Welcome to Bethville!

In Memorium: The Insects We Lost in 2011...

2011-12-29T14:43:00.000-05:00

Love sappy slideshow tributes? Check out the one I made on the Welcome to Bethville fan page on Facebook!

Frightening Friday: Choose Your Own Terrifying Contingency Plan

2011-10-28T08:00:00.004-04:00

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.

1A
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.

1B
Is that the sound of...an 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.

1C
Fine, you big baby. Just watch this. It will all be over soon.

THE END.

2A
"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.

2B
"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.

3A
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.
THE END.

3B
Living out some kind of Predator fantasy? Well, you're in the wrong movie, bucko. This is fucking Terminator.
THE END.

4A
"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.
THE END.

4B
"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!
THE END.

4C

THE END.

5A
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.
THE END.

5B
Too bad the only food you thought to stockpile was candy corn! Mwahahahahaha!
THE END.

A Message from Vlad the Impaler

2011-10-25T08:00:00.001-04:00

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.

Frightening Friday: Dr. Frankenstein: Dead Body Hoarder

2011-10-14T08:00:00.007-04:00

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

AAAAAAAAAAA!

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.

THE END.

Frightening Friday: The Shirtless Werewolf and Vampire Epidemic

2011-10-07T07:00:00.009-04:00

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.

THE END.

Everyone Is Hitler!

2011-10-05T07:00:00.041-04:00

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!

Frightening Fridays: Brace Yourselves...FOR TERROR!

2011-09-26T08:30:00.001-04:00

11 days...

"AAAAAAAA! 11 days until what?" you ask.

"TERROR!" I reply in the spookiest manner.

But until October 7, which will officially kick off Frightening Fridays 2011, I know you will want to tickle your spooky bone by revisiting some of these spine-tingling tales of terror from Frightening Fridays past.

Who could forget Terrifying Evil Clowns of Terror?
Or the Gourmet Zombie Brain Eater?
And what about The Impolitely Accused Witches of Salem?
I know you still like awake at night fearing The Babysitters Who Go Check Out That Mysterious Noise Alone Club.
If that's not enough terror, maybe try out A Very Depressing Tale of Lost Hopes and Dreams.
Definitely don't read The Flying Dutchman in 2010 right before bed.
And if you value your sanity and un-peed pants, definitely avoid Hotel Room Showers Are Scary.
AAAAAAAAA! I just got really scared thinking about Dracula's Terrible Houseguests.
And, oh my god, what was that noise? I sure hope it wasn't the Camp of Questionable Safety Standards!

See you in 11 days.... Mwahahahahahahaha!

Mark Zuckerberg Decides to Make Changes to Facebook and Everybody's Totally Mad at Him

2011-09-22T08:40:00.004-04:00

I feel like everyone in the world is up in arms today, whether it be about the very sad situation in Georgia or the very unimportant situation on Facebook.

I think it's time for a story, and I have a perfect one for today. It's called "Mark Zuckerberg Decides to Make Changes to Facebook and Everybody's Totally Mad at Him."And I was going to illustrate it using Lego people, but I cannot because of my computer situation. So, just know that the part of Mark Zuckerberg was going to be played by Lego Lucius Malfoy (pictured above).

Mark Zuckerberg Decides to Make Changes to Facebook and Everybody's Totally Mad at Him

One night Mark Zuckerberg was sitting in his solid gold ergonomic office chair at Facebook headquarters, thinking about what mean things he could do to people. And after he thought about it for a while and decided that it would be virtually impossible to leave flaming bags of poop on every doorstep in the world, he thought, "Maybe I'll just do what I always do and make some miniscule changes to Facebook again. And then I'll get to spend the rest of the day reading irate statuses and giggling with glee."

"Bad idea, Mark Zuckerberg," said some guy who works at Facebook, who would have been played by a Lego man who looks a bit like my dad. "Facebook users will totally threaten to leave again."

"Don't question my authority!" said Mark Zuckerberg, and suddenly the Lego man who looks like my dad was no longer able to access his Farmville.

"Nooooooo!" said the Lego man who looks like my dad.

"That's what you get," said Mark Zuckerberg. "Good luck harvesting those virtual crops tonight. Mwahahahahaha!"

And with that, Mark Zuckerberg escaped to the secret laboratory under Facebook headquarters where he carried out his evil plan to change Facebook once again. Of course, the description of what happened next involves lots and lots of coding and that's boring for us laypeople, so let us skip ahead to what happened the next morning.

On September 21, 2011, President Barack Obama, who would have been played by Lego Harry Potter, turned on his computer and immediately went to his Facebook to post an amusing cat video.

"What's this?" said President Barack Obama. "Changes to Facebook again? Get me Mark Zuckerberg on the phone!" And almost immediately, President Barack Obama was on the phone with Mark Zuckerberg.

"Mark Zuckerberg, I'm totally mad at you!" said President Barack Obama. "There's some thing on Facebook now that forces me to read about every photo liking and every friending of two people. And I just read that Kathleen Sebelius likes Hootie and the Blowfish. Why would I want to read that?"

"Mwahahahahaha!" cackled Mark Zuckerberg. "Not even you can stop me from forcing every Facebook user in the world to read that one person is now friends with another."

"I'll get you for this if it's the last thing I do!" said President Barack Obama and quickly hung up the phone, updated his status to say that he was mad at Mark Zuckerberg, and then got back to work on fixing the economy.

Meanwhile, people all over the world were logging in to their Facebook accounts and exploding with irritation.

"I have to click here instead of there to look at friends' photos. I'm so mad right now!" said an average female Facebook user who would have been played by my Lego zookeeper.

"Honey, I heard you shout in irritation!" said her husband, who would have been played by a Lego palace guard.

"Facebook is different now!" his wife replied. "I'm so upset I'm going to write a long Note and tag all of our Facebook acquaintances so they can read about how mad I am."

"Yes, honey," said the palace guard. "That will definitely get Mark Zuckerberg to change Facebook back to the way it was."

And so the Facebook user who would have been played by my Lego zookeeper wrote out a long manifesto about how if Facebook didn't change back to how it was, she was totally going back to MySpace. She tagged her seven friends. All of them responded with comments like, "Totally agree!" and "Do you hear this, Mark Zuckerberg?"

Of course, Mark Zuckerberg heard them. He was sitting in the atrium of Facebook headquarters, the place where he always sat to bask in the irritation he had caused. But he was not swayed by the irritation of the user who would have been played by a Lego zookeeper. "Nobody tells me what to do!" And from that moment until the end of the day, every time that user tried to post a YouTube video, she got some spinning circle that gave her the impression the video was loading when it really wasn't.

Mark Zuckerberg was very pleased with his day. "My work here is done," he giggled to himself.

And not to be left out, his very agreeable butler, who would have been played by Lego Dobby the House Elf said, "Yeah, you sure showed them."

THE END.

A Eulogy for My Late Computer

2011-09-20T07:00:00.002-04:00

And so, early this morning at 12:21 AM, my PC, She-Ra, Princess of Power III, perished from this earth and went to the big electronics discount store in the sky. She was five.

Let us mourn her now by remembering what she gave us.

Who could forget how She-Ra, Princess of Power III sometimes smelled like melting plastic? How her charger made that buzzing sound that was either a swarm of angry gnats or a short of some kind? She-Ra, Princess of Power III, if you are out there listening, just know that whenever I smell burning plastic from now on, I shall think of you and quickly get my fire extinguisher.

I'll never forget how you liked to shut down without warning, sometimes losing all evidence of anything I had written. You taught me to hit Command+S with the diligence of a person with OCD shutting off the stove knobs. For that, you are a hero, I suppose.

Let us also remember how She-Ra, Princess of Power III was sometimes completely un-usable for several hours because of "software updates" and "virus scans" and how that taught me the value of patience and many, many colorful swear words.

She-Ra, Princess of Power III, we were together for a long time. A very long time for a computer and the user who grew to hate it. And now I like to think that you're up in heaven, annoying the shit out of the angels.

If It's Called "Mono" Then Why Are There So Many of Them?

2011-09-12T07:31:00.002-04:00

The other day, my doctor told me that I have mono. And that I've probably had it off and on for more than a year, which explains why all I have wanted to do for longer than I can remember is lie on my sofa under a pile of blankets and pretend I'm a cicada nymph. Before that diagnosis, I firmly believed in three things: 1) that once you've had mono, you can never have it again, 2) it lasts a few terrible weeks at most and then is gone, and 3) that when you're sick, fairies come down from the sky and cure all your illnesses while you sleep with fairy dust poultices applied to your chest area. Therefore, going to the doctor is always optional, unless you lose a limb and can't manage to cauterize the wound on your own.

Apparently I've been wrong about all three things for my entire life.

I had mono in high school, and I was gone for an entire week, and the only awesome thing about that was that I didn't have to stand up for those mortifying perfect attendance awards we had at the end of the school year where everyone would look at you like you were some kind of never-sick goody-two-shoes.

My doctor told me that I have "old mono" and "new mono." And I don't know what that means, but I like to imagine the old mono walking around the golf course in my spleen remarking, "Neville, old bean, have you seen all this new mono walking around? How gauche." Meanwhile the new mono are all out on their yacht with a lot of topless bacteria, screaming, "Woo! Partay!"

Long story short, mono is an asshole. So, don't get mono. Unless your goal in life is to hibernate through your 30s.

Your Personal Account of Where You Were and What You Were Doing on September 11 Is Really Boring

2011-09-11T21:43:00.027-04:00

(You can't tell by looking at him, but this bald eagle is bored out of his mind.)

Psssssssst!

Hey, over here.

Yeah, you.

Come here.

I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to come right out and say it.

Your personal account of the events of September 11, 2001, wherein you were watering your lawn and "...ran inside real quick to turn on the TV" is seriously...SERIOUSLY boring.

You need to stop telling it.

No, don't argue with me.

I think we both know this is for the best.

When people ask the question, "Where were you?" they are actually hoping you'll say, "I was a firefighter. I ran into the first tower and personally saved the lives of 27 people" so they can tell everyone they know that they met a real life hero and got to buy him a drink.

They don't want to know that you were, "...in your hotel room ironing your pants for the big software conference and saw the tragedy unfolding on the news."

I know it was a big, scary, sad, angry day for you. It was a terrible day for everyone. But I think we can all agree that since you were 700 miles from Ground Zero and "heading to the garage to get your oil changed" at the time of the attacks, it's safe to say that your account is not worth hearing more than once. It's been 10 years, and you don't even own that car anymore.

And now you're thinking, "But, Bethany, how do I know if my personal account of 9/11 is really interesting or if people are just nodding and smiling when I tell it?"

I'm so glad you asked. Here's how you know.

1. If your story includes the words "I ran in and turned on the TV," it's boring. Did anyone but the Amish NOT turn on their TVs that day? Answer: no.

2. If part of your account includes calling everyone you know to verify that they are all fine and still living at least 500 miles from New York, DC, and Stonycreek Township, Pennsylvania, it's not worth hearing.

"But, Bethany," you quickly chime in, "Can I tell that part where I took off my shirt, painted my chest red, white, and blue, went on a three-day bender, and woke up on Lee Greenwood's front lawn with the lyrics of "Proud to Be An American" tattooed across my chest?"

Yes. That one you can tell. But if it drifts into where you like to shop for post-tragedy snow globes, I'm going to stop you.

Disclaimer: The author reserves the right to say these mean things because her 9/11 account starts, "I was asleep..." and she admits openly that it is pretty boring.

A Letter to My Poor, Neglected Blog

2011-08-31T07:44:00.000-04:00

A PICTURE OF DANIEL CRAIG TO BUTTER YOU UP BECAUSE I KNOW YOU LOVE HIM.

Dear Blog (or as I like to call you, Admiral Blogworthy),

No, I haven't abandoned you, despite how it may feel every time I click over here and then click quickly away without typing a single word. I've been working on other projects. Projects that could potentially put my silly internet typing out to more people than just the 28 wonderful people who admit to following this page, and my mom. Because, for me, the important thing is to have my work read by other people, and not just me when I go back and read something and giggle over it when I'm alone and drunk on my couch at night.

But there is good news. There will be Frightening Friday posts in October, unless I die before then. So, keep your widgets peeled, Blog, because it will happen. Of course you should keep in mind that I am the queen of empty blog promises, so there is a 45% chance that it won't happen. But, still, I will be attempting to make the effort. And if I don't, know that I will have a cinder block of guilt sitting on my chest making things very uncomfortable throughout November.

Anyway, farewell for now, Blog.

Your friend,

Bethany

The Very Short Conclusion of Harold the Town Sober

2011-05-13T07:30:00.000-04:00

And he won! Because he voted for himself, and everyone else in town forgot about election day. And he declared the town a dictatorship. And no one noticed until years later when everyone in town went to AA.

THE END.

Do you ever just write something and then get utterly bored and decide to euthanize it quickly and forget about it? Yeah, me too. Hence, the short conclusion of Harold the Town Sober. I'm going to blame it on the juice-wine.

President Trump Takes Credit for Everything Ever

2011-04-27T09:00:00.001-04:00

**I'm sick of looking up pictures of Donald Trump, so here is a picture of Voldemort instead.

"I am very proud of myself today," said President Trump in a press conference held on the roof of the newly-opened Washington Monument Hotel and Casino. "I, Donald Trump, the President of the United States, hereby take credit for everything ever." This was met with the applause of the gathered attendees including his children, First Lady Dakota Fanning Trump, and various former Apprentice participants.

He went on, "I am a patriot, having drafted and signed the very document that freed us from British control over 200 years ago. I am the smartest man alive, as I once wrote a little book called A Brief History of Time about the origin of the universe. Among other things, I also wrote and directed the movie Citizen Kane. And I just want everyone to know how proud I am of myself for doing all of these things. I'll now turn it over to the Speaker of the Hairdo to wrap up the alphabetical list of things I've decided to take credit for."

Trump then flew to Camp Ivanka aboard the helicopter that he invented.

Juice-Wine is Fine

2011-04-27T08:42:00.000-04:00

This morning, my boyfriend said, "Hey, what do you want to drink for breakfast? Juice? Milk? Wine?" And I said, "How about some wine, but with juice in it...because it's breakfast?" Two minutes later, he brought me the juice-wine concoction I had requested, even though I was joking, and I drank it right down. And I can safely say that juice-wine is awesome and put me in such a good mood that not even the most annoying subway commute could bring me down today. And then I wrote this story about drinking at odd hours.

Harold, the Town Sober

"Once upon a time" is the best way for any story to start. It makes you go, "Oh, boy! A story that will surely take place in a kingdom far away. And it will have a beautiful princess and an evil queen and something sharp, pointed, and deadly." And then you want to read on to hear more about their hilarious shenanigans in which someone (the queen) eventually gets impaled upon the sharp, pointed, and deadly object and dies because she lives in a time and place where stitches weren't invented.

Unfortunately, this story does not start with "Once upon a time." Nor does it start "On a dark and stormy night." Or even with "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." Instead, it starts with "Drunken buffoonery was not only tolerated in the village of Beerington, it was required." And then it goes on from there. You'll see if you read on.

Drunken buffoonery was not only tolerated in the village of Beerington, it was required. If you were born there, when you sprang from your mother's womb, you were not brought to her to suckle; instead, you were handed a bottle of tequila, a shaker of salt, several limes, and a very sharp knife with which to cut them. Then, the doctor who delivered you left for the pub. You learned very quickly how to mix your own cocktails, change your own diapers, and prepare your own hot wings, as that was the only food substance consumed by the people of Beerington.

Of course, because it was a functioning hamlet, the people of Beerington actually had to have town meetings. And because they were all drunk, they never got a thing resolved. Most of the time, the meetings would turn into brawls and the town's officers would have to arrest everyone, including themselves, and the entire population of Beerington would have to spend the night in lockup. In the morning, they would all bail themselves out just in time to head to head home for a breakfast of mimosas and hot wings.

There was one person who found this whole situation very stupid. And that was Harold, the town sober. Harold had never really liked the taste of alcohol. So when everyone else in town got up to drunken buffoonery, he would sip on a glass of non-alcoholic cranberry juice and say nonsensical things in a manner that convinced everyone that he was at the required levels of drunkenness.

Harold found it all very stupid because on the nights of town meetings, he would find himself just as locked up as all the drunks. But rather than passing out like everyone else did, he would have to sit awake in the dark and endure an entire town's bad breath and vomit puddles. Of course, he put this time to good use by going around and picking everyone's pockets. But before you think he did this out of villainy, it was actually to ensure that everyone paid their taxes. Thanks to Harold, there were perfectly paved roads going in and out of town (even though no one was allowed to drive on them), good schools for students to black out in, and a wonderful town square with a statue of Colonel Beerington, for whom the town was named. (He was a colonel who bravely founded the town's first saloon.) Long story short, Harold, the town sober, was the only reason the town hadn't fallen into a deep pit of disrepair years and years before. (And also just a regular old deep pit as the town was unwisely built on at the edge of an abandoned mine shaft, and Harold had wisely filled it in.)

During Harold's 27th year of living, he decided that he was tired of being the only responsible person in Beerington and never getting a bit of credit for it. So, he decided to run for political office.

To be continued...

President Trump Signs Bill to Help Unwed Mothers

2011-04-26T08:30:00.001-04:00

President Trump today signed a bill to help unwed mothers get up on their feet after spending years on welfare.

"Pushing this bill through has been difficult," said the President at a Gold House press conference this afternoon, "I've dropped at least 50 grand on everyone in Congress. Luckily, I have the cash because of all of the wise investments I made in the past. And the success of my hit show The Apprentice on NBC. Tune in Sundays at 9."

The new law will allow mothers who were previously on welfare to start their own businesses.

"Here's what these unwed mothers do under the new law," said the President. "They give me $100,000. I in turn give them the right to use the Trump name to open a daycare franchise. Trump's Daycares and Kiddie Spas. Luxury child care for babies and toddlers who appreciate the finer things in life."

The passage of the bill was met with skepticism in the form of an angry mob who gathered on the Gold House lawn.

"How, pray tell, do I get my hands on $100,000, President Trump?" asked one single mother who took part in the protest.

Trump lashed back, as he is wont to do when anyone criticizes him, with, "Maybe you should have made wiser investments in your past like I did. You really are not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you?" He then had his butler turn on the sprinklers and was later seen departing for a month-long vacation to Majorca aboard Yacht Force One.

More on this story as it unfolds.

BREAKING NEWS: Donald Trump Elected President

2011-04-21T18:14:00.001-04:00

After telling the Electoral College to shut its fat mouth last night, Donald Trump was elected president in a landslide victory.

"See," said President-Elect Trump in his victory speech, "All you have to do is stand up for what you believe in, tell people to shut up, and throw some money at it, and your presidential dreams can come true."

"I don't know how this is possible," said Speaker of the House John Boehner. "But apparently there is a little-known loophole in the Constitution where presidential candidates can tell the Electoral College to shut its fat mouth and immediately be made president. How do you think Andrew Jackson got elected?"

Trump's run for the presidency has been interesting and often controversial. Last month he challenged incumbent Barack Obama to a "Presidential Staring Contest," rather than the traditional debate. Trump's ice cold stare was so intense that Obama developed a stutter and immediately went crying back to Kenya. No one has seen Obama since, leaving the country in the hands of Vice President Joe Biden.

Trump also selected his running mate, Jenna Jameson, through a nationally televised swimsuit competition and offered checks for $1,000 to anyone who vote for him.

"Now that I'm president," said Trump, "I can start getting this country back on track. No more men with ugly wives. No more lesbians. No more making reservations at the best hotel in Dubai only to have someone tell you that only the second best luxury suite is available because King Abdullah of Jordan decided to stay an extra night. We will rise above these challenges as a country."

Stay tuned for more presidential news as it unfolds...

