Friday, October 28, 2011

Frightening Friday: Choose Your Own Terrifying Contingency Plan

Drew Barrymore is all, "I hate customer service!"

Ring ring ring...

Ring ring ring...

Ring ring ring...

Ring ring ring...


Whew! He hung up. Good thing you didn't answer that. It was a guy who was planning to tell you that you have ten days to live. He asked me to let you know that you have ten days to live. And to get voicemail. He hates not being able to leave a message.

Hey, today is...Frightening Friday! Sadly, this brings an end to another October of me chilling you to your bones in the rudest manner. But don't worry. Unless I meet my untimely demise sometime between now and October 2012, I shall be back with more terrifying tales of terrifying terror. Until then, read this and enjoy...if you dare.

Choose Your Own Terrifying Contingency Plan

It is a spooky Halloween night. You're home alone eating peanut butter cups and not sharing a single one with trick-or-treaters.

If your phone rings suddenly, startling you, go to 1A.

If you hear a spooky noise outside and decide to go investigate, go to 1B.

If you prefer nothing spooky to happen in this story because your bowels can't handle it, then go to 1C.

Ring ring ring!
Who could that be? you wonder.
You pick up the phone and say, "Hello?"
"Greetings!" says on the voice on the other end. "I am a murderer, and I am conducting a survey. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"

If you don't mind if the murderer asks you a few questions, go to 2A
If you quickly hang up, go to 2B.

Is that the sound ax, scythe, or other sharp tool slowly being sharpened on a rock? Better go check it out!

If you take your trusty musket, go to 3A.
If you oil up your muscles and go outside with only your fists and a lot of gumption, go to 3B.

Fine, you big baby. Just watch this. It will all be over soon.


"Not at all, Mr...Murderer, did you say it was?"
"Please, just call me Murderer," he replies, very politely. "Now, here is my first question. 'What is your favorite scary movie?'"
"Why, that's a good question. And I thank you for asking it," you say. "I would have to say..."

If you say, "Friday the 13th," go to 4A.
If you say, "Halloween," go to 4B.
If you say nothing at all because he has already slaughtered you, go to 4C.

"AAAAAAAAA!" you scream and quickly hang up the phone. You've seen this movie before and know how this shit will go down. First, he asks you what your favorite movie is, then, you realize he's calling from inside your house. Then, you run upstairs as quickly as you can and close yourself into an easily accessible room and cry and cry as he breaks down the door with an ax. Soon, all that's left of you is a head frozen into a permanent scream face.

If you run upstairs as quickly as you can and close yourself into an easily accessible room and cry and cry, go to 5A.

If you run to your panic room in the basement and close yourself in with a month's worth of food and other supplies, go to 5B.

You and your trusty musket head outside to investigate the strange noise. Following the spooky sound, you find yourself face to face with....George Washington! The rumors were true. Your cherry tree is in shambles.

Living out some kind of Predator fantasy? Well, you're in the wrong movie, bucko. This is fucking Terminator.

"Oh, me too!" the polite murderer gushes unabashedly. "It's my favorite! You know what, I like you. This is the funnest time I've ever had being a murderer."
"I feel the same way!" you say. "Usually murderers call my house and they are so impolite. You are a real treat, sir."
"That is a terrific compliment. I'm touched," says the murderer.
When he sneaks into your house 15 minutes later and kills you, he does it with the utmost respect for you as a person.

"Oh, me as well!" the polite murderer sputters unashamedly. "It's my number 1! You know what, I adore you. This is the most amusing time I've ever had being a slaughterer."
"I feel the same way!" you say. "Usually murderers call my house and they are so rude. You are a real jolly soul, sir."
"That is wonderful praise. I'm fondled," says the murderer.
"Did you just say you're fondled?" you query.
"Yes," says the murderer. "I looked the word 'touched' up in the thesaurus for some variety, and that was the first listing."
You immediately hang up the phone and dial 911. There is something terribly wrong with people who don't know how to use thesauruses correctly!



Really? This is the option you chose?
Okay, fine.
You look around the bathroom in which you've trapped yourself to wait for certain death. What a mess! Well, there's no time like the present to do a bit of tidying up. You've just finished scrubbing the toilet when the murderer finds you and hacks you to bits. "Will you look at the shine on that shower wall? She must use Scrubbing Bubbles!" he thinks as he stuffs your body into garbage bags.

Too bad the only food you thought to stockpile was candy corn! Mwahahahahaha!

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

A Message from Vlad the Impaler

Hello, people of the world. Vlad the Impaler here. Scourge of Romania. He who impales and bathes in the blood of his enemies. Good times.

