.

And this time, it’s for good (meaning permanently. Intention-wise, it’s for evil). As they say in the trailers for those movies where communists blow up a helicopter and Steven Seagal’s wife is on the helicopter so Steven lubes up his p-tail and puts his fist through a Russian, “This time, it’s personal!”

I’ve been contemplating a lot in the interim. I’ve also gotten good at rattling chains. I’ve even rattled one of those big ship chains where every link is almost the size of an entire regular chain (waste of time). I do like thinking of obscene messages and then firing them down into slumber party Ouija board pointers.

Child screams are like The Beatles for me now, but I guess you knew that already.

I’m getting off topic.

As I said, I’ve been contemplating a lot in the interim, and what I contemplated is that I’m going to haunt you now, but not for the reasons you’d think.

Like, you probably remember the time we summoned that Norse god of passion because you said your sister didn’t have anyone to ask to the Sadie Hawkins dance, but then it actually just turned out that you didn’t have anyone dressed in a Viking helmet to blow in the hot tub. Well, guess what? I’m over that. Fate balanced those scales when I took your sister to the Sadie Hawkins dance and we had a really fun time. Her friends are so funny!

I know you too well. Right now, you’re thinking about when we needed to make a blood offering to Mithros and, even though you were on your period, you made me cut off my pinky because you said that Mithros didn’t like “box wine.” There I was, standing around like an idiot, hand gushing blood into the runic incisions on the altar, when Mithros rose out of the black flames, high fived you and handed you $10. And he was all, “Holy thunderforce, I can’t believe he actually did it.” And then you guys left me and went to some hoity-toity wine tasting. Can’t believe I did what? You never told me. I guess it was some inside joke between you and Mithros.

HONK, HONK, Chocolate goose!

Oh, sorry. Inside joke. From the Sadie Hawkins dance. Your sister’s friends really are so funny! I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mithros is pretty funny, too. I guess. But let’s face it, he’s no Jocelyn Evans. I tell you…that girl… well, nevermind. I’m getting off topic again. I’m not haunting you because of Mithros.

Now that you know that, you’re probably asking the big question: “Is it because of that time I acted like a total bitch, slit your throat with a cursed Babylonian dagger and then shoved the Amulet of N’rholabm into the wound so that you’d be forced to forever roam the ruined vapor lands between Earth and the underrealm, craving blood, but unable to drink, and hearing the chorus of ‘Love Me Do’ in the screams of every living child?”

Sorry. Wrong again.

I don’t mind it here. I get to float around and rattle chains and listen in on Jocelyn’s hilarious jokes when she’s out with your sister. Plus, ever since the dimensional re-zoning kick-started gentrification, the vapor lands really aren’t even that ruined anymore.

No. I’m haunting you for the same reason you gave last Halloween when I asked you why you ate more than half of my candy corn and laid that massive Chinese food fart in my werewolf mask.

The same reason you gleefully stated when I demanded to know why you used that nard-rupturing spell to kill the divorce attorney I hired.

A precise echo of the explanation, which you made through gritted teeth and an (I have to admit) erotic sneer, that I begged for as I choked and sweated against the stone Babylonian blade that you enthusiastically pressed against my throat before letting my blood spray all over that white dress you insisted on buying, even though I told you when we were there at Banana Republic that you were just going to end up spilling something on it.

And there you were swearing that everything I said was bullshit. Well, now take a look at that dress you had to have, sweetheart.

I know. Off topic.

Why am I haunting you?


That’s right.

Just because.

How’s that feel?

No, really. I want to know. Use the enchanted semaphore flag you bought at that grand magus’ estate sale to tell me. And don’t pretend that you don’t feel like the biggest idiot ever. Also, try to use fairly basic signals because I don’t actually understand semaphore.

If the flag’s, like, pointing down at the ground, it means sadness. And upsetness.

And the humble admission of one’s guilt and utter wrongness.

I think we both know which way the flag will point.

Why won’t you be in my movie?


How can you not like vampire movies?

So?! I’m not even making a vampire movie.

Well, no, I mean, I’m not making a movie that outright denies the possibility of transformation from human into bloodthirsty nightwalker. But does that fact alone make it a vampire movie?

Yeah, well… I’m only calling it “Vampire Frenzy” because Cameron Crowe already exhausted every other viable film title. Anyway, we’re only really marketing the frenzy aspect of it. I’m making a frenzy movie.


Well, I mean, it’s more of a subgenre. Frenzy movies sort of fit under the umbrella of shenanigan films.