Dying Man Says, "Why Won't Anyone Tuesdays with Morrie Me?"

2011-04-09T10:11:00.001-04:00

Terminally ill former college professor Geoffrey Grayburn likes to think that he spent his teaching years inspiring the students who took his classes. From behind his podium, he taught everything from Greek Mythology to Modern Lit.

"I like to think I shaped the minds of a few generations," Grayburn says with a laugh. Growing somber, he adds, "So why have none of my former students come forward since my diagnosis to Tuesdays with Morrie me?"

Day in and day out, Grayburn hangs out in his deathbed waiting for the phone to ring. Sometimes he reads a magazine. Sometimes he watches old episodes of Law & Order. But he has yet to spend any day with a former student talking about what a great teacher he used to be. He has yet to sit and listen while someone reads to him aloud from a Shakespeare collection, punctuating every somber moment with teary outbursts and the words, "Please don't die! You were the best teacher I ever had!"

"I stopped by for a visit once," said one former student who wanted to remain anonymous. "But he threw me out of the house when I refused to cry as I carried him up and down the stairs repeatedly while a photographer took touching photos of us spending his last days together."

"I brought him a casserole," said another former student. "But I refused to spoon feed it to him, so he had his videographer ask me to leave."

Says Grayburn, "I would just like to hear the words 'Professor Grayburn! I just heard the news, and I want you to know how great of an influence you were on my life. Yes, I absolutely agree that James Garner would be perfect for the role of you in the movie you're making about your life.' Is it so much to ask for a former student to show up at my door, tape recorder in hand, prepared to write a bestselling book about the time we spend together before I die? One that can be easily adapted into a screenplay? I'm terminally ill, people!"

Until a former student comes forward to properly express sadness over his illness and impending death, Geoff Grayburn will continue to sit alone in his darkened living room reciting, to himself, Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" as he enjoys an evening Jell-o and practices his proud facial expressions for when his film goes to Sundance.

The Very Pleasant Nap

2011-02-23T07:00:00.001-05:00

Hello. How are you today? I am fine. It is very, very nice to see you. I'm so glad you're here.

I'm talking to you like I would a nursing home resident because I am trying to keep you from committing suicide as this is February, the worst month of the year, and I know you are likely in a delicate mental state. No, don't argue with me. We both know you aren't "fine." You're cold and unhappy and surrounded by the forces of darkness. But I'm here to help by telling you a jolly, cheerful story that will definitely make you feel less like hacking into your wrists with a bread knife to let the blood out and more like hacking into a rainbow with the sharp edge of a Hallmark card to let the sparkles out. Just don't do anything drastic until you've had a chance to read on.

The Very Pleasant Nap

Once upon a time, there was a happy and well-adjusted young person named Lulu. There was absolutely nothing wrong in Lulu's life. She had nice parents who were also very well-adjusted and wealthy. She had a dog, a cat, and a pony all in good health. At school, where she excelled in her classes, Lulu had many, many friends. Her teachers all thought she was bright and kind and positively giggled as they wrote A's on all of her papers. Lulu said no to drugs and yes to being nominated for class president, an honor that she went on to win in a landslide victory. All in all, Lulu was perfect in every way.

Now, right about now you are thinking that Lulu must be the boringest person of all time and I am the worst writer ever because my story doesn't even have any conflict. But you are wrong because I am getting ready to add some right now.

The only person who hated Lulu was the school principal, Mr. Baxter. He hated her because everyone liked Lulu and didn't like him, despite the cheesy jokes he told at every pep rally. Mr. Baxter had discovered that no one liked him because he had sent around a survey in homeroom one day that asked students to please mark YES or NO to the question, "Do you like Mr. Baxter?" And everyone marked no, including all of the teachers, the janitors, the students, and even Mr. Baxter's wife who was dropping off his lunch that day. Mr. Baxter, as a result, was very depressed.

One day, while Lulu was in the cafeteria petitioning to make Friday macaroni and cheese day, causing all the students to love and adore her all the more, Mr. Baxter sat in his office, which was the only air conditioned room in the entire building and picked his nose and wiped it under the rim of his desk, which every single person hates unless they are as disgusting as Mr. Baxter. Which, if you are, please cease and desist for the sake of us all.

Mr. Baxter should have been hard at work alphabetizing the list of students who had detention that week, but instead he was trying to decide how to destroy Lulu once and for all. But that was very challenging for him because it said right in the school handbook that destroying a student once and for all was against school policy and would result in suspension and a failing grade. So he had to figure out how to destroy Lulu without breaking any rules in the school handbook. He could ill afford a failing grade at principaling. They would kick him off the faculty softball team.

"Eureka!" he cried, but not because he had found an answer to his problems. Eureka was the name of the school secretary who preferred to be called an office assistant. Eureka immediately came to see what Mr. Baxter wanted.

"Eureka, I've been plotting all afternoon, and I can't think of a thing to do to that stupid Lulu to ruin her life once and for all," said Mr. Baxter, who was very distressed.

"Mr. Baxter. You're a school principal," said Eureka. "Maybe instead of plotting against students, you should work on sending out memos to the teachers and working on the budget proposal for the school board meeting on Monday."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Baxter. "This is far more important" and made Eureka sit down and take notes while he dictated an angry letter to his mother for not holding him more as a baby.

It was then that Lulu arrived at his office with her petition in hand.

"654 signatures, Mr. Baxter. Every single student in school signed, even the ones who were home sick because I went to their houses to take them soup," said Lulu cheerily. "Macaroni and cheese Fridays is a go!"

"Not so fast!" said Mr. Baxter, who suddenly realized what he needed to do. With a flourish of his pen, Mr. Baxter scribbled "DENIED" in black ink on the petition. And with another flourish, he wrote a note to the school cooks ordering them to make meatloaf every Friday until eternity. No school rules were broken, and Mr. Baxter had his victory.

Lulu was completely destroyed and went home weeping, for which she received a week's suspension and was automatically disqualified for the perfect school attendance award, which she had previously won every year. Mr. Baxter laughed and laughed and went around after school that day wiping his nose pickings under the rim of every desk in some kind of deranged school victory lap. He realized that although no one liked him, he was still an authority figure. The realization made him very happy until the end of his days, which happened a week after he retired at the age of 65. He died of a heat stroke because his house wasn't air conditioned like his office had been, and his body couldn't take the adjustment.

THE END.

Well? How was your nap? I wrote this story extremely boring on purpose so that you could get some much-needed shuteye. The answer to winter depression is hibernation. Have you ever seen a depressed bear? I didn't think so.

The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator 2: Judgment Night

2010-12-24T10:49:00.000-05:00

And now, the long-awaited conclusion of the Baby Jesus vs. the Santanator! Happy holidays to all of my jolly readers!

The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator 2: Judgment Night

The Santanator had two missions. The first was to find and destroy the baby Jesus. The second was to see what he wanted for Christmas. For while the Santanator was programed to do the bidding of the evil King Herod, inventor of the time machine and cyborgs, he still felt the need to spread holiday cheer and merriment everywhere he went. You see, under his titanium alloy exterior beat the heart of a jolly old elf.

The Santanator was making his list and checking it twice when suddenly he was knocked from his sleigh by a giant bazooka blast.

"You blew up my donkey," said the baby Jesus, leaping onto the Santanator's back. "Now, I will make you pay." With his holy screwdriver, the baby Jesus pried open the compartment on the Santanator's back that held his programming chip. With some quick work and the help of the Holy Spirit, the baby Jesus reprogrammed the Santanator so that he would be good.

"Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas," said the Santanator. "What do you want for Christmas, little boy?"

"That's more like it," said the baby Jesus. "Now, where are my wise men?"

"We three kings of Orient are....over here," came the voice of Balthasar.

"Good," said the baby Jesus. "Get on your camels. We have a treacherous king to destroy."

As you can imagine, the pint-sized Messiah, the reprogramed Santanator, and the three kings made quick work of destroying King Herod. It was actually really boring, so I'm not going to describe it. Just know that they came upon a midnight clear, slid down his chimney, and annihilated him.

So, what happened next to the Baby Jesus, his new robot friend, and his three wise men? The Baby Jesus eventually grew into an adult Jesus and they continued to kick a lot more ass for many Christmases to come.

THE END.

The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator

2010-12-06T07:00:00.002-05:00

You've likely noticed by now that Halloween came and went without a final Frightening Friday post. And now it's December, and I haven't posted for over a month and you suppose I've abandoned you for something more fun, like clubbing seals and turning them into Christmas ornaments.

I thank all of you for not sending me emails asking why I was such a lazy jerk and did I care nothing at all for your need for amusement? I've spent the last three and a half months buried under freelance work. Which, as you can imagine, is very dangerous indeed, as freelance work has been known to suffocate the elderly and many small children. So, in the unlikely event that you find yourself in a room that is slowly filling up with freelance work, do not take it lightly. Find a ventilation shaft as soon as possible and climb to safety. Or you may end up like me, sporting bloodshot eyes and a mild case of alcoholism.

On the up side of all of this, I will have two books coming out in the next year. On the down side, I have been forced to neglect "Welcome to Bethville!" which is my baby. So, I'm going to attempt to rectify that situation right now with a jolly, and completely idiotic, Christmas story.

The Baby Jesus vs. The Santanator

The baby Jesus was hiding in his manger, his tiny, holy hand gripping a bazooka in hopes that the Santanator soon would be there. So that he could destroy it once and for all. For the birth of the baby Jesus had been foretold by an angel, and the Santanator was sent back through time to destroy him.

The baby Jesus could take no chances. He sent his parents, Mary and Joseph, away to a bunker in Bethlehem for their own protection, for there was no room left at the inn that night. And the bunker was safer anyway. The baby Jesus knew that the Santanator's sleigh had been outfitted with eight tiny cruise missiles.

"Hey, are you the king of the Jews?" said a voice in the darkness of the stable.

"Yes," the baby Jesus replied.

"We saw your signal flare in the east and followed it here. You see, we're your sworn protectors." And out of the darkness stepped three dark figures.

We're the wise men," said another voice. "Our names are Melchoir, Gaspar, and Balthasar. And we come bearing gifts." With them the wise men carried gold, frankincense, and many frag grenades.

"Good," said the baby Jesus, "We'll need these." He then hitched up his holy diaper (because although the baby Jesus was the savior and a great warrior, he still suffered from newborn incontinence) and began loading up his donkey with an arsenal of weapons.

"Wait, baby Jesus," said Gaspar. "You can't ride on the front of that donkey. Don't you know that babies should always be strapped to the back of the donkey in case of an accident?"

"Are you kidding me?" said the baby Jesus. "I'm the baby Jesus. The son of God. Those rules don't apply to me."

"Yes, they do. And we were sworn to protect you no matter what," said Gaspar, and soon the baby Jesus was buckled into a safety seat and securely strapped to the rear of the donkey, which made him very cranky, even when one of the wise men jangled some keys in his face.

"I'm the wise man with the cleanest donkey riding record," said Melchoir, "so I'll be the one to ride with the baby Jesus."

"But I am the wise man with the night vision goggles," said Gaspar.

"I am the wise man carrying the assault rifle," said Balthasar. And so it was decided that Balthasar would escort the baby Jesus because he was the most badassed-looking of all the wise men.

The caravan had not gotten far when suddenly out in the distance there arose such a clatter that it could only mean one thing. The Santanator was near.

"Quick!" shouted the baby Jesus. "Cover our flanks. And unbuckle this safety seat so that I can properly wield this bazooka!"

"Bazooka?" said Melchoir, "What does a precious baby need with a bazooka? Tsk tsk." And much to the baby Jesus's annoyance, the bazooka was pried from his adorable hands and put on a high shelf so that he couldn't reach it until he was older.

"I can't believe the three of you," said the baby Jesus, rolling his eyes in the most precious manner as he dislocated his shoulder so that he could escape from the harness that held him to the safety seat on the back of his donkey. And he leaped to safety just in the nick of time, as just then the donkey exploded, laying waste all over the new-fallen snow.

To be continued...

**I borrowed this image from Futurama. And here's this.

Frightening Friday: Camp of Questionable Safety Standards

2010-10-22T07:00:00.002-04:00

SURPRISE! It's me again, back from my terrifying week of nonstop work to tell you another tale of horror that will chill you to your very bones. You will be so chilled, that you'll need to make yourself a cup of hot cocoa and read this under a down comforter. But you'll still be really chilled, so you'll light a fire in your fireplace. But then, after the fire is lit and you begin to warm your hands and feet, you'll remember that you don't have a fireplace. And as you stand there watching your apartment building burn to the ground, your only thought will be, "I am still chilled by that story, and I hope Mr. Whiskers gets out alive."

Which bring us to this Friday's frightening tale of fright. What are your plans for Halloween? Well, if you know what's good for you, you will dress up as an important historical figure and go out on the town for a very chaste evening of non-alcoholic daiquiris and square dancing. I really hope your plans don't include working as a counselor at a camp with questionable safety standards. Like the one in this story.

Camp of Questionable Safety Standards

Camp Trip was the most dangerous camp of all time. Not only was it located in the heart of Man-Eating Grizzly Bear Woods, which, as you've likely guessed, was filled with man-eating grizzlies, you had to drive down a long pot hole-filled road to get to it, as the camp's owner was too cheap to have the road repaired. And when you finally got there, you were faced with the worst safety standards of all time. There were jagged tree stumps near all the paths and frequent food poisoning in the dining hall. Cabin walls and floors were filled with rusty nails. On the first day of camp, each camper was given a hammer and an ax and told, "If you see a rusty nail, use your hammer to fix it. Also, you're going to be chopping your own firewood. Good luck!"

It was these poor safety standards that resulted in the death of a camper at Camp Trip many, many years before when the tarp that was used in place of a cabin roof fell onto his bunk and suffocated him to death. To make things even more dangerous at camp, despite being dead, that dead camper was hell bent on revenge and ran around camp every night after dark slaughtering campers and camp counselors willy-nilly with his wood chopping ax, rather than seeking the therapy he clearly needed.

As darkness fell on the first night of camp, everyone was digging into their evening meal of undercooked chicken and potato salad that had sat out in the sun all day. The campers were all talking about how much fun they had had at the grenade throwing range that afternoon and how they couldn't wait to go horseback riding the next day because they heard that rather than buying and training horses, the camp owner just put out oats and opened the stable doors, letting in whatever horses might be interested in a meal that night. But unbeknownst to those excited campers, none of them would live to see the next day.

As the first camper began to feel the first grumblings of food poisoning in her stomach, the lights in the dining hall suddenly went out.

"Oh, no!" you're thinking, "The evil undead camper has come to the dining hall with his ax to slaughter everyone!" But you are wrong. It was just the faulty electrical wiring.

"Someone call somebody to fix this!" called one camp counselor.

"The phone lines are down!" said another counselor.

"The undead camper cut the lines!" you're thinking. But no, it was because the camp owner didn't pay the phone bill that month.

"Does anyone else see that menacing ax-wielding shadow outside the dining hall window?" asked one of the campers.

"Just the shadow of a tree, I suppose?" you say, but you would be wrong. It was actually the undead and revenge-seeking camper this time.

"AAAAAAAAAAA! We're doomed!"

"We must barricade the doors!"

Working quickly, the campers and counselors moved the tables over to block the doors and windows.

"What if he tries to come down the chimney?" called a terrified camper into the darkness.

"Quick! Light a fire in the fireplace!" said one of the counselors, handing a box of matches and a can of gas to a camper who was wearing an eye patch after falling face first onto a jagged tree stump.

"But we don't have a fireplace!" said the eye-patched camper.

"Then, light the fire over there in the corner!" cried a terrified camper with only one arm, who had unfortunately discovered that afternoon that his horse was a man-eating grizzly.

"Hey," you're saying, "Why are they afraid of the murderer coming down the chimney if there's no fireplace?" Because they were not trained properly on what to do in case of an emergency. Let that be a lesson to you. Read on.

Now, as any good camper knows, you should never, ever light a fire indoors if you don't have a proper fireplace. For one thing, you could light the whole dining hall on fire. Secondly, you could be asphyxiated. Thirdly, running away from flames causes you to metabolize the salmonella in your system more quickly, causing instant projectile vomiting. And nothing creates more dangerous safety standards than vomit-covered floors and a blazing inferno. As you've likely guessed, the campers who didn't die of food poisoning were asphyxiated or unable to escape the blaze because large dining tables were blocking all the exits, which anyone trained properly in safety standards would know never to do.

The ax-wielding undead camper just stood and watched the drama unfold from outside where the air was rich with oxygen and thoroughly cooked meals. And as he stood there, he thought, "I should really seek therapy. It's obvious that I'm still upset by that tarp suffocating incident. And, hey, why am I alive right now if I died?" So, he dropped his ax and stalked away into the woods to seek medical attention and therapy for his problems. You'll be pleased to hear that he eventually found closure. You'll also be pleased to know that the fire that consumed the dining hall also helped to cook the chicken properly at last, killing all of the bacteria swimming around on it. Unfortunately, no one was left alive to eat it.

THE END

Frightening Friday: Dracula’s Terrible Houseguests

2010-10-15T18:00:00.001-04:00

You are probably wondering what has taken me so long in posting today's terrifying edition of Frightening Friday. And the short answer is deadlines. The longer answer is "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! SO MANY DEADLINES!" Which brings me to the fact that deadlines are pretty terrifying. I mean, just look at the word "deadlines." First, you have "dead" which requires no explanation. Then, you have "lines," which are one of the most frightening things I can think of. Have you ever stood admiring a waterfall while drinking an extra large Mountain Dew and had a sudden serious urge to take a leak? So you sprint all the way to the bathroom, bladder sloshing, and discover, to your absolute horror, a long line of people waiting to go? Scary. So, anyway, luckily for you guys I knew this would inevitably happen and had a back-up Frightening Friday post ready to go just in case my terrifying deadlines caught up to me. I hope you get as scared as I was when I wrote it.

Dracula’s Terrible Houseguests

Once upon a time in a castle in Transylvania lived a vampire named Count Dracula. Now, if you know anything at all about vampires, you are probably aware that vampires thrive on the blood of human beings. They think it’s really delicious, much like you and a ham sandwich with lettuce and plenty of mayonnaise. (Unless you are vegetarian, in which case you might enjoy a nice salad with chickpeas and carrot slivers instead.)

But the fact that Dracula was a vampire has little or nothing to do with this story. Dracula, in addition to being a bloodsucking menace, very much enjoyed entertaining guests at his castle. Dracula loved to prepare his guest suite when he knew that someone was coming to visit. He left mints on pillows and put out his hand-molded decorative soaps and fancy towels. Most people—-before they were drained of blood or added to Dracula’s vampire minion—-were sure to thank Dracula heartily for the wonderful meal and wine that he served. No one could ever say that Dracula was a bad host.

But then a large group of gentlemen came for a visit quite unannounced.
Dracula had only just returned from a trip to England and was very sleepy. So, he had gone downstairs to his coffin to sleep off his boat lag.

Now, you should never drop in on someone unannounced because it gives your host absolutely no time to go to the grocery store or do any vacuuming. Not only did they not call ahead, but the large group of men in question barged right into Dracula’s castle in an extremely rude manner. Dracula was sound asleep by then and had absolutely no time to put out any decorative soap or make a single canapé for his guests to snack on.

And even though they must have been very tired from their travels, instead of sitting down in Dracula’s parlor for a nice cup of tea and waiting patiently for their host to greet them, the rude gentlemen headed straight downstairs to Dracula’s coffin chamber to say hello.

Now, it’s another rule of being a houseguest that you should never, ever barge right in while your host is sleeping. First of all, people who are sleeping tend to have horrible breath and might want to brush their teeth before they see you. Secondly, they might like to comb their hair or whiskers to make them a bit less unruly. Thirdly, you might wake them from a delightful dream.