So, I've been doing a lot of thinking since the 1400s, and I want to make it clear that the days of impaling are behind me. That whole thing was just a bad idea. I want to change my image and make a clean start.

"How do you intend to do that, Vlad?" you ask. "I mean, it's hard to just forget between 40,0000 and 100,000 deaths by impaling. All that blood! All those pointed sticks! And the smell. The smell!" Well, in response to that question, I plan to make many, many apologies to the families of those I impaled. So, here goes.

I just want to say I'm really sorry for all of the impaling. I got a little carried away. I mean, you make a guy the prince of Wallachia and give him an unlimited supply of sticks, and what do you expect is going to happen? But that is no excuse. I impaled many people with those sticks and allowed their lifeless corpses to rot and fester in the sun for my own amusement, and for that I am very, very sorry. It was a bad thing to do. And you can trust me when I say that it will never happen again.

And just to show how sincere I am about the apologies I'm making today, I have purchased several thousand Hallmark cards. So, check your mail. If I impaled your ancestor, you'll be getting a very special message from me quite soon. The cards have a little puppy on the cover. He's got this sad expression on his face, and at the bottom it says, "I'm sowwy." I think you'll all really like it. I apologize in advance for impaling each card on the end of a tiny stick. Old habits, you know?

Now that we've cleared that up, I have a little request. We've been calling me Vlad the Impaler for the last 500 years or so. Would it be a nuisance at all for everyone to start calling me by my given name, Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia? I just feel like the old name has such a nasty vibe. And it's not doing me any favors. I applied for a job the other day, and despite my credentials as the ruler of a nation, I was told that my credentials as a maniac outweighed those. I've been able to pick up work poking toothpicks through sandwiches at the deli, but it doesn't pay much, and bills at the manse are piling up.

So, if you hear anyone using my old name, please just let them know that I'm going by Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia now. I mean, I definitely won't impale you for calling me just Vlad or Prince Vlad or Scourge of Romania. I may poke you with a sharp stick. But that's it. I won't go any further. I've learned my lesson.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Frightening Friday: Dr. Frankenstein: Dead Body Hoarder

This is the best idea I've ever had. --Dr. Frankenstein


Oh, it's you. Sorry, you really shouldn't sneak up on me like that. I was just reading this super scary book called Black Beauty. It's all about this talking horse who terrorizes people all over the English countryside with his clip-clopping hoof noises and bloodcurdling whinny.

But you didn't come here to hear about the book I'm reading. "Save it for book club," am I right? You came here for your weekly dose of terror. And, don't worry, I won't let you down. I hope you are as terrified reading this story as I was writing it. It's called...

Dr. Frankenstein: Dead Body Hoarder

If you visit a mall during store hours, there is plenty of people-watching to do. The only problem is that those people will be doing a lot of uninteresting things, like eating stale pretzels and deciding whether or not to return those towels to Macy's. If you sit there too long, you will get really, really bored and wonder why you decided on a boring hobby like people-watching. 

However, if you visit a cemetery late at night, you will find a much better quality of people-watching. Particularly if those people are carrying shovels.

Dr. Frankenstein was one of those people, as he was at the cemetery with a shovel most nights. He had gotten very bored with his original hobby of people-watching and decided to take up people-dismembering. And since live people mind being dismembered, Dr. Frankenstein sought out only dead people--by digging them up.

Now, you're probably asking yourself what Dr. Frankenstein did with the dead bodies once he dug them up and dismembered them properly. And the answer is that he took them home and hoarded them. And if you're wondering if that made his castle smell bad, the answer is yes.

It was lucky he lived in a castle, really. If he'd lived somewhere smaller, like a trailer house or a tent, the bodies really would have stacked up quickly. But because Dr. Frankenstein lived in such a large domicile, he had really only filled one room with his collection so far. And it was the library, and no one ever went in there anyway because the only books Dr. Frankenstein owned were vegan cookbooks.

"Hey," say my vegan readers. "I would have gone in there for vegan cookbooks."

To which I say, "No, you wouldn't have because, remember? Dead bodies."

Now, as you've likely guessed by now, Dr. Frankenstein's body collection really, really bothered his neighbors.

"Those bodies are bringing down the resale value on my house!" said Dr. Frankenstein's next door neighbor.

"I don't feel comfortable raising my children in a neighborhood with a man who only owns vegan cookbooks!" said his neighbor who lived across the street.

"Something must be done!" said a third neighbor, who was just really glad that the focus was off him being a peeping Tom.