Shenanigan films. Like “Jaws: The Revenge.” Or “Straw Dogs.” 

Hold on, hold on. I don’t think we’re coming at this from the same direction.

No, see, you need to start thinking of the film’s universe as a universe of absolute free will, where people can make whatever choices they wish: love or loneliness; food or something that isn’t food; to not turn into a vampire or, perhaps, to turn into a vampire.

No duh the characters all make the same choice. They wouldn’t have been assigned to the same hovercraft crew if they didn’t have similar and compatible personality profiles.


I think you’re taking the whole vampirism thing a bit too literally. It’s intended as a metaphor

What do you mean, “For what?” For freedom. For passion. For bravery in the face of civil unrest.

I guess it’s more of a shifting metaphor. Like those flowers in that movie about Thora Birch’s boobs.

Oh, oh, hold the horse, Wednesday! Not all the vampires can transform into dinosaurs. Just King Okthor, the king of the vampires. King Okthor, king of bravery in the face of civil unrest, if you will.

Wait, the script says the vampires have a what?

Shit, that’s an early draft. Tell you what ­­­­– which word appears more: “king” or “kritocracy”?

Okay, find and replace “King” with “Judge.” What was I saying before?

Right. Metaphor. The vampires are metaphors.

They’re not magic, they’re pyrokinetic. It means they can control electricity.

It means what? I mean, yeah. I know. Electricity is nature’s metaphor for fire.

Jesus Christ! Where was all this inquisitive argumentation when you made Bless the Child?


Well, I’m sorry he hit you.

Listen, lemme do one more draft. How would you feel if instead of becoming a vampire, your character accidentally plugs her brain into the hovercraft’s mainframe computer, thereby, fusing her consciousness with the hard drive so that for the rest of the movie the hovercraft is all wisecracking and sassy.

Like someone could spill a soda on the deck and then it’d be all “Oh no you di’int!”

Chris? Christina? Hello?

Reader, take heed: Though the “if” in this piece’s name may lead you
to believe that the below account represents a blindly hypothetical
postulation of the titular event, there is nothing hypothetical about
it. A better title might have been “When Matt Finley Gave a Real Pig a
Real Pancake.” This, however, is hypothetical. There is no way to know
with any degree of certainty whether the proposed possibly better
title would have, in actuality, been any more effective. That having
been said, I still kind of feel that it would have been.

With that out of the way, I will tell you what happens if you give a
real pig a real pancake: chaos. And not the kind of hyperbolic chaos
that one might refer to in describing a two-hour mattress sale, film
opening or gas-bombed race riot. I mean actual throat-slitting,
blood-soaked chaos, with all of the ball lightening, raining viscera
and billowing diesel smoke that the word has come to denote. I hope
that by explaining this as concisely and as gruesomely as possible, I
can convince those among you who are prone to boat-rocking mischief
and/or shenanigans that there are some boats best left unrocked.

I feel that it would be beneficial, in lieu of creating the monstrous
new words necessary to describe in full the anarchy catalyzed by the
giving of said pancake to said pig, to lay out the three mistakes I
made in both my planning and methodology. This way, even the most
careless miscreants among you, who choose to turn a deaf ear to the
facts and prepare a hot, delicious pancake and present it to a pig,
will have a rudimentary understanding of the most crucial things to
avoid. Do not be fooled into believing that these were the only times
when I erred. These are just the times when I erred the hardest.

Mistake #1: The basic ideation.
Give a pancake to a pig? Yes. For I believed with all my heart that
the pig would enjoy it 100%. If only I had reminded myself that 100%
is a mere 1% shy of far, far too much. Mathematics is a fowl,
loathsome beast indeed. I underestimated by 900%.

Mistake #2: I prepared only one pancake.
 If perhaps I had made three, or maybe even just two, I would be
writing a delightful, pithy bon mot entitled “If You Give a Pig
Pancakes.” And you, dear reader, could sit back in your chair,
enjoying the tale with your spouse or a friend, warmed through by the
logs on the fire and the smoked gamey mirth in the air. Instead,
everything is awful. Ugh. I am vomiting.

Mistake #3: I gave the pancake to a pig.
This was a terrible, terrible decision. Just awful.

In the wake of the event, my reactions were rash and sloppy, drunk as
I was on the sweet nectar of my own generosity. I faced down something
nameless and primal that day, as I tried to reach out into the ether
of dreams and, with spry, eager fingers, tickle the feet of God. I
stood amidst a universal force so engorged with an ancient, malevolent
intelligence, that it seemed larger than all pigs and all pancakes.