But the group of men cared about none of those things. In fact, they walked right in and lifted up the lid on Dracula’s coffin. And then, they proceeded to stab him through the heart with a wooden stake. The whole thing was just rude.

If you know anything about vampires, you are aware that if you stab a vampire through the heart with a stake, he will cease to be undead. In fact, he will turn into the most unpleasant dusty mess. Which is what Dracula did. It was a very sad day indeed, not only because Dracula shuffled off that immortal coil, but also because he never got to fulfill his deathlong dream of opening a bed and breakfast.

THE END

Frightening Friday: Hotel Room Showers Are Scary

2010-10-08T07:00:00.001-04:00

Hey, where do you live? Yeah, you! Because it's haunted. That's right. Your house is haunted. How do I know? Because a one-eyed shaman told me so. Someone totally died there. So, if you are at home right now sitting upon that massive collection of pizza boxes you call furniture reading this and thinking, "Whew! It's good that I'm safe here where I live," then you're wrong. WRONG! Right now, something is lurking very close to you and ready to pounce. I only hope you can get to the end of today's edition of Frightening Friday before you meet your end. You'd better read quickly.

Hotel Room Showers Are Scary

It's weird enough showering in hotel rooms. You start thinking, as you carefully soap up your genitals, about all of the weird people who probably soaped up their genitals in there before you. And enjoyed it. Serial killers, investment bankers, people who throw unwanted pets into trash cans. All with soapy genitals. Then, you discover that while all you wanted was a hot shower when you got to that hotel room after a long day of traveling, now you want nothing more than dip yourself in bleach in the comfort of your own home. So, when you're in the shower at that hotel thinking about all those things and someone dressed up as his own mother comes into the bathroom without knocking carrying a razor sharp knife, it's likely to put you off of hotel showering forever.

Now, let it be noted that you should never, enter a bathroom without knocking. Mostly because you could find yourself in an awkward situation. Like discovering your grandfather with his pants around his ankles doing crossword puzzles on the toilet. But also because the person in the bathroom might react poorly to being interrupted by throwing a full bottle of shampoo at your head.

Secondly, you should never, ever go into a bathroom carrying a razor sharp knife. The floor can get very, very slippery when someone is in the shower. You could slip on a puddle of water and impale yourself in a very distasteful manner. Or accidentally cut a hole in the shower curtain and be forced to see a relative in the nude.

Thirdly, you should never dress up as your own mother. Because people will inevitably think you are your own mother. And when you are in a hurry to get to the pharmacy to buy some PreparationH for your hemorrhoids, you will have to spend 30 minutes talking to her friend Marcy. Even though Marcy should know better because your mother has been dead for 10 years. And you clearly have a penis under that dress.

To get to the point, and I have one, if you decide to cast aside this excellent advice and dress up as your own mother and enter a bathroom without knocking while carrying a razor sharp knife, just be really careful.

Now, getting back to the story, on one dark and rainy night not too long ago, after a long day of traveling, a person got into a shower in her hotel room. It had been a long day, and she was tired. After several enjoyable minutes of soaping up her genitals, the door to the bathroom opened and a person entered carrying a razor sharp knife. Now I know that you're all thinking, based on the warnings I provided above, that the person in question was dressed as his own mother and slipped around dangerously on the damp floor. But, no, it was the hotel maintenance man and he brought a knife into the bathroom to fix the toilet because he couldn't find his screwdriver that day. And, because he was a maintenance man and had fixed toilets on slippery tile floors before, he was careful to step around the puddles. But he was not used to carrying a razor sharp knife, so the maintenance man accidentally cut a sizable hole in the shower curtain. The person in the shower screamed in terror and threw a full shampoo bottle at his head, and rightly so because who enters without knocking? The maintenance man, seeing that the woman in the shower was his great-aunt Gloria and she was soaping up her genitals, had a heart attack and died right there.

Years later, they converted that hotel into apartments. Really wonderful apartments...like the one you're sitting in now reading this from atop the stack of pizza boxes you call furniture. And sometimes on dark nights, you can hear a shower running and the moans of a maintenance man who wasn't careful with his knife.

THE END.

Frightening Friday: The Flying Dutchman in 2010

2010-10-01T07:00:00.000-04:00

Arghhhhh! Welcome once again to Frightening Fridays. This is your pirate captain speaking. We be weighing anchor in Absolute Terror Cove, while I prepare to tell you the most chillifying tale to ever sail the Seven Seas. So, grab your peg legs and your eye patches and get ready to be super scared while I sit here in the complete safety of my brightly-lit living room and think about how scared you're soon going to be. Because I mean you're going to be so scared. Scareder than the time I told you a story about evil sewer clowns. And scareder than the time I told you a story about a depressed pumpkin. And a whole lot scareder than the time I told you a story about gourmet zombies. Maybe a bit less scared than the time I told you about a babysitter and a hook-handed murderer. But certainly more scared than the time we talked about some very nice witches who did not at all deserve to be burned at the stake. See what I did there? I linked back to all of the Frightening Friday posts from last October, so that you could go back, read them, and pee your pants in fear all over again. Mwahahahaha! So, with no further self-promotion or prattling on about how much I'm going to scare you, here is the first tale of terror.

The Flying Dutchman: 2010

It's hard to be a ghost pirate ship captain. For one thing, your ghostly hands go right through the helm of the ship, winds blow right through the mizzen mast with no effect on the direction of the ship, and your crew forgets that making you walk the plank in some feeble attempt at mutiny is only going to get your corporeal form all wet. So, what happens when you become a ghost pirate ship captain is that it's fun for about twenty years, but later on when you're drifting around, unable to control the direction of your ship, and being forced to spend an eternity with your annoying ghostly crew, you get pretty tired of the whole situation and wish you had just gone down to Davy Jones's locker like a normal dead pirate.

This was the case for Captain Strangebeard. Why was he called Captain Strangebeard? Because he had accidentally shaved off half his beard. When the actual ship sank the next day and the captain drowned, his ghost was forever cursed with half a beard. So, he was Captain Strangebeard.

The year was 2010. The day was Halloween. The sky was dark. The sea was rough, and the pirates were fresh out of ghost grapefruits, so they were all suffering from ghost scurvy.

"I have an idea!" shouted Peg Face the Pirate, who was first mate of this very salty, very dead crew, "Let's make the captain walk the plank!"

"It be a mutiny!" cried Parrot Face the pirate, who was a dead parrot pirate who frequently said parroty pirate things.

"OH MY GOD!" said Captain Strangebeard, "I explained this to you two centuries ago. You can't mutiny me. I'm dead."

"Shiver me timbers!" said Dead Fish Breath the pirate, who was the ship's cook. "We be dead?"

"Arggggghhhhhh!" said Captain Strangebeard. (It was, as you are likely aware, a very piratey thing to say, but Captain Strangebeard was actually just venting his frustration.)

"We have been floating around the Seven Seas for almost five centuries. How could we be alive at this point?" said Captain Strangebeard for the twenty-third time that week.

"I thought that be a bit weird," said Peg Face the Pirate.

"I want my mommy!" said Crybaby the Pirate.

"You can't have your mommy! She's been dead for hundreds of years!" said Strangebeard.

"When we be getting our share of the treasure?" asked Moneybags the Pirate.

"Are you a complete and utter moron? Have any of you listened to one word I've said in three centuries?" asked Captain Strangebeard. "The treasure is in Davy Jones's locker. It's gone. The ship sank. This is a ghost ship."

"Like, ghosts?! Where?" said Shaggy Beard the Pirate.

"Rhosts! Raggy!" said Scooby the Pirate, who dove under a rug to hide.

"Okay, seriously, you guys?" said Captain Strangebeard. He finally retreated to his ghostly captain's quarters to get away from his utterly stupid crew and write in his ghostly ship log.

Day 167,926. Crew threatening mutiny again. They are so, so stupid. I mean, so incredibly stupid. Will this voyage ever end?

Suddenly, someone knocked at the door of the captain's quarters. "Captain! Captain! Make haste! There be a ship on the horizon!"

Captain Strangebeard rolled his ghostly eyes. Not again.

"Captain! There be people on board drinking rum and dancing strangely!"

"You brought me up here to look at another Carnival Cruise Ship, Peg Face. I told you last time, those people are on vacation," said Strangebeard.

"Maybe they have treasurrrrre!" said Peg Face.

"Probably," Strangebeard replied, "But what are we going to do? Shoot them with our ghost cannon?"

"We pillage and plunder and take no man alive!" cried Peg Face.

"Okay, let me know how that goes for you. I'll be in my quarters holding my ghostly flintlock to my head and praying for release from you idiots," said Captain Strangebeard. He went back to his quarters.

"Argh! Take no man alive!" cried Peg Face. And the pirate crew prepared the ghost cannon and fired it many, many times into the side of the Carnival Cruise ship and were baffled that it never made a dent. Eventually they gave up and went back to planning their mutiny of Captain Strangebeard. The Flying Dutchman sailed on for an eternity, which it was eternally annoying for the captain.

THE END

Frightening Fridays: Terror is Coming!

2010-09-29T10:39:00.005-04:00

I know you have all been waiting in anticipation for another month of terrifying Friday story time. So, starting Friday, October 1, be prepared for the return of Frightening Fridays, when I tell you a blood-curdling tale of fear so terrifying that you will cling to your teddy bear every night and hope that you do not slip into a dark abyss filled with nightmare bats, fear spiders, and people without working flashlights.

Terror! Fear! Scary things! October 1 and every Friday until Halloween! Be there!

Signed,
Your Evil Cruise Director on This Boat Going Straight to Scary Town
The Mayor of Bethville

The Very Sweaty Tale of Boobsweaterella: Part 2

2010-09-13T07:00:00.003-04:00

Well, I hope you got some sleep and didn't stay awake for the last two days waiting to hear the rest of the story of Boobsweaterella.

If you did, I would hate to keep you waiting any longer. So, read on.

The Continued Tale of Boobsweaterella

If you recall, Boobsweaterella's stepsisters had left for the ball. And Boobsweaterella was fanning her stepmother so that she wouldn't get dehydrated.

"AAAAAA! You're dripping sweat all over me!" cried the stepmother.

"Sorry," said Boobsweaterella.

"Never mind," said the stepmother. "Go inside and get me a popsicle."

In the kitchen, Boobsweaterella was met by her very sweaty fairy godmother wearing her favorite hot weather muumuu.

"Let's cut to the chase," said the fairy godmother, "because it is seriously hot up in this piece. I'm your fairy godmother, and you want to go to the ball, right?"

"Nah, not really," said Boobsweaterella.

"Sure you do," said the fairy godmother.

"No, I really don't," Boobsweaterella replied.

"Well, okay then. Do you want to just take off our bras and make margaritas?"

"Sure."

And so they did.

THE END

You: Hey! What about the other characters in the story?

Me: Huh?

You: You know, the stepmother waiting for her popsicle. The stepsisters? The handsome prince? The ball?

Me: Oh, right right right.

The actual end of the story:

Boobsweaterella finally agreed to go to the ball after much chiding from her fairy godmother. She put on her best cotton sundress and gave her armpits an extra swipe of Speed Stick. With a wave of her magic wand, the fairy godmother produced a bicycle out of thin air. "Have a good time!" she called as Boobsweaterella pedaled off down the road. Any other mode of transportation would have been suffocating on such a hot night, so she was pleased with the bicycle.

Boobsweaterella finally arrived at the ball. You already know what happened next. The prince saw her amazing knockers and fell instantly in love, completely unafraid of being turned into a skin coat. They danced and danced and sweated all over each other.

But suddenly, at the stroke of midnight, Boobsweaterella remembered that her stepmother was still sitting out on the patio unfanned and probably quite dehydrated.

"Oh, no!" she cried. "I have to go!"

"Stop!" the prince cried, panting after her.

But Boobsweaterella ran out the castle gates and pedaled off on her waiting bicycle, leaving only a trail of perspiration behind her for the prince to remember her by.

Now, you're probably thinking, "Great! Now the prince will have to go all around the kingdom and find the mysterious woman who left that trail of sweat behind!" And you would be wrong. He used the phone book. There weren't many listings for "Boobsweaterella" in that kingdom, let me tell you.

Early the next morning after changing into a less sweaty pair of boxer shorts, the handsome prince set off in search of his love.

Five minutes later, the prince found Boobsweaterella's house and knocked on the door.

When she opened the door, and the prince recognized the sweatiest, most bountiful rack he had ever seen, he instantly proposed marriage.

But Boobsweaterella, who was a cynic and was pretty sure the prince had not once looked at her face, told him no and went back to fanning her stupid stepsisters.

Eventually, she went to college, became a scientist, and invented a special antiperspirant for the below-boob area. She made millions.

THE END

Happy now?

The Sweatiest Thing I've Ever Posted

2010-09-11T02:00:00.003-04:00

Dearest Welcome to Bethville readers. I apologize once again for the many delays between posts. I have been truly busy. First, I went on vacation. Then, the second I got back, I was sidelined by a big writing project, which will definitely be causing more delays. Thirdly, I am helping a very old, and quite undead friend out with his new blogging project. I hope you will check out Questions for Dracula and ask him many, many questions. Or he may come to your house and drink your blood. Just warning you.

Excuses out of the way, I would like to discuss something of dire importance with you.

"What is it?" you ask, leaning closer so you don't miss anything important. "Is she going to talk about the economy? Civil Rights? Abortion? Or the dangers hamsters face on a daily basis when one of them is using the hamster wheel going in one direction and another one is going in the opposite direction and inevitably one of them is flung off in a very disgraceful manner?"

No! It's none of these things. It's boob sweat.

"Gross!" you say and stomp away from your computer.

Fine. Be that way, Stompy McStomperson. I'll tell the people who are still reading a most gripping tale of sweatiness. So get out your moist towelettes and read on.

The Very Sweaty Tale of Boobsweaterella

Boobsweaterella lived with her stepmother and two stepsisters in one of the most humid kingdoms in the history of time. And because this was a very humid fairy tale kingdom, Willis Haviland Carrier did not exist. Hence, there was no air conditioning anywhere. Everyone was very, very, sweaty.

So, it was Boobsweaterella's job to fan her stepmother and two stepsisters with an enormous fan while they sat in the shade and sipped lemonade.

"Fan harder, Boobsweaterella!" cried the stepmother dabbing her forehead with a tissue.

Ironically, no one in the family was as hot as Boobsweaterella because while they were all rather small-chested, Boobsweaterella was rocking a pair of D-cups. And as anyone with D-cups knows, in the summer, it's like having a pair of sweat cannons strapped to your chest.

"I'm trying!" said Boobsweaterella, fanning like mad and self-consciously tugging at her dress, which had developed a very unseemly stripe of sweat in the lower bosom region.

"Gross!" said one of the stepsisters, noticing and pointing because she clearly thought, as many do, that people who are sweating are completely unaware of their sweatiness and need to be reminded.

"I can't help it," said Boobsweaterella. "It's so humid outside."

"You're disgusting, Boobsweaterella," said the stepmother. "Go inside and change into something less sweaty."

And Boobsweaterella did.

Meanwhile, across the kingdom a very sweaty handsome prince was preparing to embark on the very annoying and cliched mission of finding a wife.

"We'll throw a ball," said his father, the king, rubbing his forehead with an ice cube. "And we'll invite all the women in the land. You'll dance with all of them, and at the end of the night, you'll choose your favorite."

Which seems totally logical because you can learn everything you need to know about someone in a single night. Like whether or not she is a serial killer who likes to attend balls, seduce handsome princes, and then lure them to dark bedchambers and make handsome prince skin coats from their hot flesh.

"Okay, father," said the prince, who was far to hot to argue.

So, the date of the ball was set, and everywhere around the kingdom people were preparing. And the women at Boobsweaterella's house were no exception. Then, the night finally arrived.

Unfortunately, not one outfit in their closets was suitable for wearing on a humid night. So, one of the stepsisters put on a pair of gym shorts and tore off the sleeves of a T-shirt. The other stepsister put on a bikini top and a pair of cutoffs.

"You look beautiful!" gushed their mother. "The prince will love you for sure."

"What shall I wear?" asked Boobsweaterella.

"You're not going!" said the stepmother. "You must stay at home and fan me or I will get dehydrated."

Boobsweaterella, who was secretly happy that she got to stay home because it was too hot to be in a crowded ballroom, set to work fanning her stepmother while the two stepsisters headed for the ball.

Now, you're probably waiting for Boobsweaterella's fairy godmother to arrive. And she will, but right now it's almost 2:00 AM and I am very sleepy. So I will get to her tomorrow.

To be continued....

AAAAA! It's the Mosque of the Red Death

2010-08-11T07:00:00.002-04:00

Here is a tidbit of information from my life that you might not know. For the past two years, I have lived half a block from a mosque. "What?" you say. "Do you spend all your time at home doing an inventory of your munitions closet? Are you stocked up on Kevlar vests? What happens if the Muslims come and you aren't ready?"

To which I respond, "What is wrong with you?"

Yes, there is a mosque on my street, and you might be surprised to know that NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. There aren't any neighborhood holy wars going on. We all go to the same grocery stores and laundromats. Women walk around wearing burqas, and I haven't once thought to myself, "Oh my god, lady terrorist at 10 o'clock, and here I am without my pistols." Because I know she is just running errands like I am. (The scariest thing that ever happens in my neighborhood is when the ice cream man parks in front of my building and I don't have any money.)

If there is an army of terrorists being trained at the Islamic center, it consists of four old guys who like to chat every night out front before they lock up and go home. If they are planning some kind of violent jihad, they are reeeeally procrastinating.

After two years of living near this mosque, I might also venture to say that I don't think that God is all that worried either (if you subscribe to the belief thing). I'm talking about the god that Christians believe in and credit with Jesus and such. The same god who some Christians insist would oppose the building of mosques. I have yet to see him smite the mosque in my neighborhood or the people who go there, despite the fact that it is less than a block away from a Baptist church, where every Sunday, a lot of non-Muslim people rattle the windows with their love for Jesus. And that is across the street from a Methodist church where the service is delivered in Spanish. (For the record, God hasn't smote any of those people for not speaking English.) There seems to be no Christian to Islam religion transference or vice versa, despite the close proximity.

People go into the Islamic center. People come out. God is like, "Ho hum. No smiting for me today."

My point is that there are dicks of every single religion on the planet. There are Methodist dicks, Lutheran dicks, and Catholic dicks; Jewish dicks, Atheist dicks, and Wiccan dicks, There are probably even some Quaker dicks. And, yes, there are Muslim dicks and a small percentage of them are terrorists. But it does not make all of them terrorists. I repeat: That does not make all of them terrorists. So, for those people in Wisconsin, California, and Tennessee (and anywhere else with a Muslim population) where someone wants to build a mosque and you feel you just gotta protest, go get yourself a falafel and a hookah and relax. Life is beautiful in my neighborhood. There is no reason it shouldn't be in yours as well.

Saturday Grab Bag: Shark Week!

2010-08-07T13:53:00.007-04:00

You've seen Cats Dressed as Sharks for Shark Week, but have you seen a shark dressed as a cat? Awwwwww....I just want to pinch his little gills.

Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis: Part 2

2010-08-04T07:00:00.001-04:00

***Hungry grizzly preparing to eat Grizzly Adams, who was not hungry at the time.

Well, yesterday we learned that laughing at starving people is not nice. And we learned that if you skip meals in anticipation of something that could potentially be a month away, you will likely die. We also learned about the pre-hibernation habits of bears. One thing we didn't learn, however, is just how far a starving Antarctican person would have to travel to find a KFC. So I did some fast Googling, and I think that currently their best chance of having a delicious chicken dinner is this one. So, if you see or speak to any Antarcticans on the search for food, kindly direct them to Sydney, Australia. And recommend that in the future they just try harpooning something.