"I have an idea," said the next door neighbor. "Let's get torches and pitchforks! And then we'll...tend Dr. Frankenstein's lawn under cover of darkness."

"But what about the bodies?" asked the second neighbor.

"You didn't let me finish," said the first neighbor. "Then, we'll hunt down that maniac...and make him clean his house!"

"Excellent idea," said the third neighbor. "And while you're doing that, I'll go get my binoculars and make sure all the neighborhood women are not in their showers and are, in fact, helping with the cleanup effort."

"And I," said the second neighbor, "will go in search of a clinical psychologist who specializes in hoarding to help Dr. Frankenstein cope."

And so the neighbors went their separate ways in search of torches, pitchforks, cleaning supplies, clinical psychologists, and binoculars.

Three days later, the house was cleaned, the bodies were all safely incinerated at the town morgue, and everyone was happy. Everyone except Dr. Frankenstein, who really missed those dead bodies.

But eventually, with the help of the clinical psychologist, Dr. Frankenstein came to understand that the reason for his hoarding stemmed from bad early childhood memories of his parents selling several of his toys at garage sales. After many months of therapy, he was able to stop hoarding bodies in his library. Instead, he moved them to the basement and began to experiment on them.


Friday, October 7, 2011

Frightening Friday: The Shirtless Werewolf and Vampire Epidemic

Hey, werewolf. Why so sad?

 Oh, hey, everybody. I'm just hanging out here all casual. Nothing's going on. I'm absolutely not going to...VAMPIRE!

Did I scare you?

Good. You should be scared. Because vampires are TOTALLY SCARY. They drink blood. They sleep in coffins. They sit by your bed and watch you sleep all night. They make sweet, sweet love to you within the bonds of matrimony. Terrifying!

You know what else is scary? WEREWOLVES! They turn into animals with an uncontrollable appetite during the full moon, or whenever. They flex their muscles. They wear jorts.

I know that right now you're getting really, really scared and want me to just stop writing this and do something more wholesome for Halloween, like bake sugar cookies shaped like bats. But I won't. Why? Because it's Frightening Friday. So, put on one of those Poise pads to prevent "terror leakage," and let's do this thing.

The Shirtless Werewolf and Vampire Epidemic

The people of Los Spatulas, New Mexico, had a terrible problem. The town was overrun with werewolves. And worse, the werewolves were handsome. Very, very handsome. And they walked around without shirts on, and they were sweaty. So sweaty.

Even worse than that, the town was also overpopulated by vampires. Sexy vampires, who wanted nothing more than to drive around the town recklessly without shirts on and violate that rule about only coming out at night.

As you can imagine, everyone in the town of Los Spatulas was distracted by all that sweaty, shirtless sexiness, and it caused a lot of problems. The mayor spent afternoons locked in his office with binoculars and an economy-sized tub of Vaseline, not signing a single bill into law. The town religious leaders had slumber parties every night at which the rabbi frequently dared the Lutheran minister to totally make out with a picture of one of the town's more attractive werewolves, rather than concentrating on sermon writing and helping the poor. The principal at the high school gave lots and lots of spankings to naughty teenage vampires and werewolves as often as he could. In fact, that's what he was doing when a disgruntled former shop teacher broke into the cafeteria and mowed everyone down with a nail gun.

"What was that noise?" said the vampire the principal was spanking at the time. "And why does the school suddenly smell so delicious?"

"Shut up and grab those ankles, you sparkly bloodsucking hunk of man!" said the principal.

Needless to say, Los Spatulas was in a bad situation. And it wasn't helped by the overpopulation of fairies, who were also very sexy.

Did I forget to mention the fairies? Sorry about that. Oh, and the werepanthers. Hot, shirtless, sexual fairies and werepanthers. It was all so sexy and hot that I need to take a five minute break from writing this to take an ice bath.


Ahhh, that's better. Now, where was I? Yes, fairies and werepanthers.

"Hey, you forgot about the Maenads," you remind me. And, yes, thank you, there were also Maenads. And shifters. And Hobbits. And ghouls...

I think that covers all of the sexy supernatural creatures in the  town...

Oh, wait, no. And wood elves. And ents. And orcs. And centaurs. And not a shirt among any of them to hide their delicious, supernatural pec muscles.

"Good lord," you're saying, "How many super attractive supernatural creatures could possibly live in this town?" And let me tell you, lots. And they thrived on the wildlife in the woods surrounding Los Spatulas because all of them were far too respectful of human life to ever try to consume a human. Of course, this meant that eventually all of the bears, cougars, uni-kittens, ferrets, deer, bats, penguins, wolves, otters, badgers, beavers, and skunks who lived in the woods were all extinct.