Whoever thinks to give a pig a pancake should be careful not to, for
if you stare long enough into the abyss, the abyss stares also into

[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever


The next morning, Beth left the house without even saying goodbye to her father, who was hallucinating in a bathtub full of homemade corn whiskey that he brewed himself to keep his alcoholic nun seduction expenditures down. Tiger King snorted to attention with a blast of exhaust so thick, Beth felt sure that they alone could take on the entire Arctic Circle if they had to. But when she blasted into the school parking lot and spun skidding sideways into an empty spot while a guitar solo wailed, her depression returned. She climbed out of her truck and looked up at the sky. A deep gray pall had spread out over the town and thunder sounded off in the distance, rumbling soft and deep in the air, as if God had eaten a bad quesadilla. The usual rabble of dipshits and fucktards were feeding each other, self-conscious and bumbling, into the school’s gaping brick and steel maw. Beth felt more alone than Haley Joel Osment did when he was in the submarine underwater at the fake ending of A.I.

Suddenly, a mini-van piloted by a fugly redhead who was trying to drive and eat potato bisque at the same time came swerving into the lot and spun out of control. The van was skidding and smoking, going at least 200 miles per hour, catching on fire and about to hit Beth. Reacting purely on instinct, coaxing neural signals up out of the most basic, primordial fragments of a raveling double helix that for millennia has fought against the zero half of the universal binary by stacking rung after rung of genetic prerogative atop the sacred altar of self-preservation, she curled up into a ball and waited for death.

But, oh-ho! Death never came. Instead there was a bang and a screech and then some more banging and someone screaming and then lots of excited talking and then another bang that sounded way far away and was probably unrelated. Beth looked up and saw Matt Finley standing in front of her with his hand all crunched into the side of the van and his smoldering stare burning deep into her cervix.

“We can go to class and talk about cell biology or we can go hump at the top of tree.” he said in a smoky contralto that made her think about liberally spreading melting butter up and down a corn cob in a manner both methodical and erotic.

“Are we in love now?” she asked, trembling.

“No.” He replied.

“How about now?”




“Why not?”

“I can never speak the reason.”

“Can you say it if guess it first?”

“Yeah. That would probably be okay.”

Before she could take another breath, Matt grabbed her around her entire body and they zoomed into the woods at four times the speed of taste. 2 seconds later, they arrived in a beautiful green clearing full of trees and moss and brilliant shafts of light that tore through the foliage like rice through an overstuffed tortilla. The entire forest was smiling down upon them. Matt’s strong hands grabbed Beth’s weak girly arms and he stared down at her so intensely, he gave her a CAT scan.

“Your brain looks healthy.” he whispered into her supple, feminine ear. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. “Here, how do you like this apple?” Beth took it from him without breaking contact with his smoldery, smoldery eyes. “How do you like these apples?” she asked, pointing to her chest. “I mean, I guess I like them just fine.” Matt said. “Now, eat your apple.”

Just then, some hikers walked by. Beth and Matt separated and tried to look like they were just hanging out. The hikers were so slow. They looked at a tree. They listened to a bird. They even looked at a fucking rock. After, like, 20 minutes, they finally moved on. Beth ate the apple.

“What are you?” Beth asked Matt, staring at him so hard she accidentally gave him an MRI. “I mean, besides a guy who doesn’t have cancer.”

“You’re supposed to guess. Remember?”

“Are you Spiderman?”

“No. He’s a virgin”

“Are you kryptonite?”

“Uh…no. That’s a fictional transuranic element.”

“Oh my God! This is fun!” Beth said, squealing.

At that moment, Matt backed up into one of the shafts of light and his entire sexy body lit up like a fiber optic dollar store Jesus picture. Shocked at the sudden revelation of his true glittery nature, Matt spun and ducked trying to cover himself. Instead, his sleeve caught on a branch and ripped all of his clothes off, except his underwear. Coincidentally, he had chosen that day to wear his sparkly underwear.

“Oh, of course! You’re a vampire.” Beth realized.

“Yes. I have suffered for many millennia.” Matt replied.

“Now are we in love?”

“Yes. Now we are in love.”

“Fuck me!”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“I cannot speak the reason.”

“Can I guess?”

“Yeah. That would probably be fine.”

“Is it because you’re impotent?”

“No. And I can prove it.” Matt made a noise like he was trying to poop something the size of the rhinoceros he had consumed in Beth’s vision. “Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” The veins in his neck swelled and popped out, almost to the point where they looked like how veins normally look on the back of an old woman’s hands. His face turned Pantone 199. “ERRRRRRRRRR!”