All of that aside, I know you came here to read the rest of the thrilling tale of anthropomorphic bears, girls with low blood sugar, and terrible parenting. And so I will continue with that with no further ado.

Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis: The Conclusion

Goldilocks smelled chicken. And as everyone knows, if you are suffering from low blood sugar and smell chicken, no one had better stand between you and that chicken. As many unfortunate people have learned, acting as a barricade between a hungry person and his nosh may result in accidental cannibalism.

As you will likely remember, the tantalizing chicken fragrance was coming from a cabin owned by a family of anthropomorphic grizzly bears who were preparing for their winter hibernation. Specifically, it was coming from a half-eaten bucket of chicken sitting in the lap of a 500 pound grizzly. This information might deter most people, but not Goldilocks. She stormed right into that cabin, tore the bucket of chicken from the bear's lap, and ate it in three bites. And then she ate the grizzly. And his armchair. And because I'm feeling charitable and just had a delicious lunch that cured my low blood sugar, the mother grizzly and cub escaped unharmed.

The moral of this story is that 1) You should always have a snack handy 2) Don't stand between a hungry person and her food 3) Don't be an anthropomorphic bear in a story that I am writing because I will discard that whole porridge thing and leave you dead, bloody, and in the stomach of a hungry tween and 4) Always cook your meat before you eat it, or you may get a tapeworm like Goldilocks did.

THE END

Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis

2010-08-03T07:00:00.001-04:00

Well...it has been a month since my last post. And while I am positive that if any of you were missing meals waiting for me to post something, you are most assuredly dead by now and not reading this. And while this advice will go unread by those who did starve to death, I'm going to say it anyway. You really should have known better.

That said, starvation is no laughing matter. I feel strange even smirking at the idea of starvation. And if you are currently giggling over the demise of those who died waiting for me to write this, you should be ashamed of yourself. Think of all those starving people in Antarctica right now, waiting around the ice floe for that apple tree that will never take root or those $5.99 chicken dinners that will never be delivered because there is no KFC within several hundred miles. Next time you find yourself chuckling over the idea of hunger, I hope you will think of those people and frown accordingly.

And now, those of you who did not starve to death while waiting for this blog post can read this thrilling tale of how if you don't eat something when your blood sugar is low, you will definitely die.

Goldilocks and the Low Blood Sugar Crisis

Before bears go into hibernation for the winter, they eat a lot of extra food. That way, while they are sleeping the cold winter months away, they can survive on their extra body fat. In fact, if you spy through the window of a cabin that belongs to an inexplicably anthropomorphized grizzly during the fall months, you will likely see him sitting in his armchair with his paw in a bucket of chicken. You might even see his charming grizzly wife slaving over a hot stove and grumbling about the lazy, fat son of a bitch she common law married and how he never helps out in the kitchen, just sits in his armchair all day with his paw in a bucket of chicken. Furthermore, you may see the grizzly family's adorable cub playing on the rug next to his father's chair wishing he had opposable thumbs so he could play with Legos.

But before you go spying in any grizzly cabin windows, I would like to remind you that 1) Grizzlies are dangerous animals and 2) It is rude to spy in windows. So if you see a cabin owned by some inexplicably anthropomorphized grizzly bears, it would be best to tiptoe on by and just assume that they are in there preparing for hibernation by eating lots of things.

Unless you are rude and unafraid of grizzlies. Or suffer from low blood sugar. Like Goldilocks.

Personally, I think the name Goldilocks is stupid. But when compared to the names of her siblings, Brownhead, Baldie, and Combover, I suppose it might be the preferable name given to the Hairhead children.

Goldilocks was wandering around alone in the woods one day because, in addition to giving their children terrible names, her parents were always telling her to go outside and have an adventure, secretly hoping that she would be eaten by bears because they regretted allowing themselves to be coerced into reproducing by their meddling parents and religious leader.

And so Goldilocks was skipping through the woods alone, when she suddenly realized that her blood sugar was low. Now, most people who frequently suffer from low blood sugar would be smart enough to keep a snack handy. But not Goldilocks. Because as every girl Goldilocks's age knows, if boys catch you eating food, they will think you are a fat cow person made of snacks. And so, Goldilocks dizzily skipped on wishing for a few crackers or an apple so she wouldn't pass out. And that was when she passed a cabin owned by inexplicably anthropomorphized bears and smelled chicken in the air.

To be continued....

Scenes from My Imaginary Cooking Show

2010-07-03T09:00:00.000-04:00

Sometimes when I lie awake at night contemplating my life choices, I like to play out scenes from my imaginary cooking show. You know...that cooking show that you fantasize about having after you make a particularly tasty meal and are still secretly congratulating yourself on how well it went over? Well, I would like to share a bit of it with you. So, with no further ado, here is my imaginary cooking show.

Hi, everybody, and welcome to my cooking show. As you can see, I have some bowls here for mixing things in and some spoons. This is the stove, and in here is the oven. I'll be using all of them today to make a meal perfect for entertaining.

Okay, so first we should make a nice appetizer. I like to make something French so that my guests can be reminded of the time they spent in France. And what do people think of when they think of France? Baguette and fromage, which is French for bread and cheese. So for a tasty French appetizer, let's take these bread slices and cook them in the toaster. Yeeeees, that's nice. Look at those getting nice and golden. Then we'll put some cheese slices on top and then pop them right in in the microwave for melting. Serve immediately or when your guests finally arrive with that bottle of Pepsi you asked them to bring. You know, when they gave you a weird look and said, "How about a bottle of French wine?" And you said, "No, I said Pepsi. Who's the gourmet here?" (If you are forced to wait for your guests to finally arrive, put the plate of appetizers on top of the radiator to keep them warm and ready to serve.)

And now, because the theme is French cooking, I'm going to stick with that theme and make a delicious French entree. Now, I've never been to France, but I hear it is lovely. And you know what else is lovely? A big pile of bacon like this one here. So we're going to make a quiche Lorraine. Who is Lorraine, you ask? Your mom is Lorraine. Hahahaha. Oh, I am so funny sometimes. Okay, now I like to make quiche Your Mom in the easiest manner possible. So buy a pie crust that is pre-made. You'll want to crumble the cooked bacon into tiny pieces. Then, crack the eggs, add this milk, sprinkle in these spices, and pour the mixture into the crust. Then pop into the the oven at 350 degrees until the top is firm and cooked through. If your guests still haven't arrived, you can put it back in the oven on the warm setting and then stare listlessly out the window like I hear they do in France.

Dessert is next on the agenda. And if you're like me, you want to make that dessert as decadent as possible. So we're going to make creme brulees. Yep, a rich custard with a layer of hard caramel on top. Mmmmmm....very French! Your guests are going to think they never left France last weekend. They'll be like, "Que c'est délicieux!" And you'll be like, "I don't know French and I've never been to France because when I suggested taking a trip there, you guys were all, 'Let's go next weekend!' and I was all, 'I need to save up for a month or two first," and you guys were all, 'Well, why don't we go this time and you can go later when you can actually afford it?' BUT I do know that 'délicieux' must mean something good!" Creme brulee is very easy. As you can see here, I already made these ones using some cream, vanilla, eggs, and some other stuff. Sprinkle the tops with sugar and melt with this cooking torch. Don't singe off your eyebrows! Hahahahaha...

Oh, look! Your guests are arriving. And they brought you a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower. Isn't that thoughtful? I hope they like warm Pepsi and the diarrhea you gave them with all that cream and cheese! This has been Bethany's cooking show. See you next time!

My Horrible Disfigurement

2010-06-23T07:00:00.001-04:00

Well, in the words of Michael Bluth, "I have made a huge mistake." And, per usual, my pain and suffering is your entertainment. Because if I don't talk about it in the most shameless manner possible, it's just sad.

But first, a confession.

I have chin hairs. Yes, you heard it here first. My chin is not smooth and hairless as a drag queen's butt. Normally I just pluck these hairs, which I was doing on Monday morning when I suddenly had a brilliant idea: wax strips.

Every few years or so I forget about the pain and suffering involved with hair removal products and purchase some. I have used the microwavable wax, Nair, and razors with one, two, three, four, and five blades. And I like to think that at 30 years of age I know what works for me and what doesn't. I have been burned, cut, bloodied, and maimed by hair removal products. And at this point I'm happy with razors and plucking in the necessary areas, thankyouverymuch.

But a few months ago I thought I would give the wax strips a whirl because I also have hair on my upper lip and plucking that area hurts like a motherfucker. So why not tear off the entire patch of hair in one go, am I right?

So, on Monday I thought to myself, "I've got these lip hairs. I've got these chin hairs. Why not just use wax strips on everything?" And so I did. But Monday was a very warm and humid day, and as I was soon to discover, wax strips leave sticky residue on your face when the weather is warm and humid.

Long story short, I scrubbed and I scrubbed and I scrubbed my face. And as hairless and beautiful as I was at that point, I just couldn't get the wax to come off. Twenty-four hours later my face was still sticky.

Which brings us to this morning. I apparently rubbed my face so raw that my chin has decided to scab over. I look like Vincent Price in House of Wax. And if just now you said, "Vincent who? I thought Paris Hilton was in that," then know that I secretly think you're an idiot, although I would never say it to your face.

I applied lotion and aloe liberally and then I attempted to cover it all up with makeup. But I still look a mess. And on the wild carousel that is my beautification process, I have reached that point again where I'm climbing down from the horse feeling a bit queasy and wondering why the hell I did that. And thinking is it really that bad to have a few chin hairs? At this point, should I just let my chin grow wild like the prairie?

"Yes!" part of me says. "It's not worth the pain! You look like an orc of Mordor today. I hope that you learned your lesson and next time don't try anything stupid."

But I know that in a few short months when I have recovered from my horrible disfigurement, I'll find a hair. And it will drive me nuts. And I'll think, "What was that important lesson I learned a few months ago? Something about wax strips....OH LOOK! A carousel! Pretty horses!" And, yeah, I'll do this stupid shit again.

It's Almost Summer! Why Not Take a Vacation?

2010-06-15T07:00:00.001-04:00

Need a vacation? Why not visit beautiful Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino?!

Amenities include a couch that sleeps one comfortably, a shared bathroom with a sparkling clean toilet, and beautiful views of my neighbors across the street who the other day roasted hot dogs over a burning trash can.

Explore the expansive 20 square foot grounds on foot. You might even spot some local wildlife! Just don't feed her. She bites.

Do you like water sports? The Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino is just steps from the East River. I hope you brought your biohazard suit and snorkel!

Hungry? Enjoy a luxurious meal courtesy of my refrigerator! How does gourmet dry pasta and croutons sound? I also have yogurt! And for dessert, popsicles!

Want to do some gambling? Visit the all-night Crazy Eights table. Or, for the more serious gambler, Go Fish!

Enjoy the night life? Why not drop in at Downstairs Neighbor Night Club and join in on the dance party that goes all night? No cover charge if you sneak in after dark with chloroform!

Need entertainment for the kids? Too bad! They can't come, and I have the poison darts to prove it.

Call for your reservation today at 718-***-****.

AAA discounts are available through bribery.

***Luxury hotel pictured above was used for illustrative purposes only. Bethany's Apartment Luxury Hotel and Casino is far more awesome.

My Uni-Kittens Sequel You Haven't Been Waiting For

2010-06-09T07:00:00.001-04:00

Well, I am sure that whether you are a frequent or infrequent reader of Welcome to Bethville! you have probably noticed that I haven't done a lot of posting lately. This is because I am suffering from what the experts like to call "writer's block." Now, you're probably thinking "What is this writer's block? And can I catch it if you bleed on me? And if I do catch it, can it be cured or will I spend the rest of my life bedridden, suffering from a very high fever, and unable to think of things?" And the answer to all of these questions is "Spoon, yes, democracy, and tartar sauce" if this is the correct answer key on my desk.

That being said, my college creative writing instructor once said that there is no such thing as writer's block, only writer's laziness. So, not only can I not let the words of a man who fancied himself a bit of a J.D. Salinger but was really more of a P.D. Eastman get to me, I must also forge onward and prove that I am neither lazy nor blocked.

And so, for the sake of getting through my writer's block, here is a story that you may or may not enjoy very much. I call it Uni-kittens 2: The Rise of the Hairballs. And before you say, "Oh, not another sequel," I can assure you that it is brilliant. So read on, or my feelings will get hurt.

Uni-Kittens 2: The Rise of the Hairballs

Once upon a time in the Sparkledarkle Forest, there was a uni-kitten named Uglyface. Now, you're probably thinking that a story involving a place with a name like Sparkledarkle Forest and a protagonist who looks like an adorable kitten sporting the horn of a unicorn will likely end with dancing faeries and a magical wizard saving the day. But you would be wrong. Because Uglyface the uni-kitten was the owner and operator of the Sparkledarkle Forest meat processing plant. And as you likely know, meat processing plants are places where many creatures are harvested of their meat in an often very gruesome manner.

But despite how gross it all was, someone in the forest had to run the meat processing plant because, as you know, uni-kittens are voracious carnivores. And the someone with that job happened to be Uglyface because he was the only uni-kitten with the balls for it. And when I say "balls," I am not referring to Uglyface's testicles but to his vast collection of magical yarn balls which were used to tie up the uni-oxen before the slaughter so they wouldn't get away.

Now, you may or may not remember from the first story a charming uni-kitten named Snugglebottom who went on to become president of Sparkledarkle Forest. Well, he is in this story as well because part of his reelection campaign involved promises of cleaning up the meat processing industry. (He only did it to annoy Uglyface, not because he valued cleanliness.) Snugglebottom is our antagonist, a big jerk, and I hope you all hate him as much as I do.

One day, while Uglyface was hosing down the hoof grinder with some antibacterial faery water, Snugglebottom showed up unannounced with a large group of very important looking uni-kittens in tow.

"And over here," said Snugglebottom to the VIPs, "you'll see how stinky and disgusting this dead thing is as it lies there in the corner rotting."

Uglyface gave him a mean look.

"Oh, that's YOU, Uglyface," said Snugglebottom, pretending to be embarrassed. "I mistook you for a rotting carcass. How droll!"

"What do you want, Snugglebottom? I've got 300 more head of uni-oxen to slaughter before the end of the day," said Uglyface.

"I am here to shut this place down!" proclaimed Snugglebottom.

"Oh my god, I hate you so much," said Uglyface.

And with a snap of Snugglebottom's precious little uni-kitten paws, the plant was shut down.

Now, at this point, I should probably remind you that uni-kittens are carnivorous, which means that they eat nothing but meat So, as you may have expected, two weeks later everyone was starving, and there was not a scrap of meat to be found anywhere. And the Sparkledarkle Forest was seriously overrun with uni-oxen who pooped everywhere and didn't feel the least bit sorry for anyone who stepped in it.

Even Snugglebottom began to look pale and gaunt during his annual "State of the Sparkledarkle Forest" speech.

Everyone was totally mad at him too.

Now, I know you are waiting for Uglyface to save the day by running against his stupid ex-friend Snugglebottom using a campaign slogan like, "The forest is full of shit, and so is Snugglebottom!" But Uglyface was not the type of uni-kitten for saving of anyone's day. He was all about self-preservation. And so he relocated to the nearby Tipsywhipsy Forest, which has relaxed hunting laws, and ate all the uni-oxen he wanted.

And Now I Must Rant: People Are Gross

2010-06-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

Over Memorial Day weekend I used a public bathroom that will surely give me nightmares for many years to come. All I could think as I crouched there balancing myself on the edge of the seat trying to avoid other people's old pee droplets was that during the 18 years I spent living on a farm being forced sometimes to drop trou and take a piss where cows do it, I was never as disgusted with cows as I am with humans. And cows will lift their tails and piss upwind of you on a day with 40 mile per hour wind gusts. Which leads me to the conclusion that people are actually more disgusting than farm animals, and public bathrooms are proof.

1. No toilet paper. Now, when I say that there is no toilet paper, I mean there is toilet paper, but it is in a big wad on the floor soaking up some puddle of piss someone left. Perhaps there weren't any empty stalls, and after twelve seconds of waiting, the pee-er couldn't take it anymore and decided to crouch over a non-functioning floor drain. She then threw a whole roll of paper on the mess and skipped merrily out to continue her day. It was the last roll.

2. Piss sprinklets all over the seat. I know. I know. You don't want to get your ass dirty, so you hover over the seat and let it all out. Well, congratulations, you left a big fucking mess for the next person, you sick whore. (Mark my words. I will pee on your grave one day.)

3. Clogged toilets. It happens. What's gross is that no one ever comes along to fix it, so it all just kind of sits there making a nice stinky toilet stew. And that's all I'm going to say about that because if I go on, I will definitely throw up all over myself.

4. Locks that don't work. We've all taken a pee with one foot up on the stall door to keep it from flying open. Or to keep out those people who don't check for feet before shoving their way into the stall only to realize you are already in their with your pants down, awkwardly mumble an apology, and move on to watch someone else take a dump.

5. Children. No, I refuse to take it back, and you can't make me. Children are germ factories. They other day, I saw one come out of the bathroom carrying the same ice cream cone she had in her hand when she went in. She kept right on eating it.

Taking all of this into consideration, I can come to only one conclusion. From now on I'm just going to find a quiet spot behind a tree. Because someone may have pissed there before, but at least nature took care of the mess.

***I was going to use a picture of a public bathroom, but the Google image search made me hork. So, you get a cow. I hope you like it.

Things That Are Terrible

2010-05-12T07:00:00.002-04:00

You know what's terrible?

Besides famine, flooding, earthquakes, tsunamis, avalanches, rockslides, forest fires, house fires, barn fires, wildfires, zeppelin crashes, plane crashes, hot air balloon crashes, car crashes, bridge collapses, terrorists threats, terrorists following through with their threats, terrorists getting away with what they just did and giggling about it, domestic violence, diabetes, AIDS, cancer, glaucoma, accidental electrocution, purposeful electrocution, scalding yourself in the shower, second degree burns, being out of AD Ointment, having to run to the pharmacy to get more, the pharmacy being out of it, the pharmacist recommending that you just rub a little butter on it, trying that, wondering if your pharmacist was mistaken about this being a good idea, trying to get into the bathtub to wash off the butter while covered in butter, falling down, head injuries, lying in a pool of your own blood for three days, being discovered naked by your landlord, him telling everyone it must have been some kind of depraved sex act involving butter that led to your injury since you fell backwards directly onto your shampoo bottle, extraction surgery, a long and painful recovery, Oxycontin addiction, using the litter box at your parents' house because someone is in the bathroom, alienating your family and friends, intervention, rehab, seeing your pharmacist there, being like "What are you doing here, pharmacist?" your pharmacist giggling maniacally, realizing he's just a crackhead in a white coat, and crying into your pillow every night for the rest of your life?

When you find a raisin in something that's not supposed to have raisins. Like a Caesar salad. Or lasagna. Or beef stew. Gross! Where did it come from?

And that is what is terrible. *curtseys*

A Mildly Sexual Romance Between Two Consenting Partners

2010-05-05T07:00:00.000-04:00

Well, again I have let a lot of time slip by between posts. What excuse can I offer this time except that have been feeling particularly uninspired for the last week AND I've been toiling away at a new Fashion Don'ts post, which is haaaard work.

Therefore, I give you this tale of mild sexual debauchery to tide you over until my next post.

A Mildly Sexual Romance Between Two Consenting Partners

Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince. Which is how many mildly sexual stories begin because inevitably the handsome prince's shirt will come unbuttoned, and we will see his manly pectoral muscles. Therefore, to save time, the handsome prince's shirt was already unbuttoned. And, yes, his pectoral muscles were very becoming. And sweaty.

The prince in question was doing something very unsensual at the time, however. He was sitting on the royal toilet reading about gold futures.