But that's not important, unless you are some kind of environmentalist type who doesn't care at all about the well-being of hot, sexy supernatural creatures who need to eat.

"Bethany, are you ever going to get to the point?" you interrupt.

"Of course," I reply. "Don't be ridiculous. The point is in the next sentence."

The only person in Los Spatulas who was even concerned at all about the sudden overpopulation of supernatural creatures and sudden underpopulation of woodland animals was the protagonist of the story, who really should have been introduced in the first paragraph, but I was too busy describing hot, sweaty supernatural bodies to notice that tiny oversight. And because it's now so late in the story, I will simply call her "Protagonist." Just know that she's just moved to town, she's totally emo, and her blood is delicious.

"Oh, I don't even get a name now?" asks Protagonist.

"Shut up, or I'll kill you off in the next paragraph," I reply.

"Well, here's what I--" Protagonist started to say, but then she died.

I guess we're just going to have to end the story here, as we no longer have a protagonist. Just know that the ending was going to be awesome, complete with a fundraiser for the Los Spatulas Wildlife Conservancy. And several-paragraph-long graphic descriptions of vampire sex.


Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Everyone Is Hitler!

Hitler, on the finger phone with Ann Coulter.

What a terrible week I'm having!

Last night, on my way home from work, I went to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription, and the lady at the counter said I would have to wait 15 minutes for the pharmacist to come back. And I said, "Hey, I don't think so, Hitler. This is America, and if I want my prescription now, I'm going to get it."

She said, "Hey, you don't have to be such a Hitler. I said the pharmacist would be back soon."

But I'm super busy and important, and simply did not have time to wait 15 minutes. So, I walked out. And on my way out the door, this little kid got in my way. So I yelled at him, "Get out of the way, you stupid Hitler!" And the kid started to cry, and his mom called me a Hitler for yelling at him.

So, I got home, and my cat was waiting for me in the doorway, meowing to be fed. "Okay, Hitler. I get it. You're hungry. Can't you even wait two minutes for me to put my stuff down?" But she continued meowing at me in the most oppressive way possible, completely aware of how Hitler-ish she was being. So I finally broke down and fed her just to shut her up. Stupid cat Hitler.

Then, things went from bad to worse.

So, my downstairs neighbor knocked on my door. She's this little old lady who hardly speaks a word of English. Lo and behold, she was having a heart attack, and in a very Hitler-like way, insisted that I call 911 for her.

"What?" I said. "But this is my personal phone. Why can't we use your phone to call 911, Hitler? I don't want to waste my minutes on that."

But my neighbor didn't have a chance to respond because she turned blue and passed out right on my rug. If she had been awake, I'm sure she would have called me a complete and utter Hitler. So, I went downstairs to her apartment and jimmied the lock and used her phone to call 911.

"911. Hitler speaking. How may I help you?" the voice on the other end said.

"My neighbor is having a heart attack or something," I replied.

"Well, what do you want us to do about it, Hitler?" the voice said.

"I dunno. I thought maybe you could come by and save her life or something," I said.

"You can't tell me what to do, Hitler!" And then the 911 operator hung up.

When I went back upstairs, my neighbor was still oppressing my rug with her unconsciousness, so I pulled her out into the hallway to wait for the EMTs to arrive.

And because my day had been so difficult, I decided to just order a pizza for dinner because if there is anything I hate doing, it's dishes. When my arms are elbow deep in suds, all I can think is how oppressing it is to have to do dishes. Like my dishes are Hitler or something.

Ring ring! went the phone at the pizza place.
"Hitler!" said the pizza man.

"And a Hitler to you too," I said. "I would like to order a pizza with extra cheese."

"Do you want a side of cheesy bread?" he asked.

"Stop trying to sell me things I don't want, Hitler!" I retorted.

"Fine, Hitler," he said. Twenty minutes later I had a delicious pizza, even though the delivery man was rude. I told him to stop oppressing me with his tip expectations like Hitler would if Hitler had been a delivery man and not a dictator. He glared at me, and all I could think was that he looked like Hitler right then, his hairy upper lip trembling. "HITLER!" he shouted and ran away, careful to step over my neighbor who was still hanging out in the hallway, Hitlering up the place.

Finally, with a slice of pizza in my hand, I was able to sit down and relax from my long, Hitlerous day and take in some World War II documentaries. That Mussolini guy was such a dick!