His shoulders slumped and relaxed.

“Okay. I can’t prove it. But, like, trust me.”

“Is it because you’re a vampire?”

“Yes. My vampire penis would kill you instantly. It bears the same horrible curse that I do. The curse of the night.”

Beth thought about the last vampire movie she saw. It was Vampire in Brooklyn starring Eddie Murphy.

“Are you going to drink my blood?” she asked

“Not right now.” Matt answered.

His vampire hands grabbed her human boobs and the alien fleet that was in orbit high above them, about to implode the Earth, was instantly destroyed.

The End

[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever


By the time Beth found the science room, class was just about to start. She hurried in and looked around for a vacant seat. Then she saw him. Still wicked sexy. Still wicked pale. Still licking his lips. Around and around. He was like a machine. Matt Finley.
A Timbaland beat kicked up inside Beth’s pussy and she had to bite her lip to keep from having an orgasm right then and there.
She sat down on the stool beside him and turned to introduce herself. “Hi.” she said, remembering to talk with her mouth, but emote with her jugs.
But what’s this?
Matt “sex blaster” Finley looked at her with a frozen smolder of sheer nauseated disdain. It was the look that the Pope would give to his hypothetical protestant equivalent. It was the look her dad gave the staff at Chili’s that time that the waiter accidentally brought him a virgin Margarita. It was the look that NBC Dateline’s Chris Hansen gives to caught predators.
The Timbaland beat stumbled and halted. It was immediately replaced by the song the guy with bad credit sings in the seafood restaurant in the commercial. Her loins deflated.
Matt’s entire smooth, chiseled body was vibrating with the force of his revulsion. He looked like he might puke. And then puke again. And then again. And then just keep puking and puking until people were screaming and jostling each other and trying to get out of the room but they can’t because they’re waist deep in puke and then someone one pulls the fire alarm and someone else gets so freaked they pee their pants so now there’s pee in the puke and everyone’s like “stay away from the warm spots!” but every spot’s warm. Until the room fills up and everyone drowns and finally the windows shatter and the puke bursts out and pours down into the parking lot, making room for the additional puke that Matt’s still puking.
“What’s wrong?” Beth asked with her cans
“I’m gonna puke.” Matt intoned in a voice that could sublimate lead, before dashing out of the room and jumping, like, 200 feet in the nearest sequoia redwood and puking onto a baby bear.
Needless to say, Beth was totally bummed. She felt like a caught predator feels after being looked at by Chris Hansen.
After the heart mushing disappointment of Cock Ranger Matt Finley’s abrupt, barfy departure, the day dragged on like an aging transvestite (rimshot). All Beth could think about was how horrible she must smell, reasoning that a person who smelled good wouldn’t turn a hot guy into a hurl machine just by sitting next to him. Unless said good smelling person had tiny, inexpressive hooters, which Beth certainly did not. Shaking her rack for reassurance, Beth drove home with a dark emotional cloud over her mind and an even darker emotional cloud over her heart and still even darker actual meteorological clouds in the sky above her and above them, Space. Which is blacker than Don Cheadle driving a black Honda Civic into a black hole. Totally, completely black.
When Beth got back to her dad’s house, she ran straight up to her room and texted sad faces and NLOLs to her mom. Then she cried into her webcam and charged middle-aged men with depression fetishes $50 a piece to watch her on video iChat. And some of them were like, “Oh yeah, baby. Sob. mmm. Did your dog die, baby? Did you just get back from your grandma’s funeral? Ugh!” and others were like, “Ugh. Ugh. Yeah. ohhh. Did you get a D on a math test. Ugh.” But none of them understood that her pain was her own, while her tears belonged to a man. And that man’s screen name was Weep4Me365 and he paid $200 for them.
At 6 o’clock, her dad shouted for her to come down for dinner. “I made you my favorite!” he coughed.
Dinner was beer in a pie tin with eight strips of beef jerky and some croutons. “There’s fork food, there’s spoon food, and then there’s this!” her father choked out joyfully as he slurped down the crapulent amalgam.
“This food looks how I smell.” Beth said, folding her arms across her chest and pouting.
“It kinda sounds like you, too.” her dad belched, sucking a stray tendon of meat into his mouth and then wiping his fingers off in his hair.
“I hate it here.” Beth whined, upping her pout to level 13, just two clicks shy of maximum power.
Her dad countered with a level 14 fart and grunted. “Yeah. Sometimes I wish my whole body was just a giant mouth with a huge beer in it.”
“Whatever!” Beth said, her pout now burying the needle into the red zone on the gauge, causing the glass cover on the indicator to shatter and pressurized steam to come shrieking out of the valves.
She left the kitchen and went back up to her room to nurture her snit. She pictured her pain as a rhinoceros and her life as a silo full of rhinoceros food, and she wept as the rhinoceros ate more and more food, getting fatter and fatter until even its horn was fat. then she pictured Matt Finley surfing down on a rainbow and eating the rhinoceros in three horrific, gory bites, except, instead of his whole body getting fat, all of the weight went into his dick and they fucked liked cheetahs, locked in mortal combat, each one desperately slashing and clawing, trying to remove the other’s soul through its skin.