At the same time in a kingdom 15 miles away, there was an equally attractive princess. She had long, golden locks and a very nice face. But at the time this story begins, she was shaving her armpits.

These two lookers were betrothed to one another as they had been since birth. They hated each other.

The prince, whose name was Prince Beckforth III, hated the princess because all she ever did was show him vacation pictures on her camera phone and talk about her cat who died. The princess, whose name was Princess Mandy, hated the prince because he was always walking around with his shirt unbuttoned and talking about the stock market.

So, right about now you're thinking that there is nothing mildly sexual at all about this story, and you are right. And there is a very simple explanation for that. And the explanation is that it makes me very uncomfortable to talk about mildly sexual things. It makes me feel a bit woozy, as I sit here at my desk typing this story and deep throating this popsicle, to write about the rippling pec muscles of a handsome prince. So uncomfortable that I will leave the rest of the story up to you.

If sexual content also makes you nervous, and you just want it to be over, scroll to section 1A.

If you would like the end of the story to finally evolve into hot and feverish touching, scroll to section 1B.

If you would like to read more about popsicles, scroll to section 1C.

1A

There, there. Shhhhhhhhhh....it will all be over soon.

If you take the cyanide capsule, scroll to section 2A.
If you prefer me to stop trying to force you to swallow the cyanide capsule, scroll to section 2B.

1B

Princess Mandy had a horrible fever from the tetanus she contracted from stepping on a rusty nail. And as most people do when they are suffering from a high fever, she touched everyone and everything with her hot, sweaty hands. It was very hot and very sweaty, and everyone involved definitely needed to eat a popsicle in order to cool off.

THE END.

1C

Popsicles were invented by Fred Flintstone of Bedrock during the Mesolithic Age, 10,000 years ago. They were later improved by Jello enthusiast and humanitarian Bill Cosby, who thought to add pudding. Today, you can find popsicles in almost any flavor in the freezer section of your local supermarket. Except potato. I've looked, and they just don't have it.

THE END.

2A

Here, wash it down with this Kool-Aid. Mmmmmmm...fruity.

2B

Well, this is awkward. Now I'm going to have to finish the story.

If you would like me to finish the story, scroll to section 3A.
If you are bored and would like to visit another website, click here.

3A

Eventually, Prince Beckforth III and Princess Mandy realized that for the good of their respective kingdoms, they needed to just shut up and get married already because if you aren't married to someone of the opposite sex by the time you are 40, you will dry up and die.

This post has been brought to you by Focus on the Family and me eating popsicles.

THE END.

The Very Interesting Tale of My Little Red Riding Skirt

2010-04-20T19:00:00.002-04:00

You know when you look into your closet in the morning and take out an item of clothing, examine it, and wonder why you don't wear it more often because it's soooooo cute? And then, as the day progresses and you repeatedly have to remove said item of clothing from your buttcrack, and then you finally remember? Yeah, I hear you. Me and my red skirt.

I have one of those body types that doesn't do well with things that fasten at the waist. Why? Because my waist is like three inches below my boobs. And rather than just going with it and dressing like Fred Mertz, I try to find items of clothing that fall right above my hips. You know...where my waist should be?

Long story short, today I'm wearing a red skirt. And every time I sit down, it rides up to my waist and I feel like I'm wearing it right under my armpits.

Now, I know right now you're all wondering why I'm telling you this story because, clearly, it's not very interesting unless you are a drunken skirt enthusiast who loves Fred Mertz. But it does help me segue into the following tale of debauchery and poorly made clothing.

The Story of Little Red Riding Skirt

Once upon a time in the woods lived a little girl named Little Red Riding Skirt. Now, no one knew why her parents named her Little Red Riding Skirt. Because, clearly, it was a stupid, stupid name. But luckily, when Little Red Riding Skirt was about 12 years old, her grandmother made her a red skirt. And since Grandmother was a terrible seamstress, the skirt rode up so that the waist was right below Little Red Riding Skirt's armpits. And even though Little Red Riding Skirt hid the horrible piece of clothing in the back of the closet, she sometimes pulled it out anyway when she didn't have any clean laundry. And for the rest of the day, she would walk around with her red skirt riding up and making her generally cranky. Therefore, the name ended up being quite fitting, although Little Red Riding Skirt would have preferred to be called Margaret or Helen or Cashmere Sweater.

One day in September, Little Red Riding Skirt's father said, "Little Red Riding Skirt, your grandmother is quite ill. Why don't you take her this picnic basket filled with Xanax and whiskey?" And because she was a nice person, Little Red Riding Skirt agreed. And because it was laundry day, she was unfortunately forced to wear her horrible red riding skirt.

The walk to Grandmother's house took several hours because Little Red Riding Skirt kept having to stop and pull the skirt back down so that she didn't look like a walking circus tent. Unluckily, she was being closely followed by a Big, Bad Wolf who was 1) drunken 2) a skirt enthusiast and 3) a fan of Fred Mertz. He also liked large baskets of Xanax and whiskey, as we all do.

"Ah ha," thought the wolf, "I will run ahead to Grandmother's house and disguise myself in her clothing. And then, when Little Red Riding Skirt arrives, she'll think that I am the grandmother and give me that whiskey and Xanax." And so he did just that.

Several more hours passed.

And finally, Little Red Riding Skirt arrived at her grandmother's house, very, very cranky and looking quite similar to a walking circus tent.

"Grandmother! I am here!" said Little Red Riding Skirt, tugging down her ill-fitting garment.

"I am in the bedroom, darling!" said a voice from Grandmother's bedchamber.

Little Red Riding Skirt entered the room where her grandmother slept.

Now, it's important that you remember that the Big, Bad Wolf has been hanging out in Grandma's bed for several hours wearing Grandma's clothing. And you must also recall that Grandmother is a terrible seamstress, so everything the wolf has been wearing is uncomfortable and ill-fitting and he's getting quite cranky.

Little Red Riding Skirt looked at her grandmother.

"Grandmother, what ill-fitting stockings you have on," she said.

"The better to prevent deep vein thrombosis, my dear," replied the faux Wolf Granny.

"But, Grandmother, what an uncomfortable looking sweater you have on," said Little Red Riding Skirt.

"The better to keep the electricity bill low, my dear," said the imposter Grandmother.

"But, Grandmother, what a poorly made skirt you have on that has hiked up and I can clearly see your wolf balls!" said Little Red Riding Skirt.

The wolf was embarrassed, of course, and quickly tried to pull the skirt back down to hide his genitalia. And then he launched himself toward Little Red Riding Skirt, fangs bared in preparation of eating her, the whiskey, and the Xanax all in one gulp.

But, as you have probably already guessed was going to happen, he became tangled in the ill-fitting, poorly made bathrobe he was wearing and launched himself into the fireplace instead.

Little Red Riding Skirt took off the horrible red riding skirt, threw it into the fire, and skipped home in her underwear.

THE END.

...

You're wondering what happened to the grandmother, aren't you? Well, she popped a few Xanax and went to the casino.

The Expected Blog Post About Tiger Woods and Jesse James

2010-04-15T07:00:00.002-04:00

*Pictured (from left to right): Tiger Woods, MONSTER GOLF CART, my face, Catherine Bach's body, Jesse James.

I know you have all been waiting for me to weigh in on the Tiger Woods/Jesse James scandals. Because, after all, I am a HUGE golf enthusiast and an even bigger monster car thingy building enthusiast. But most importantly, I am an enthusiast of unfaithfulness when it is done on the seat of a monster golf cart.

Yes, I love to get it on with someone who isn't my boyfriend while riding along merrily on a golf cart that has been affixed with oversized wheels. Therefore, all of this Jesse James/Tiger Woods news and comparisons of the two excite me greatly.

Of course, the opportunity to get sweaty parked on the fairway of the seventh hole straddling the seat of a diesel-powered golf cart with a pair of pincers that can be used to pick up stray golf balls with a guy who isn't my regular lover doesn't come along very often. So, I have to get it while I can.

As you can imagine, when this Tiger Woods unfaithfulness thing happened, I was pretty much overjoyed. But then with the added bonus of Jesse James's cheating, well, I thought that all of my dreams had come true. Golf! Monster cars! Monster golf carts! Men who aren't my usual gentleman caller! Be still my slutty heart!

So, the time has come at last for me, an expert in all things cheating while in the third seat of a stretch limo golf cart that can also be used to mow the fairway, to speak my peace on the matter of Tiger Woods and Jesse James cheating on their wives. And I guess I will just address them both on a personal level. Here goes.

Jesse James, Tiger Woods? I'm no expert on sleeping with ordinary star fuckers. I like to broaden my horizons and sleep only with men who like it on monster golf carts and nowhere else. Particularly men who are not my current paramour. But when I do go out on the green late at night in my golf cart Transformer with laser putting technology, I do use one thing besides protection, and that thing is discretion. I don't want everyone to know how much I enjoy the combination of clandestine late-night meetings and golf carts with rotating gun turrets. Therefore, rather than sending poorly-spelled text messages to said late-night clandestine "meeting partners," I recommend driving directly through their living room walls to pick them up. That way, nobody gets hurt. Or just keeping it in your pants and not being a total dickface. We can't all be as careful at cheating as I am.

My Latest Excuse (With Celebrity Guests!)

2010-04-14T07:00:00.007-04:00

Now, I know what you're all thinking. Why hasn't Bethany posted anything since April 1? Well, there is a very good explanation for that, and it goes something like this.

Once upon a time, I was working on a very good blog post that would make all of you laugh uproariously when suddenly I was interrupted by the ringing of a telephone.

"Hello?" I said into the phone after finding it under my sofa cushion, turning it on, and holding it up to my ear.

"Hello to you," said a voice on the other end.

"Is this....Michael Douglas?" I asked the caller.

"Why, yes. Yes, it is," said the voice, who was indeed Michael Douglas.

"Well, hi, Michael Douglas. How are you?" I said.

"I am fine," said Michael Douglas.

"That's good to know. How is Catherine Zeta-Jones?" I queried.

"She's good," he replied.

"That's nice," I said, beginning to feel awkward.

There was silence on the other end, so I said, "Michael Douglas, why are you calling me? I am currently in the middle of writing this blog post."

"Well, that's a very, very, very interesting story," said Michael Douglas, "and it goes like, this. Once upon a time, I was at the fish market trying to pick out some quality shrimp in order to make a nice shrimp salad for lunch when suddenly my telephone rang. 'Hello?' I said into the phone after taking it out of my satchel, turning it on, holding it up to my ear, realizing it was upside down, and turning it over so that I was speaking into the correct end. 'Is this Michael Douglas?' said a voice on the other end. 'Yes, yes, it is,' I said, surprised to hear from this person. And you'll never guess who that person was."

"I give up," I said, "Who was it?"

"You didn't even guess," Michael Douglas said, pouting.

"Uh, Vice President Hannibal Hamlin," I replied.

"Very funny," said Michael Douglas, who knows his vice presidents and knew that Hannibal Hamlin is dead. "Guess again."

Well, as you can imagine, Michael Douglas was totally annoying me at this point.

And because he could tell that he was irritating me very much, Michael Douglas finally decided to tell me who the caller was.

"It was SHARON STONE. Can you believe it?" said Michael Douglas.

To which I replied, "And why did you feel like you had to call and interrupt me to share this?"

And Michael Douglas, who is very sensitive said, "Well, if you're going to be snotty about it, I'm not going to tell you after all."

"Okay, talk to you later then!" I said and went to hang up and get back to work.

"WAIT!" said Michael Douglas, "Look, I'll tell you, but you have to promise to not tell anyone."

Now, I should probably tell you at this point that Michael Douglas is a total drama queen. The last time he called me, he talked for 45 minutes about how Ed Begley Jr. ignored him one time at the Daytime Emmys.

"Okay, Michael Douglas. You can tell me your riveting Sharon Stone story, and then I have to get back to work," I said.

"Well......" said Michael Douglas, who LOVES to allow suspense to build before he begins a story, particularly one involving Sharon Stone.

"I'm waiting," I said.

"I'm getting to it!" snapped Michael Douglas.

There was another pause.

"Okay, here goes," said Michael Douglas. "So, Sharon Stone called me."

"And...?" I said.

"And she said that she was sorry to call me when I was clearly in the middle of a seafood shop looking for shrimp for a shrimp salad, but she had to tell me something very interesting," said Michael Douglas.

"What did she tell you?" I asked.

So, then Michael Douglas said, "She said, 'You'll never guess who called me, Michael Douglas.' And I said, 'Who, Sharon Stone?' And she said, 'Guess.' And I said, 'I hate guessing. Why don't you just tell me?' And she said no. So, I guessed several times. And none of them were right. It wasn't Meryl Streep, and it wasn't Vice President George Clinton, who is dead. Nor was it funk innovator George Clinton, who is alive."

"Who was it, Michael Douglas?" I asked, bored.

"It was Charlton Hesston!" said Michael Douglas, doing his best Sharon Stone impression.

"Charlton Hesston is dead," I said.

"That's what I told Sharon Stone," Michael Douglas replied. "But then she said to me, 'No, Michael Douglas, not THAT Charlton Hesston. Charlton Hesston, the plumber I called to look at my toilet.' Apparently, Sharon Stone's toilet has been backed up for weeks and weeks, so she's been living in her pool house so she can use that bathroom instead."

"And this has what to do with me?" I queried.

"Well, Sharon Stone wanted to know if your toilet was working," replied Michael Douglas.

"Uh, yeah, it's working fine. Why?" I said, so ready to hang up on him.

"Well, I hope you are paying it a good wage and providing it with insurance. Hahahahahahahaha!" chortled Michael Douglas, and then he hung up.

And that is why I hate Michael Douglas and his stupid face. He takes the longest time to get to the point.

April Fools' Day Work Pranks to Play When You Work at Home

2010-04-01T07:00:00.001-04:00

I work at home three days per week. And while you're thinking that this sounds delightful and are currently picturing me hanging out in my pajamas all day, that would be quite inaccurate because I don't own any pajamas.

It's also difficult when April rolls around and you want to play hilarious April Fools' Day pranks on your co-workers and wake up and realize that your co-workers are all miles away. So, here are some pranks that you can play when you work at home by yourself with only your cat for company.

1. Put water in your cat's food dish and food in her water dish. April Fool's, cat! Hahahahahahahahahahaha! Your Meow Mix is water, and your water is Meow Mix! That's hilarious!

2. Turn the shower on and then close the curtain so that your cat thinks you're in the shower, while you are really hiding behind the bathroom door. When she comes into the bathroom to sit on the side of the tub and wait for you to emerge so that she can see you in the nude, pop out from behind the door and shout, "April Fools', cat! I was behind the door the WHOLE TIME! And I'm wearing clothes, pervert!"

3. Leave the door to to the cabinet under your kitchen sink open and wait until your cat goes in to do her daily rummaging with your trash bag collection. Then, close it behind her! April Fools', cat! You're trapped in that cabinet until I decide to let you out! Hahahahahaha!

4. Open several cans, and every time your cat comes to see if you finally sprang for the wet food, show her that it's actually pineapple and shout, "April Fools', cat! It's only fruit, and you're a carnivore! Hahahahahahahaha!"

5. Pour beer on your cereal, and when your cat gets all up in your face wanting your leftover cereal milk, give it to her and be all, "Hahahahahaha, cat! It's beer! April Fools'!"

6. Get a big empty box. Tape it shut. And put it in the middle of your living room. As your cat tries to figure out a way to get into the box to no avail, shout, "Hahahahaha, cat! April Fools'! It's taped shut! No playing in that empty box for you!"

7. Put a stupid hat on your cat's head while it is sleeping and then take a picture and post it on Facebook. Hahahahaha, cat! April Fools' to you! Now everyone is going to laugh at how stupid you look in that hat!

Your cat will think these pranks are totally hilarious and will definitely not try to remove your face with her claws later when you are sound asleep. Have fun!

Great Romances as Rewritten by Nicholas Sparks: When Harry Met Sally

2010-03-30T18:17:00.008-04:00

Harry Connick Jr.: It had to be youuuuuuuu...It had to be youuuuuuuu....I wandered around and finally found...somebody whooooo....could make me be truuuuue. And then she died because she was cleaning her closet, and a pickax fell from a high shelf and pierced her brain. She lived for a short time in a coma. And then I pulled the plug. *sniffle*

Old Married Couple Testimonial #1
Old Man: I would tell you about how my wife and I met, but she died in a recent inexplicable forest fire because someone was playing with matches. And she couldn't be here today. So I'll read to you from the letters we wrote back and forth during the war and cry silent but brave tears.

Harry Burns: I need to get to New York for the funeral of my first love, who died because she left some candles burning in her house made entirely out of silk curtains.

Sally Albright: I'll give you a ride. I'm on my way to New York anyway to go to the funeral of my ex-boyfriend who died because he ate some poisonous mushrooms.

Harry Burns: Life is so depressing. Sometimes I read the end of a book to see how it ends just in case I die.

Sally: And I? Like to write letters to those who have died and then tie them to birds in hopes that they will carry them to heaven for me.

Harry: That is touching and beautiful. But now I must marry another.

Sally: I am saddened, but I can only hold my hand out in a manner of longing and scream "Harryyyyyyyyy!" as you drive off into the night.

Old Couple Testimonial #2
Old Woman: It is amazing that we are still together after all these years.
Old Man: *dies*
Old Woman: Noooooo! *dies*

Sally: Being single reminds me of the days when I had love in my life. Before he died in that romantically fatal boating accident.

Marie: Before my married boyfriend died because his necktie was caught in that Kitchenaid mixer, I felt just like you. We won't be single forever.

Sally: No one thought your married boyfriend could live through such a tragedy.

Marie: You're right. You're right. I know you're right.

Harry: I've returned, Sally. I'm not married anymore. She drowned bobbing for apples. I told her that apple was too difficult to get. She didn't listen...she didn't listen.

Sally: Okay, let's be in love then.

45 minute love montage including the following: having a picnic, running through a meadow, holding hands on a beach, kissing in a rainstorm, riding horses, wearing lightning rods as hats, brushing the teeth of rabid pit bulls, participating in a balance beam knife sharpening contest, walking down a dark alley wearing suits made of money, and eating large poorly chewed chunks of meat while not being trained in the Heimlich maneuver.

Harry: This is the best love of my life. Can anything go wrong now?

Sally: Never, my darling!

Harry: Then, I am going to go for a drive in my car with no headlights at night over by Certain Death Canyon.

Sally: Good-bye, my love!

Harry: *dies*

Sally: Boo hoo! Harry was my love. And now he is dead.

Harry Connick Jr.: You like tomato. And I like tomahto. You like potato. And I like potahto. Tomato. Tomahto. Potato. Potahto. Let's call the whole thing off. *falls from his piano bench onto a very sharp metronome, dies*

Happy Belated Birthday, Andrew Jackson, Still Dead!

2010-03-24T07:00:00.003-04:00

Seventh President Andrew Jackson celebrated his 243rd birthday on March 15 with his usual class and sophistication. Remaining very much dead, he spent a quiet night still in his grave at the Hermitage.

There was no birthday ski weekend for President Jackson, just the cold embrace of being buried underground. He did not get to sit in a mountain cabin drinking hot chocolate and slapping the asses of ski instructors. He did not relax in a hot tub after a long day on the slopes. He simply stayed right where he was, dead as a doornail.

President Jackson did not meet up with any friends for cocktails. There was no happy hour with $3 draft beers and well drinks. No one surprised him with cupcakes. He was not made to wear a party hat. No one took pictures or sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."

He did not go clubbing with John Quincy Adams and Martin Van Buren. They did not rent a limo and stand up through the sun roof to wave at hot chicks and shout things like, "I'm in a limooooo!" No one got arrested for public urination or punching Vice President John C. Calhoun in the face.

President Jackson did not wake up with a hangover the next morning thinking, "What the hell did I do last night?" and roll over to realize that his beloved Rachel was not beside him, finding instead a very naked Senator Henry Clay. He did not leap out of bed in horror and search frantically around a strange apartment for his keys.

And the seventh president of the United States certainly did not walk home barefoot because he couldn't find his shoes on the morning of March 16, blaming their absence on Seminole warriors. Instead, he just remained dead. Which is good because otherwise this would all be quite a scandal.

Those Gays Are Threatening My Freedom Again

2010-03-23T07:00:00.004-04:00

Don't you hate it when you're just sitting at home one night, and your doorbell rings? And you aren't expecting anyone, but you're curious anyway? So, you buzz the person up...and it's another lesbian trying to catch you off guard with a marriage proposal?

Gah! I'm not going to gay marry you, lesbians! Stop asking! I've said it before and I'll say it again. "I'm straight, and I have this well-loved Pierce Brosnan sex doll to prove it! Now, back off before I have to get the hose!"

I'm so tired of the indoctrination attempts, I barely got any sleep last night. Yesterday afternoon, when I was at the grocery store, Rosie O'Donnell came up to me and offered to "test my melons for ripeness." And then last night when I was just sitting at home watching Tat Your Ass Off on the Embroidery Channel, I heard a weird scratching noise out on the fire escape. It was Portia de Rossi "just leaving some pamphlets for me to read." The nerve! I immediately shredded the documents, lest I be tempted into a homosexual union against my pastor's better judgment.

It's getting to the point where I can't even walk outside anymore without Meredith Baxter presenting me with roses and a diamond engagement ring. And she won't take no for an answer. I've turned her down four times this week. It's like she has nothing better to do with her time than hide in my neighbors' bushes.

We should all be very happy that gay marriage is still illegal in several states. Because if they legalize it in New York, I'll never get any sleep again. I'll have to barricade my doors against the likes of Wanda Sykes and Ellen Degeneres, only able to sneak out at night while they're hosting awards shows or doing whatever it is that lesbians do when they aren't pursuing me and begging my hand in marriage.

Long story short, we must keep gays from being able to marry. They'll think it's open season and try to intermarry with us straight people against our will. And I cannot and will not let my freedom be compromised as a white American who is allowed to carry a deadly weapon in order to protect myself from wild animals, gang members, and black presidents. Socialism! Flags! Hitler's mustache! Support the troops! Random quote from our founding fathers taken out of context! Et cetera!

A Romantic Interlude Between a Porn Spammer and Her Paramour

2010-03-16T07:00:00.003-04:00

Paramour: Vanessa! I'm so happy you've come. I've spent the day wandering the gardens pining for your beauty.

Spammer: I like my men big, absolutist, and horny! I'm so fucking amative and in action to accomplish your wildest fantasies cum staunch!

Paramour: My god, where have you been my entire life? It's like the moment I met you, it was destiny. A destiny as beautiful as a sunset.

Spammer: I applause to attract in a accompaniment of attributes and appliance my dildo while we talk.

Paramour: Well, if you must, my darling. But you don't have to do all that for me. I love you for who you are. And nothing will ever change that.

Spammer: Don't worry...I'm a appeasing slut.

Paramour: Never! Not you. You are a flower, a beautiful rose. You have thorns that prick, but everyone only sees your beauty.

Spammer: I abounding times appetite you acquire an aftereffect me some crazy things you would like to see.

Paramour: Yes, we WILL get that summer home together one day! And spend our days and nights on the beach, our arms intertwined, living only for the love we share.

Spammer: It would be an corruption to my admirable about-face up, my absolute breasts and my anchored aeon ass if you're not harder the beat you attending at me.

Paramour: You must be patient, my darling. Soon I will sell off my share of the Triscuit corporation, and then I will be able to afford a ring. The biggest ring you've ever seen! I will make you the happiest woman alive!

Spammer: I will not be affairs any stops if we get atrocious central my foot-soldier chin-wag room.

Paramour: Yes, I want nothing more than to have children with you. A boy with chiseled features like his father and a girl with very strong, agile hands like her mother.

Spammer: There's just no apathy to defended a account with me with a bruised dick, sweetie!

Paramour: Pregnant, my love? But how is that possible?

Spammer: But in incident, I buck a bruised dick as a challenge.

Paramour: What do you mean you slept with Reginald? He's my brother, Vanessa! My own brother!

Spammer: Being a cam beginning is crazy fun and accepting guys beam you accomplishing all these bedlam things to yourself is actually wild. You can't concoct how it gets me off.

Paramour: I have no words for the agony I am feeling. Only pain. Only pain! My heart, it has been ripped from my chest.

Spammer: I appetite command authentic that you betoken a abutting one authentic abroad coz I will not in until I see your erect habit-forming as a affect and spitting out my aces juice...man power!

Paramour: NO! I cannot go on this way. Not knowing that you have soiled our love with your unfaithfulness.

Spammer: If you almighty appetite bad, avant-garde into my actionable chat.

Paramour: There is only one thing left to do. I must throw myself upon my own sword. It is the only thing that will take away this suffering. But I go to death knowing that I loved once. I loved well. Good-bye, Vanessa! *throws self on sword*

Spammer: Ohhh if abandoned you can avant-garde your jizz all concluded my address and tits agilely in the present circumstances!

Paramour: I love you too. *dies*

A Dictionary of Sexting for the Morbidly Confused

2010-03-11T07:00:00.001-05:00

You've heard of "sexting," but what are some of the other current dangerous cell phone trends out there that could potentially bring about the destruction of humanity? And send us all spiraling out of control in a collision course with the sun? Well, look no further. This is your resource for all things dangerous trend of the sexual texting variety. In alphabetical order!

axting Sending nude photos of yourself chopping wood. (Which is not to be confused with....)

Axeting Sending nude photos of yourself while smelling like a $2 gigolo.

boxting Trying to send a text message of a sexual nature while wearing large padded gloves and lying on your back before the referee can count to ten.

exting Sending unwanted nude pictures of yourself to all of the ex boy/girlfriends in your contacts list.

faxting Exchanging sexual images when your technology is out of date.

foxting Sending sexual text messages while astride a horse and with the assistance of several hounds. (Primarily done in the United Kingdom.)

hexting Sending a sexual text message that comes with a free set of facial warts.

indexting Hiding sexual photos of oneself in the back of a book and then returning it to the library.

Lexting A nude text message sent by supervillain Lex Luthor, usually to Superman.

loxting Nude text messages of yourself smeared with cream cheese and covered with capers.

Marxting The act of collecting all your nude texts and distributing them among the people.

saxting Sending gratuitous snapshots of your woodwind instrument.

smallpoxting Sending gratuitous images of yourself covered with pus boils.

TexMexting Sending racy images of yourself eating a burrito.

Tyrannosaurus rexting Trying to send racy text messages, only to discover that you have no opposable thumbs and eating your phone in frustration.

tuxting Racy text messages sent by Bond, James Bond.

vexting "Sorry, we are unable to send your nude text message at this time. Please try again later."

vortexting A sexual text message....that never arrives.

The Bethville Drug Rehab Center's Online Rehab Program

2010-03-10T19:00:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the Bethville Rehab Center! Now in easy online choose-your-own adventure format. It's fast! It's simple! It's completely free! You can get off drugs in just a few minutes by reading this blog post. To begin the program, read on.

You are addicted to drugs. You admit you have a problem.

If you want to stop drinking, scroll to section 1A.

If you would like to quit using heroin, scroll to section 1B.

If you would like to stop using methamphetamines, scroll to section 1C.

If you would like to read testimonials from other people who have found success through this program, go to section 1D.

If you originally tried Celebrity Rehab, and it didn't work, go to section 5A.

1A
Stop drinking, idiot! Your breath smells like puke.

Did you stop drinking? If you did, congratulations. You get a gold star sticker for your efforts! Here it is:

You may now proceed to section 4A.
If you are continuing to guzzle that scotch and soda, please go to section 2A.

1B
Stop doing heroin, idiot! Don't you know that heroin can kill you?

Did you stop doing heroin? If so, congratulations. Please respond in comments with your address and mail me $100, and I will send you a fancy plaque to hang over your mantle to commemorate you getting off heroin. If you read this and immediately did heroin again, see section 2A.

1C
Meth? Well, now you're just being gross. Why not take just a steel brush to your face and yank out all of your teeth while you're at it? STOP DOING METH RIGHT NOW.

Did you stop doing meth? If so, congratulations. Please respond in comments with your mailing address and mail me $300, and I will send you a commemorative set of dentures to replace all the teeth that fell out during your addiction. If you didn't stop doing meth, well, you're fucked and you should go to section 3A.

1D
"I used to do drugs, and now I don't!" --A guy
"Me too!" --Some other guy
"What the hell is this? I thought I clicked on LOLCats."--Your mom

2A
PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW.
Did you put it down? Good. Now you can go to section 4A.
If not, go to section 5A.

3A
.........
What? I told you that you're fucked. Meth head.

4A
REHAB MEMOIR MAD LIB

I was once addicted to [addictive substance]. Then, I went to rehab. There I met several interesting individuals like [name], [name], and [name]. Unfortunately, [name] died because he just couldn't kick [addictive substance] no matter what he did. But I didn't. I lived and now I am an inspiration to all, especially [celebrity].

5A
You're a total dickhead.

Disclaimer: Obviously you shouldn't try this program if you are really on drugs. If you are confused by this disclaimer, please go to section 5A.

Janet Gaynor Becomes First Actress to Win Oscar in Best Actress Category

2010-03-08T07:00:00.005-05:00

In a win that surprised absolutely no one who attended the 82nd Academy Awards last night, actress Janet Gaynor once took home the Academy Award for Best Actress, making her the first actress in history to win an award in the Best Actress category. Gaynor won the award for films Seventh Heaven, Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, and Street Angel. The award was presented by Douglas Fairbanks, who called Gaynor "a very talented little lady" and tickled fans by giving her a congratulatory pat on the backside.

Nominee Gloria Swanson, frustrated at not receiving the award, died in protest in 1983.

When asked about the win, Gaynor said nothing, as she was a silent film star.

Janet Gaynor accepted the award in a gown designed by someone who is totally dead now, or a burlap sack, depending on who you ask.

"Did you see her dress?" typed one reporter on his fancy new Smith and Corona typewriter, "Did Lon Chaney throw up?"

But despite criticism of her fashion choices, Janet Gaynor hoped to pave the way for other actresses nominated in the Best Actress category. "If I can do this, anyone can," Gaynor pantomimed to an amusing harpsichord accompaniment.

Suicide Prevention Friday: A Happy Story That Will Surely Give You Diabetes

2010-02-12T07:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Suicide Prevention Friday! That day of the week during the wrist-slitting month of February when I attempt to entertain readers with a happy story to keep them from dying by their own hand because this month is so depressing.

Now, I as I am writing this, I am thinking about the untimely death of designer Alexander McQueen, and let me tell you that this really puts a damper on how I like to make light of death because I know that many of my readers were big fans of his work. So I will just say this in consideration of people's feelings: Don't commit suicide. Ever. Unless you are dying of a terrible disease and in wicked pain. You think it means an end to your suffering, but all it really serves to do is make a lot of people who didn't really know you that well suddenly pretend they were your best friends all along. So much so that they will all rush to Twitter to talk about how special you were in 140 characters or less. And then you're nothing but a trending topic. Long story short, don't kill yourself because that's just annoying. Now, on to the story that will hopefully prevent further deaths.

The Very Glorious Story of Maureen the Talking Cupcake

Once upon a time, in a land made entirely of marshmallows, there was a talking cupcake named Maureen. Now, I know what you're thinking. Cupcakes can't talk. But this one did. This is because she was frosted with radioactive buttercream frosting. I know you're wondering how a person goes about making radioactive buttercream frosting. The recipe is below for your reference:

Radioactive Buttercream Frosting

1 16 oz. package of confectioners sugar
1/2 c. butter, softened
3 tbsp. milk
2 tsp. vanilla
1 oz. plutonium from a stolen nuclear warhead.

Beat sugar, butter, milk, and vanilla with an electric mixer until well blended and smooth. Wearing a lead apron and goggles, lower plutonium into frosting mixture. Mix until frosting is glowing consistently throughout. Frost cupcakes evenly. Cackle wickedly as you prepare to serve them to your enemies!

Anyway, back to the story. So, Maureen was a talking cupcake who lived in a land made of marshmallows. And while I am positive that you are wishing you could live there, I strongly advise against relocating because you will totally die of diabetes after ten minutes. Also, it's on another planet, and the atmosphere is poison to humans. So if you do decide to visit but not live there, take along a mask and several oxygen tanks.

Okay, yes, story. Maureen, talking cupcake, land of marshmallows on another planet with a poison atmosphere. Got it? Excellent.

What's that? Oh, Maureen was a lemon cupcake.... No, it wasn't radioactive cake, just the frosting was radioactive. Can I go on yet?

...

Uh, sure you can have the recipe. Can I give it to you later though? I'm in the middle of this story.

Okay, thanks. Where was I?

Ah, yes. Maureen, the talking cupcake.

One day, Maureen the talking cupcake was skipping through the Rainbow Forest when a person wearing a mask to protect him from the poisonous atmosphere of the planet upon which lay the land made entirely of marshmallows picked her up and ate her. He died for two reasons. 1) He took off his oxygen mask and got a lungful of poison. 2) He ate buttercream frosting that was radioactive, and because he was one of my enemies, my plan was successful and I laughed and laughed. And because he stupidly blundered into a land made entirely of marshmallows in pursuit of a talking cupcake in the name of science, the coroner's report listed his death as being caused by diabetes and I was never blamed for the crime. Mwahahahahahaha!

THE END.

***Props to whoever created the hilarious image I used above. It is all too perfect, and I adore it.

Suicide Prevention Friday: The Happiest Story in the World (With Uni-Kittens)

2010-02-05T07:00:00.002-05:00

Well, February has arrived. Or as I like to call it "National Kill Yourself Month."

February is when you become officially sick of winter but still have March to get through. And then there's the Puke Festival that is Valentine's Day and all the flower-and-chocolate spewing absurdity that goes along with that.

In short, I hate February and wish it would die in a forest fire.

Therefore, to ease the suffering of those of us who are forced to endure February by not dying in January and to prevent any further suicides, I now present you with the happiest, most cheerful story of all time. And I will continue to do this every Friday until this dreadful month ends.

Three Wishes at the Glitter Pond

Once upon a time, there were three happy uni-kittens. (Kittens with horns like unicorns.) Every morning the three uni-kittens met down at the Glitter Pond to drink from the magic waters and bask in the sunbeams that dappled the shores.

The first uni-kitten's name was Snugglebottom. He loved to snuggle! And chase faeries!

The second uni-kitten's name was Fancymittens. She had long, curly whiskers and loved Celine Dion!

The third uni-kitten's name was Uglyface. He liked to lick his own butt and bury dead things so that they would be good and stinky when he went back later to eat them.

One day, the three uni-kittens arrived at the Glitter Pond to find a wizard caught in a trap that Uglyface had put out to catch uni-wolves. "Help me!" the wizard said. "I am a wizard who is all powerful and wise, but I am somehow caught in this trap!"

"Oh, no!" cried the uni-kittens.

"Can you free him?" Snugglebottom asked Uglyface.

"Does a uni-bear crap in the Sparkledarkle Forest?" replied Uglyface. And within seconds, the powerful wizard was free, but he was now missing a leg as Uglyface had to chew him out of the trap in a very gruesome manner.

"Ow!" said the wizard. "You definitely severed my femoral artery and I am bleeding ever so much, but I am so happy to be free, I will now grant you three wishes!"

"Hooray!" said the uni-kittens.

Snugglebottom, who was very good and noble said, "I wish that all the uni-creatures could live in peace and harmony across the land!" His wish was granted, and he ran off to begin soliciting funds for his presidential campaign.

Fancymittens wished for summer year-round, and although that is a very stupid wish because it throws off the balance of the ecosystem, the wizard granted it anyway. And Fancymittens ran off to get herself in shape for bikini weather.

Uglyface said, "I wish you would stop bleeding on me." And the wizard granted this wish, and although his leg didn't grow back, the wound was instantly cauterized and he finally stopped bleeding.

But the wizard was so touched by Uglyface's selfless wish that he said, "Sir Uglyface, your wish was not something for yourself, but for me. You are truly the most noble of the uni-kittens. Therefore, I grant you this ball of magic string so that you can bat it around and chase it. It's ever so amusing." And then he vanished in a flash of light to go to the emergency room and get a transfusion.

Uglyface looked at his stupid gift and thought, what is this shit? He batted it around for a minute until it rolled behind a tree and he forgot what he was playing with and got distracted by a uni-caterpillar. He ate it, it tasted horrible. And then Uglyface threw up.

How to Date: Getting Past the First Few Dates, Some Pointers

2010-02-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

I know that there are a lot of "dating advice" books out there that tell guys that if they insult a woman in just the right way, she will drop trou then and there and beg him to impregnate her. And I also know that there are books out there that imply that women should be coy and never call a guy and if he doesn't give her a diamond ring by the third date, she should have her mini purse Schnauzer bite his nuts off.

How do I know this? I read dating books. Seriously. I think they are hilarious. My level of amusement is like putting the word "naked" into all of the ADJECTIVE blanks on a Mad Lib to a third grader. (Also PLURAL NOUN: boobs.)

But I think it's all a lot simpler than what those dating books imply. So, here are my pointers, based loosely on my last date, on how to get past the first few dates without making the other person hate you or call the cops.

1. Don't scream in your date's ear.
Obviously there are exceptions.
A) If you are at a loud concert and you say something totally hilarious and your date says, "What did you say?" repeating the words, "Let's do the robot!" in a louder voice might be helpful.
B) If your date is 90 and refuses to get a hearing aid, repeating the words, "I want to tear your panties off so much right now, Gloria," at screaming levels is probably acceptable.
C) If your date is driving a bus and must keep it over 50 mph or the bus will explode, screaming, "AAAAAAAAAA! We're all going to die" is probably okay.
But if you're just making an allegedly hilarious observation that involves screaming, "AAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAA!" into your date's ear, it might be best to err on the side of just not doing that. Based on my own experiences as said date, I can safely say that screaming should be limited to the sound I make while running away from you.

2. Don't make jokes about how the anti-psychotics you're taking make you impotent. (Followed by, "Hahahaha...just kidding. Don't worry, I'm not impotent.")
Comedy gold, right? No!
A) Impotence is no laughing matter. If the image of a totally flaccid penis dangling helplessly in the breeze is amusing to you, you really need to step back and reconsider what you find funny. It's only funny if said penis is attached to someone you hate or if you draw a mustache on it.
B) Anti-psychotics? Again, not funny. I can't even find a way to twist this into something amusing, so I will leave you to ponder the un-funniness of it for yourselves.
C) "Don't worry. I'm not impotent," implies that you think that your date will at some point want to have sex with you. Trust me when I say that "not impotent" is only one of the many expectations I have for a potential sex partner. Along with "Has a penis," "Believes in using condoms," and "Not a total crackhead."

3. Don't ask your date a question and then provide the answer for her.
For example:
Dude: Have you seen Avatar? Probably not. It's really amazing. You should see it. Now let me tell you all about how I once met James Cameron and he was a total jerk. Then, I'll give you a full analysis of why I think that Martin Scorsese is the best filmmaker of all time. Do you enjoy Martin Scorsese? Probably not. I won't even pause to let you answer for yourself because I'm totally sure that I'm right and anything you say will not be as interesting as what I have to say next. Which brings us to...

4. Stop talking once in a while.

5. Yes, like that.

We've come to my final pointer.....and this is the MOST IMPORTANT THING.

6. Do not invite yourself over to her apartment. Do not joke about inviting yourself over to her apartment. If she says, "Well, I'm going to go home now," the date is over, and you're not invited.