[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever


When Beth pulled into the school parking lot, she carefully maneuvered the Tiger King around all the cool shiny douchemobiles, automocunts, Ass Utility Vehicles and Jettas. After she pulled into a parking space, she turned off the truck and gazed out across the lot at all the kids making their way into the school. Three jocks were high fiving and pointing at girls’ butts and doing touchdown dances. Their Adidas windbreakers rustled in the wind as they fist bumped and tweaked the skewed positions of their hats. Some creamy-skinned blondes in coochie pants adjusted their boobs and made faces at fat girls. Two awesome bros with skateboards under their arms and studded dog collars traded disaffected glares and flipped off the American dream. Skinny nerds (and one big, tubby dweeb) cringed beneath the weight of their backpacks and Urkle-laughed about a new Romulan curse word. One black kid walked by really fast, but not so fast that he wasn’t noticeable. Two completely non-descript assholes in solid-colored t-shirts talked about homework and television.
“I’ll be friends with them,” thought Beth, as she debarked Tiger King and slowly made her way towards her new school.
The school building was a sprawling, single-story prison that looked like the bastard love child of a mental hospital and a strip mall. Once inside it, a ton of boring stuff happened. There were some math problems, Beth peed in a toilet, someone (maybe one of the jocks from outside) pointed at her and said “look at the new girl.” Beth tripped and almost fell down the stairs but didn’t. Beth answered a question right during social studies and mean kids looked at her. Then: Lunch.
Beth walked into the cafeteria and looked around until she saw the two boring assholes from the parking lot. She walked over to the table and waited for a break in the brain-rapingly banal jabber-jawing. When it finally came (after, like, three minutes of yak yak yak Jack Bauer this and yup uh-huh fruit smoothie that), she pointed to an empt0y seat and asked “is this seat taken?”
Holy lord Satan on Christmas! You would’ve thought that someone put Adam Noble on a CSPAN panel with Nancy Grace and a Nicholas Sparks audiobook. One simple question was answered with an endless aural string composed of pleasantry after asinine pleasantry, all piled up on a soapbox and hung droning in space like an infectious airborne lobotomy. As the monotonous volley of inanity propelled itself into a perpetual loop, echoing its irrelevance around the infinite landscape of forever, Beth took the seat and got out her lunch. A look in the bag revealed a Tupperware cylinder full of flat beer and lunchmeat ham. “Urgh. I wish I had an apple.” Beth said to herself.
Back at her dad’s house, her father, locked in a boozy, unshaven prison of his own construction, winked at you, the reader.
Just as Beth realized that the conversation between the two assholes had finally shed its last remaining vestiges of substance, turned into a verbal blackhole and collapsed in upon itself, a gaggle of the palest, sexiest and oldest high school students ever strutted into the cafeteria and sat down at a table together. Beth looked at them and immediately saw that one burned way hotter than all the rest. Whereas she merely gawked and the others simply stared, he smoldered. He slowly stuck out his tongue and ran it teasingly around his pouty, sensual lips as if to say, “mmmm. Yeahhhh. OOOOOOOOHHHHH. Look at me. MMMMMMM.” Beth thrust her bosom forward and tried to shake it at him as nonchalantly as possible.
“Who’s that?” Beth asked, giving one more twitch of her breasts before turning back towards her insufferable table mates.
“Oh, those are the Finleys. The really cute one is Matt, the others are…” blah blah blah. off they went again, boring horses beating dusty trails across an interminable desert of meaningless sounds.
“Okay.” Beth said, doing her best not to make eye contact with the two complete fucking assholes as she stood up from the table. “I’m going to science class.” As she walked out of the cafeteria, she could still hear the assholes talking, their conversation persisting indifferent to her absence…indifferent to the time and place…indifferent to existence as a whole…the empty words fading into the white noise of a world that existed indifferent to them.