Following that, I think it goes without saying that going through her garbage, watching her with binoculars, and breaking into her apartment to put your wiener in her leftover potato salad are also potential dealbreakers. But I feel like they are more obvious and don't require any explanation. (No, he didn't do any of those things, but I want to cover all of our bases here.)

Now, I'm not a dating expert, but I feel like this is all pretty good advice. Any additional pointers? Post them in comments.

Conversations with the Other People in My Wii Fit Step Class

2010-01-20T07:00:00.001-05:00

Me: Hi, I'm Bethany. I'm new to step class. What's your name?

Blue shirt: Step step step step!

Red shirt: Step! Step! Step!

Green shirt: Yay! You're stepping really well!

Pink shirt: Look how happy I am to be in step class!

Me: Oooookay. So, what else do you guys like to do?

Blue shirt: We only step! It's fun. Look at me step up, step down, and then step up again!

Me: But what do you do when you go home? You know, for fun?

Blue shirt: The step is our way. It is our only activity. We love to step.

Green shirt: Keep up with the rhythm. Now we're going to step faster.

Pink shirt: Stepstepstepstep!

Me: Why do you like to step so much?

Blue shirt: It strengthens of our calf muscles and buttocks. It makes the Providers pleased with our activity levels.

Me: Providers?

Blue shirt: Those who give us the step rhythms and monitor how well we step.

Green shirt: Prepare, bretheren! The clapping time is nigh!

Pink shirt: Yay! Clap clap clap! Step Step!

Me: Oops! I missed a step.

Blue shirt: It is allowed, for you are human and fallable. But be wary. If you step wrong too many times, your score will not break of 600 points and the Providers will heckle you with sad music.

Me: Well, that's not very nice.

Red shirt: Hold your tongue, new one! We do not question the authority of the Providers!

Blue shirt: Be kind, Red shirt. For the new one has only been stepping among us for a short time.

Green shirt: Friends! The one leg kicking time has arrived!

Pink shirt: Step! Kick! Step! Step! Kick!

Me: Have you guys ever considered just, you know, not stepping?

Blue shirt: We must step. To not step is to have nothing to live for.

Me: But what would the Providers do to you?

Red shirt: We would receive imperfect star ratings.

Me: So?

Green shirt: And now we step to the side with claps!

Pink shirt: Yay! Side step! Clap! Side step! Clap!

Blue shirt: We speak not of that possibility, new one. Now carry on with your stepping and burning of 27 calories.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (A Post Drinking Game Summary)

2010-01-19T18:41:00.002-05:00

The Fallen: I've fallen!
Megatron: I'll help you!
The Fallen: Okay!

Shia LaBeouf: You're my hot girlfriend.
Megan Fox: I totally know, right? I'm just going to bend over and get this.
Shia LaBeouf: Okay, but do it fast because I have to leave for college in a minute. Oh, no. I dropped this thingy that burned through the floor, and there are some robots in our kitchen. With guns!
Kitchen robots: Muhahahahahaha! *Bang bang bang!*

Mom: Don't go, Shia LaBeouf! You're my little cupcake, and I'll miss you.
Dad: Let him go, Shia LaBeouf's mom. He's a man now.
Their House: *EXPLODES!*
Bumblebee: Come with me if you want to live.

Later, at college....

Shia LeBeouf's roommate: There are alien robots who are taking over the world.
Shia LeBeouf: I don't know anything about that. I swear.
Shia LeBeouf's roommate: Okay, I believe you. Let's be best friends forever. Just don't even think about trying to move in on hot girl I like.
Shia LeBeouf: Okay.
Hot Girl: Tear my clothes off, Shia LeBeouf!
Shia LeBeouf: No, I can't. Okay, I might a little.
Megan Fox: We're broken up forever! I never want to see you again until five minutes from now!
Rainn Wilson: I'm totally in this movie.
Drunk narrator: I have such a Dwight Shrute ladyboner right now.

EVERYTHING: *EXPLODES!*

Optimus Prime: Why am I not in this summary yet? I'm super important.
Drunk narrator: I'm getting to you. Jesus.
Optimus Prime: *dies*
Drunk narrator: Oops.

Decepticon: Blah blah blah, the Primes left some super important shit in Egypt. And symbols. And some key thing that might bring Optimus Prime back to life.

Shia LaBeouf: I'll get it.
Bumblebee: I will go with you, Jerry Maguire.
John Turturro: I am such a brilliant actor. What the hell am I doing here?
Megan Fox: I'm just going to bend over and talk to this tiny Decepticon while it humps my leg.
Fifth grade boys: HAHAHAHAHA!

EVERYTHING: *EXPLODES!*

Later in Egypt...

The Fallen: People of Earth, I'm going to blow up your sun!
The people of Egypt: Okay, just let us move our goats first.
Megatron: Too late! *Bang bang bang! Kaboom!*
The people of Egypt: That's fine. We'll go build houses somewhere else. Bye now!
Archaeologists: Be careful. Those pyramids are super old and were built by slave labor.
The pyramids: *Crumble!*

Shia LaBeouf: Optimus Prime magic key stab!
Optimus Prime: I'm alive!
Everyone: Yay!
Optimus Prime: Not so fast, the Fallen!

EVERYTHING: *EXPLODES!*

Optimus Prime: The world is saved...but for how long?
Megatron: Until I come back!
Optimus Prime: Okay, then. Bye!
Shia LaBeouf: I love you, Megan Fox's boobs.
Megan Fox: I love you too!
Bumblebee: You had me at hello....You had be at hello.
Drunk narrator: ......

CREDITS.

In Which I Dabble in Bad-Assery

2010-01-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

Well, it's 2010, and since I haven't posted since November, you may have been pondering where I've been. Well, there is a long and a short explanation for my temporary hiatus. And since the long story is very, very long and there isn't enough vodka in the world to make you want to sit through me telling you about it, I will just give you the short explanation.

I bought a Wii, and it has taken over my life. Yes, I've spent the last month defeating The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. And then, for shits and giggles, I went back and beat it again. Don't judge me. There is a mini game where you get to ride around on a giant prehistoric bird and pop balloons.

I've also been dabbling in bad-assery. Won't you let me tell you about it? Won't you?

People who are genuinely badass have telltale markings of being badass. So, first I will outline those and then I will tell you why I qualify as a total badass. Are we ready? Okay, then. Here we go....

1. Badass people have many, many tattoos. I have a single tattoo, but it is of an owl, and as everybody knows, owls are predatory birds. If you are small enough, they can totally kill you.

2. Badass people have scars. I have a scar from the time a flaming hot shell casing from a .22 hit me on the bare leg. So, it could maybe be called a bullet wound if you think about it really hard.

3. Badass people perform daring feats. I throw myself into the ocean (almost) every Sunday as a rite of passage for the Polar Bear Club. When I get out, my leg whiskers feel like razor wire. Razor wire? Totally badass.

4. Badass people have a dad who is MIA. I only see my dad once or twice a year. He delivers propane for a living. And propane? Totally flammable.

5. People who are badass have parts of their lives that they don't talk about and/or can't remember. I don't remember the first two years of my life and I refuse to discuss junior high.

So, there you go. I am badass, and as 2010 begins, I intend to find ways to make myself more badass. I am taking suggestions. And I might post more often as well if Mario and Luigi can spare the best trigger finger of all time.

Beware of Cougars!

2009-11-13T07:00:00.001-05:00

Men between the ages of 18 and 30 should beware the allure of the mighty cougar. Cougars tend to target men of that age group. And what they want is not what you think.

They want to eat you. Cougars get very, very hungry in the winter months when food is scarce. The easiest prey during that time is human men who tend to be out and about shopping for brand new snow pants for ski vacations. Cougars will see you leaving Bloomingdale's, and that's when they will pounce.

Cougars tend to look for young men with good hearts, open minds, and solid muscle mass. Also, someone who wears loose-fitting clothing and doesn't fight back or carry a firearm.

Sure, cougars also eat deer, elk, sheep, and domesticated animals such as horses and cattle. But how many of those creatures can a cougar find on 5th Avenue? (Apart from the Central Park Zoo, which is closely monitored for hungry predators?) Therefore, cougars must eat what is available. And that usually means young, attractive men shopping for winter wear. They run very slowly while carrying all those shopping bags. They also tend to be distracted by iPhone applications, rather than watching out for predatory mammals.

Cougars want to tear you apart, and not in a way that might benefit both of your needs. But in a way that will result in you being quite deceased and in the belly of a cougar.

So, this winter, if you're a young man, keep an eye out for cougars. They're everywhere.

Eat Me! A Guide to Healthier Choices for a Less-Fat You

2009-11-11T07:00:00.000-05:00

Let's face it. People are fatty fatty fat faces these days. 90% of people in the world are obese right now, according to a study I conducted this morning in the shower. And this is because they are all eating fast food for every single meal and nothing else.

So, if you want to be thin and beautiful, you need to make better food choices and quickly.

Because I am 100% positive that me posting a lot of calorie information is JUST WHAT YOU NEED to make a serious life change, that's exactly what I'm going to do. And then, I will provide you with a healthier option.

Let's get started, shall we? There is no time to waste for you wide loads.

1. Are you ready for the most important meal of the day?

How about a Carl's Jr. Loaded Breakfast Burrito, with freshly scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon bits, hash brown nuggets, shredded jack and cheddar cheeses, and fresh salsa wrapped in a warm flour tortilla? Not so fast, pork product! That burrito contains 780 calories and 49 grams of fat.

Instead, why not have one cup of nonfat yogurt sprinkled with shredded fat-free cheese and imitation bacon bits? Only 160 calories and 1 gram of fat. With the flavor of fake bacon and the cheesy meltiness of fat-free American cheese in a creamy cup of sour-tasting yogurt! Delicious AND healthy!

2. Now, how about some lunch?

Let's have Burger King's Angry Original Chicken Sandwich. It's crispy white meat chicken, onions, jalapenos, cheese, and sauce on a sesame seed bun. But before you tuck that napkin up under that second chin, get this! There are 870 calories and 55 grams of fat in that sandwich. And just think if you had had enough nickels left over in your cup holder to order fries, too.

Instead, why not have...?
Some jalapenos and sauce in a cup of nonfat yogurt! It has the biting spiciness of jalapenos! The sauciness of sauce! And the poop-inducing sour taste that you can only get from a cup of nonfat yogurt. And it's only 147 calories and .1 grams of fat. Enjoy!

3. Ready for dessert?

Why not have a Dairy Queen Large Turtle Pecan Cluster Blizzard, which contains creamy vanilla soft serve and chopped pieces of turtle candy with nuts and caramel? But before you dig in to that behemoth Blizzard, notice that it also contains 1,530 calories and 80 grams of fat!

Instead, why not have...?

A cup of nonfat yogurt with four nice crunchy almonds and a few drops of imitation caramel flavoring. Almonds are heart-healthy! Imitation caramel flavoring is the color of a sunset! And the sour taste of nonfat yogurt sits in the back of your throat and burns only slightly if you vomit. Only 140 calories and two grams of fat in this dessert! Tasty and healthy.

Well, I hope we've all learned something today about making healthier eating choices. Next time you are hungry, maybe instead of pulling through the drive-thru of your local fast food establishment and filling your oversized belly with rubbish, you'll reach for a cup of nonfat yogurt instead. Happy eating!

God Catches Up on His Correspondence

2009-11-09T07:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Ms. Joplin,

I apologize for the lateness of my reply and do hope that this letter finds you well.

Per your request on October 1, 1970, I regret to inform you that I must unfortunately deny your requests for the following items: 1) a Mercedez Benz and 2) a color TV. The holy spending limit allots you only $30 per month for frivolities, and both items would put you over that limit.

Per your third request, "night on the town" is too general a term. If you would like to provide a detailed request as to what a "night on the town" might entail, I would be happy to review it and get back to you no later than November 9, 2039, with a final decision.

Again, I apologize for the delay in my response to your request. I've been busy for the last several years monitoring sporting events to determine who deserves to win and giving out Grammys.

Sincerely,
The Lord

Steve Martin Is a Dirty, Rotten Scoundrel!

2009-11-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

Well, this is the final day you will be forced to watch Steve Martin videos, as I will be returning on Monday with exciting new posts. But before I do that, here is Steve Martin as Ruprecht in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Also, Michael Caine (my first true love, after Steve Martin of course) and Frances Conroy from Six Feet Under. So, until Monday, keep the cork on the fork, Ruprecht.

Steve Martin is a Terrible Historian!

2009-11-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

Steve Martin on King Tut. It requires no further description.

Steve Martin Is a Terrible Waiter!

2009-11-04T07:00:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Day 2 of Steve Martin video week! After I have given myself a bit of a chance to catch up on some work, I will come back with new posts. But for now I am going to post some videos featuring the adorable, handsome, brilliant, and witty Steve Martin and hope that all of you will forgive my laziness.

Can we talk about how utterly amazing Steve Martin's cameo is in The Muppet Movie? The short shorts. The finest wine out of Idaho. When Steve Martin is your waiter, everyone wins.

Steve Martin Is a Terrible Dentist!

2009-11-03T07:00:00.001-05:00

Hello! And welcome to Steve Martin video week!

Let's face it. All of us at the age of 10 wanted to marry Steve Martin. (Don't deny it, straight guys. You're not impervious.) The white hair. The Cowboy Gill scene in Parenthood. The mad banjo skills. He's ADORABLE. So, this week while I am seriously busy with work, I am going to provide you with some of Steve Martin's greatest moments. And then next week, I will return with fresh posts. In the meantime, try not to fall in love with Steve Martin. I know it's hard.

Think of it like the day your teacher decided she would rather show you a filmstrip and sit in the back of the classroom drinking vodka than force you to take notes over chloroplasts. So, make yourself a very small bowl of popcorn and kick back for the next 2 minutes and 32 seconds and enjoy my favorite scene from Little Shop of Horrors.

Studies Show That Meat Eaters Eat Meat Just to Annoy Vegan Activists

2009-11-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

Despite the best efforts of author Jonathan Safran Foer and actress Natalie Portman to school the ignorant public on how the meat industry really works, meat-eaters all over the world continue to eat delicious meat at a steady rate. From bacon to filet mignon, if there is anything that the omnivorous can agree on, it's that animals taste like magic, only juicier.

And according to recent studies, most meat eaters, when surveyed, admit that they really only do it to annoy vegan activists.

"I actually prefer to eat vegetables," said one meat-craver at a recent meat-in. "But sometimes when vegan people are around, I like to gnaw on a leg of lamb just to get a rise out of them. It's really funny. They start to look all queasy."

Others argue that the steady meat consumption is really a way for omnivorous people to protest being patronized.

"I just get sick of people assuming that because I eat meat that I've never read Upton Sinclair's The Jungle or just don't understand where meat actually comes from," said one protestor from his booth at a local barbecue restaurant. "I know it's an animal and that industrial farming sucks. I also know that these ribs taste really good covered with barbecue sauce and with a side of baked beans."

In response to the current pro-meat protests, PETA president Ingrid Newkirk sponsored a new billboard featuring vegan activist Pamela Anderson fellating a cruelty-free cucumber. It should be noted that no animals were saved by the billboard in question.

**Love to my veg friends AND my meat-eating compatriots.

Frightening Friday: A Very Depressing Tale of Lost Hopes and Dreams

2009-10-30T07:00:00.001-04:00

Hey, everybody. Frightening Friday here.

I'm sorry if I seem depressed. It's just that it's the last Friday of October, and I have to wait a whole year to terrify people with tales of horror again. Next Friday, while you're having your afternoon egg salad sandwich at your desk, you can enjoy that sandwich without fear of choking on it mid-scream. And while you're doing that, I will be sitting at my desk eating a big sandwich made of salty tears.

But don't feel too bad for me. It will be good practice for when I am Sylvia Plath for Halloween. And at least you won't have to go home to your lonely, dark, sad apartment and rush for the light switch anymore, out of fear that chupacabra will grab you in the darkness. And you'll be able to sleep at night knowing that the scratching at your window isn't a vampire wanting to be let in, but simply a burglar.

Sigh.

I suppose we should begin the story...

The pumpkin had grown to deeply resent the headless horseman upon whose shoulders he rode every night. At first it was exciting, riding through the dark on horseback, seeing the townspeople shriek in terror and fall down dead from fright. But as time went on, and the population of Sleepy Hollow dwindled, the pumpkin began to find the activity rather tiresome.

“Ride upon my neck stump!” the horseman had said that first night, with a voice as intoxicating as a warm aged brandy and as gurgly as any voice being emitted from a neck stump.

The pumpkin agreed, as being taken to the county fair and then pureed into pie filling seemed very commonplace. He had been raised from the seeds of a previous blue ribbon champion and was expected to succeed it in that honor. But the immortality of the horseman and chilly night air intrigued the pumpkin, who had never left the tiny patch where he grew. And so he was hacked from his vine, taken from the garden, and became a sort of lumpy, orange prosthetic for the mysterious phantom who terrorized the residents of the tiny hamlet of Sleepy Hollow.

But riding with the horseman was not as fun as it had originally seemed. For one thing, the phantom steed, Shadow, who privately resented his strict diet of fear and sulfur fumes, particularly enjoyed running beneath low hanging branches, unseating both his rider and his rider’s stand-in head. Worse was when one of the townspeople took it upon himself to take up arms against their midnight terror. While a musket ball fired by a near-sighted blacksmith only made the horseman gurgle with laughter, it could do serious and quite permanent damage to a pumpkin.

But the worst part was the headless horseman himself. All night long, he moaned about his missing head. It was all, “Where could it be?” and “If I had just stood five feet to the left, the cannon ball would have missed me.” In a feeble attempt to recreate his own lost head, the horseman had roughly carved a face into the pumpkin with his bayonet, but the effect was not the same. A head was a head, and a pumpkin was a pumpkin.

And so, six weeks after taking his place as the horseman’s head, the pumpkin made a plan to escape. He would wait until the horseman was at the edge of the bridge, and then he would just slip off and roll down the bank and into the river. He imagined the chilly embrace of the current as it swept him around the river bend and away from that headless boor. Maybe he would drop his seeds in the fertile soil of the riverbank. Or perhaps a young lass would find him and take him to the county fair and the fate he had once found so ordinary.

What the pumpkin did not plan on was the intrusion of a gigantic oaf named Abraham Van Brunt, aka Brom Bones.

Brom Bones fancied himself to be handsome, strong, and brave. With a certain amount of ale in his system, he loved to tell tales of racing the horseman through the forest late at night. The tale always ended with the horseman’s crushing defeat and him vanishing into the night in shame. And, of course, the horseman couldn’t just stroll into the drinking establishment and set the records straight. This fact, along with the finely chiseled features of Brom Bones’s perfectly attached head, irked the horseman to no end.

The night of the pumpkin’s escape, Brom Bones was on his way home from a party astride his horse, Daredevil. The horseman saw this as the perfect opportunity to scare the living daylights out of Brom Bones and hopefully shame him into never telling lies again.

As Bones turned onto the river road on his way back toward town, the horseman began to slowly follow him.

Daredevil had always been much more intelligent than his master. When he caught sight of Shadow’s glowing red eyes and flame expelling nostrils, he decided that the river road was not the best place for the pair on that night. Daredevil began to trot; Shadow began to trot. Daredevil began to gallop; Shadow began to gallop. And finally, casting aside all facades of equine machismo, Daredevil broke into a run. And so, the great race between Brom Bones and the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow was on.

Daredevil was no match for Shadow, who found the idea of being raced by something living to be laughable. Shadow’s hooves didn’t even touch the ground as they sped through the brisk night air.

The pumpkin found this little race to be very inconvenient, but he was not going to allow this little detour to destroy his plans to escape. So, as they neared the bridge, the pumpkin prepared to leap to freedom. But it was then that Daredevil--who was always quite poorly shod, since the blacksmith had such terrible vision--threw a shoe. The wayward chunk of metal knocked the pumpkin from the horseman’s shoulders. Instead of landing on a soft patch of river mud and rolling to safety, he smashed onto the road.

The horseman and Bones rode away. The pumpkin lay in the road, a mess, lamenting his life of adventure.

It was then that the local schoolteacher rode by, caught sight of the splattered pumpkin remains, realized it reminded him of his hopes and dreams, and decided to throw caution to the wind and take that job as a deckhand on the SS Van Winkle. He was never heard from again, as it sank soon after.

I won't even tell you what happened to everyone else. It's far too depressing. Just know that they're all dead now.

THE END.

Kansas Discovered to be a Band from the 70s and Also a State

2009-10-29T07:00:00.000-04:00

In an amazing discovery on Thursday morning, geographers intensively studying old maps of the United States noticed that Kansas is not only a band that rose to fame in the 1970s, but also, surprisingly, a legitimate part of the United States of America.

"It's an amazing discovery," said Simon Blandon, a professor at the University of Connecticut, one of the individuals who made the discovery. "What we once thought was just an extension of Missouri or a band with hits like 'Carry on My Wayward Son' is actually a state."

The newly-discovered state appears to be geographically similar to Oklahoma, with plains and lightly rolling hills. "It's rectangular," said Blandon, but refused to elaborate out of fear of pioneers rushing there to colonize it before it can be fully explored. "I can't tell you exactly where it is. Just know that it's toward the middle part of the continental United States. And it's pretty large, so it's amazing that it took us this long to discover it."

A group of explorers were sent this afternoon from Washington, D.C., to explore the territory. They are hoping to meet up with some kind of an Indian guide somewhere along the way who will accept furs in trade for his services.

When asked what he expected to find there, Head of the U.S. Department of New Geographical Discoveries Buddy Van Housen said, "Hopefully oil reserves. Maybe the Lost City of Cibola. Maybe nothing but miles and miles of grass. But I'll tell you what we won't find. People. That place is totally uninhabited. I looked at a photograph of it, and it is empty of human life. Just look for yourself."

"See? Nobody," Van Housen concluded. He hopes that the explorers will report back sometime within in the next six months.

We're Having a Party!

2009-10-28T07:04:00.001-04:00

Event: A Halloween Party!

From: The Donners

Location: Donner Pass

When: Late October Until the Spring Thaw!

Come one! Come all! To one of our famous parties. Everyone is invited. Bring provisions! Bring some oxen! Bring a friend!

There will be fun games like Drawing of Straws, a carving contest, and Bobbing for Ankles! Prizes for the best leg of lamb costumes will be awarded. (Feel free to salt yourself or soak in a marinade for a few days for accuracy!)

Directions: To get to the party, take a left at Independence, Missouri. Get caught in a snowstorm after six months of westward travel. Follow the trail to the Donner Lake Shore. We'll be there eagerly waiting for your arrival. With forks.

(**Special thanks to B, who sent me an actual Halloween party invite from some real Donners, which made me laugh in a very inappropriate manner. Thanks, B! Your gift for being so twisted is embedded below.)

Disclaimer: I, in no way, condone the use of animals as musical instruments.

Some Famous Poems as Rewritten by Death

2009-10-27T12:00:00.001-04:00

Hey, everybody. Death here. It's almost Halloween, which is my favorite time of year because I win all the costume contests. People always think I'm dressed as Skeletor. Heh. I have so many gift certificates to TGIFridays at this point, it's not even funny.

So, because the Mayor is out doing work-ish stuff today, I thought it might be a good time for me to read some of my awesome poetry. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Death, poetry is for moody teenage girls and guys who wear turtlenecks. Not people like me who entertain themselves with YouTube videos of cats wearing sweaters and falling off tables." Well, in my opinion, you are all a bunch of cultureless asses. And I can say that because every day you live is one step closer to falling off the precipice of doom. And who is in charge of that precipice? Me.

So, why don't all of you just get comfortable? Pull up a piece of brimstone. Or the leather sofa I made out of Hitler. And let me read you some poetry.

"Because I Could Not Stop for Me"
Originally by Emily Dickinson
Rewritten by me, Death

Because I could not stop for me,
I kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just myself
And Immortality.
I slowly drove, I knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For my civility.

...

Are you paying attention or did you just click over to look at naked pictures of Megan Fox?

Anyway...back to the poem...ahem...

Are you on Facebook right now?

Okay, I get it. Dickinson isn't your thing. Would you rather I read you an excerpt from I Come to the Archbishop by Willa Cather and Death? How about Poe and Death's "Masque of the Red Me"?

Now, what are you doing? Tweeting "Death sucks"? Well...I see how it is. You think you're better than me because you sit at a computer all day wearing a suit and typing things. And I carry an obsolete farming instrument and wander around poking people with my finger until they die.

Just you wait, buddy. I've got a finger with your name on it.

Lifetime Movie Review

2009-10-27T07:00:00.000-04:00

I'm frequently asked how I manage to post something every day. Well, it's all very simple. Firstly, I work two days ahead. Secondly, when I do fall behind, which is very often, I post something from my old blog and pretend I only just came up with it. Thirdly (and this is very rare), I go around to all your houses and steal your computers so that you'll never know I missed a day and give you something much bigger to worry about. Today I'm trying to catch up on some work for my actual job, so I'm going to inflict some of the old stuff on you again. Think of it like reruns. New stuff tomorrow!

The Lifetime Movie Review

Circle All that Apply

My first impression of Danielle Steel’s Fatal Obsession of a Dangerous Heart: A Moment of Truth Movie starring (Candace Cameron / Tori Spelling / Tracey Gold / Jennie Garth / Courtney Thorne-Smith) as (a/an) (abuse victim / stalker / fated airline passenger / jealous ex-wife) who must (overcome all odds / break the silence) about her (stepfather / handsy gynecologist / attractive but tragically foreign gardener) despite (brain tumor / eating disorder / unwanted pregnancy / bunions) was “Didn’t I see this last week when it starred (Judith Light / Meredith Baxter / Lindsay Wagner / Stockard Channing / Angie Dickinson)? And wasn’t the (airline pilot / husband’s mistress / abusive father / school guidance counselor / surgeon) played by (Beau Bridges / Corbin Bernsen / Rosie O'Donnell / Scott Bakula / Kirstie Alley)? Because this all sounds very familiar. No, maybe I’m thinking of that one with (Rob Lowe / JoBeth Williams / Andrew McCarthy / Pam Dawber). This is a little off subject but (he/she) was so awesome in (his/her) guest-starring role on (House / Weeds / Dancing with the Stars / Celebrity Jail Break). I have that episode on (DVD/video). Too bad about (his/her) real-life bout with (narcolepsy / kleptomania / bankruptcy / bad hair cut).” And then I sort of got into it and was unable to shut off the television despite (house fire / uncontrollable sobbing / need to shower). Bottom line: not a bad movie. Definitely better than (The Love Guru / Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull / American Pie: The Naked Mile) which make me want to (slit my wrists / assassinate Kevin Costner / relocate to France).

But seriously, no offense to those of you who enjoy the Lifetime Movie Network. I’m just (hyper-sensitive/overly-critical) since that whole (incarceration / sex scandal / seasonal allergy) thing.

Meth Writes Tell-All Memoir About Jodie Sweetin

2009-10-26T07:00:00.004-04:00

Fed up with the bad press it is getting following the recent confession of former child actor Jodie Sweetin that she continued to use it after she was allegedly clean, methamphetamine has written its own memoir. According to Sweetin's memoir, which will be released November 3 from Simon Spotlight Entertainment, Sweetin continued to give anti-drug speeches while still using in order to fund her drug habit. According to methamphetamine's memoir, Meth: Unmethed, which will be released November 4 from a publishing company that is probably imaginary, methamphetamine faced horrible abuse at the hands of the former Full House star.

"I JUST WANT TO GET IT OUT THERE," said meth in a statement, "THAT JODIE SWEETIN IS A DEMON AND MY NIGHTMARES BURN LIKE FIRE."

The 3,000-page memoir, which was written with the assistance of a ghost writer who was luckily able to type 200 words per minute, mostly consists of several hundred pages of paranoid nonsense typed in all caps, accompanied by pencil drawings of body parts with nails being driven through them.

Jodie Sweetin played the adorable and plucky Stephanie Tanner on Full House for eight seasons. The show was mercifully cancelled before any more innocent children could be forced to join the cast and be subjected to Dave Coulier's extremely unfunny impression of Popeye, which some may argue drove Sweetin to drug use.

Methamphetamine is a central nervous system stimulant drug that can be taken in a variety of ways, none of which are advised by anyone who likes his or her skin to be blemish-free. Also not advised is visiting this website.

Don't do meth, kids.

Saturday Grab Bag: Andrew Jackson Tribute Album II

2009-10-24T07:00:00.002-04:00

Tribute cover option #2.

Special thanks to WtB reader wilsonbilson for his mad Photoshop skills!

Frightening Friday: The Babysitters Who Go Check Out That Mysterious Noise Alone Club

2009-10-23T07:00:00.001-04:00

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the internet, Friday rolls around again, and you think, "Ah, the end of the work week." And then I leap out of the internet equivalent of the bushes wearing the internet equivalent of a terrifying werewolf mask and cry, "The end of the work week...and ABSOLUTE TERROR!" Perhaps you assumed I had given up on frightening the daylights out of you and took up a different hobby, like cross-stitching kittens on throw pillows. But here I am once again with a tale of the utmost ghastliness. It's time once again for Frightening Friday!

So, prepare yourself. Put down that flaming hot soup and pick up something that won't make a flaming hot mess in your lap if you begin to quake with fear.

And so we begin...

Christie was a babysitter. Not only that, she was the best babysitter ever. If the kid she was babysitting was hungry, she fed the kid a very nutritious meal. If the kid wanted to play a stupid board game like Chutes and Ladders, Christie played it until her eyes bled and pretended like she was having just the most fun. And if the kid's parents said, "Kid needs to be in bed by 7:30," Christie gave the kid a Quaalude at 7:10 on the button.

And so Christie found herself one Halloween night sitting on the couch at one of her very frequent babysitting gigs and thinking, "Kid sleeping, plenty of popcorn, and a movie. This is the life. Absolutely nothing bad could ever happen." But of course, whenever an innocent babysitter thinks those thoughts, something terrible is bound to happen.

I should mention at this point that the house where Christie was babysitting stood in the middle of a very dark and very spooky forest. Near a bottomless pit, and a cemetery, and a bog, and an abandoned mental hospital, and a Civil War battleground, and a place where some kids drove off a cliff on prom night and died. The parents and their kid chose that place to live because they were not allowed to keep their shed full of antique swords, axes, and torture devices within the city limits, and the rent was totes cheap because there was no electricity. (Right now you're thinking, "I thought Christie was watching a movie." She was watching it on her laptop and had many backup batteries. Now, just read the story.)

And so Christie was watching her movie by candlelight. The kid was snoring away innocently as a cherub in his bed shaped like a race car. And just then....the phone rang.

"Hello?" said Christie.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" said a raspy voice.

"I don't watch scary movies because I love Jesus," said Christie. And then, she hung up.

And so, Christie continued to watch her movie, which was getting really good. (The Titanic had just hit an iceberg, and everyone was likely doomed, except Kate Winslet.)

And suddenly, there was a scratching noise at the window. "Scritch scritch scritch," went the noise, which sounded very much like a mental patient with untrimmed fingernails scratching on a pane of glass. Christie glanced up from her movie.

"Who's there?" she called.

"Mwahahahahaha!" came the reply. "It's me. A murderer with a hook for a hand. And I'm hiding in your bushes."

"Oh," said Christie. "Were you planning on murdering me or something?"

"No," said the murderer, "Just hiding from the cops. Is that okay?"

And because Christie was the best babysitter ever, she responded, "Probably not. You're a stranger, and I'm here all alone, save for a sleeping child."

So, the hook-handed murderer very politely went elsewhere to hide because he didn't like children. (They have sticky hands and smell like bologna, which is a very impolite generalization to make, but hook-handed murderers are only polite about certain things.)

Christie became engrossed in her movie again. And suddenly, there was a thumping noise from upstairs.

"Thump thump thump," went the noise, which sounded very much like someone dragging a corpse across a wooden floor.

And then Christie remembered that the house didn't have a second floor, so it must be the vultures who roosted in the trees outside feasting on hook-handed murderer on the roof.

Ten minutes later, the parents of the sleeping child arrived home from their Halloween party. And because it was Halloween, they paid Christie $8 an hour instead of her usual $4 (and gave her a fun-sized Snickers bar, which was her favorite.) Christie pedaled home through the darkness on her bicycle, only slowing down once to run over a zombie cat that someone had buried in the nearby pet sematary.

THE END.

**The pictured haunted dwelling is not necessarily the one from the story, but one that is much more haunted and therefore much more terrifying.

Count Dracula Dead in Apparent Staking

2009-10-22T07:00:00.001-04:00

Count Dracula--aristocrat, scourge of Transylvania, and mystical being who thrived on the blood of humans--passed from immortality Thursday at the age of 512, following a grisly attack in his home.

In what is being called a "heinous hate crime against the undead," several individuals broke into Count Dracula's castle around 5:30 AM, made their way down to his coffin chamber, pried open the lid, and savagely cut and stabbed him, finally driving a sharp piece of wood through his chest cavity. Dracula, sensitive to daylight and wooden objects being shoved through his chest cavity, immediately succumbed to his wounds.

Two men, Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, 61, a medical doctor and self-proclaimed vampire hunter, and Jonathan Harker, 32, Exeter solicitor, are being held in the staking. Several other individuals were questioned and released. A third attacker, Quincey P. Morris, 34, was injured in the attack and remains in critical condition at Transylvania Memorial. Charges against the three men are expected.

According to those closest to him, Dracula was at times a reclusive individual who generally avoided daylight and religious idols. But a charming vampire, he always welcomed wayward travelers into his home, and before draining them of their blood, was sure to treat them to a nice meal and good wine. Dracula was also generous toward several causes, particularly bat species preservation and the eradication of Italian food.

Police are investigating a possible connection to the recent deaths of Lucy Westenra and R.M. Renfield.

Dracula is survived by his three vampire brides, and his wolf and rat minions.

Wedding Ceremonies on Other Planets

2009-10-21T07:00:00.002-04:00

We are gathered here today in the presence of the high cerebral being to celebrate the mutual attraction of this male life form and this female life form and bind them together under the gaze of the eyestalks of those individuals who slithered here today.

The great book of Ansoxx teaches us that mutual attraction and the wish to mate is patient, as females must dig themselves up from under the ground after a four-year maturation period. And it is kind, unless we are forced to thin the population of males. It is never boastful, except during the death-bringing epidemic of 25800, when everyone had to wrestle for nourishment, and the Queen was the only available egg layer. And it culminates in a joining of tentacles and exchanging of mucous sacs.

If any being here feels that these two should not be joined as mates, say dissenting words now or face the pain of being eaten by the Vylort beast after the traditional time period of 17 days.

Now, if there are no dissenting words, I will continue with the joining ceremony.

Do you, Crovat Hiberx 6000, take Velert Wellux 12 to be your lawfully wedded egg layer?

And do you, Velert Wellux 12, take Crovat Hiberx 6000 to be your life mate until such time that you lay your eggs and then feed upon him?

And now the vows. Repeat after I speak, if you will.

I, Crovat Hiberx 6000, take you, Velert Wellux 12 to have and to hold, from the time our mating period commences until you lay our eggs and then remove my head, continue to have intercourse with my body while it slowly dies, and then begin to feed upon my corpse. Then, and only then, will our vows be broken.

Very well. And now...

I, Velert Wellux 12, take you, Crovat Hiberx 6000 to have and to hold, until you have implanted your spermatozoa in my horlax and I have humanely dispatched you.

If all present accept these vows, then, by the power vested in me by the Arluxian Space Council, I now pronounce you mates.

You may rub tentacles.

And now, the Queen egg layer will now approach the altar to perform the necessary sacrifices. Those of you who aren't chosen may go in peace.

Robert Pattinson Does His Laundry

2009-10-20T07:00:00.001-04:00

From the reporters who brought you recent headlines Robert Pattinson Can't Get a Date and Robert Pattinson May Quit Acting...

ROBERT PATTINSON DOES HIS LAUNDRY.

Watch the 23-year-old hunkpire as he sorts his whites from his colors. Ogle while he adds the right amount of laundry detergent. Stare as he sits drinking a cup of tea while he waits for the spin cycle to finish. Stand back and admire as he bends over to transfer the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Peer at him adding a dryer sheet and selecting the right heat setting. Gape as he pulls the laundry from the dryer and begins to put it away. Lay eyes on him folding his socks. Goggle while he irons his shirts. And gawk while he finishes everything up and closes his closet door. You will be RIVETED!

"Action-packed from beginning to end!"
-The Teenage Girl Times

"OMG, he's so dreamy!"
-Somebody's dad

"I can't wait until the sequel when he scrubs his bathtub!"
-Vampire Fan Girl Weekly

"What are you people doing in here?"
-Robert Pattinson

"Uh..."
-Our camera crew

"Hello, police?"
-Robert Pattinson

"Run for it!"
-Me

Coming to a search engine near you on October 23, 2009!

Robert Pattinson Does His Laundry.

If you see one news story this year, let it be this one...

Garth Brooks Returns, Everyone Else Leaves

2009-10-19T07:04:00.001-04:00

Country music artist Garth Brooks announced Thursday that he is returning to the music business. And with his return, the streets of Nashville were quickly emptied. Upon hearing of Brooks coming out of retirement, the entire population of Nashville, TN, went into hiding.

"Shhhhhh! Don't tell him we're here!" said around 619,626 people, ducking down and hiding underneath a really big dining room table, to comedic effect.

Now 46, Brooks retired from country music in 2000 to pursue a career as a full-time dad and rich bastard. "I got to a point," Brooks said at the time, according to an interview I just fabricated, "where there was so much money in my bank account, I just didn't have room for any more. So I started putting it in my sock drawer. I ran out of space there. So, I just burned the whole house to the ground and built a new one! With a pool shaped like a guitar! I hated it, so I burned that to the ground and built ANOTHER one shaped like a big hat. And now I'm happy."

Brooks skyrocketed to stardom in 1990 with the release of No Fences, which featured the anthem of drunken turds everywhere, "Friends in Low Places." He followed that album up with some other one, and then another one, and then some other one, and did a bunch of concerts on TV, which definitely interrupted our regularly scheduled programming at the time.

"Hey, where did everybody go?" asked Brooks, arriving in Nashville. "I thought I had friends in low places. Get it?"

"And that is the reason we're hiding," whispered far superior country music artist Loretta Lynn. "He's such a twat."

Nashville residents only returned to their homes after Brooks announced that his shows would take place in Vegas.

Saturday Grab Bag: The Secret Life of Meryl Streep

2009-10-17T07:01:00.002-04:00

Who should I destroy today?

Ah, yes. She's perfect.

I'll be right back.

I am such a good actress.

Frightening Friday: The Impolitely Accused Witches of Salem

2009-10-16T07:00:00.001-04:00

Welcome once again to the most frightening thing you will encounter all week. And it's not a naked man chasing you with a water balloon. It's Frightening Friday! Once again, I will tell you a terrifying tale, and you will get really scared. And while I would love to reassure you that you won't die from fright, I can make no guarantees. So if you die after you read this story of horror, your relatives cannot sue me for everything in my bank account--which I can assure them right now is not much.

If you do die from terror-induced heart palpitations, it's your own fault anyway for not following a heart-healthy diet in the first place. If I were you, before I even started reading, I would eat a salad and run a few laps. In fact, go ahead and do that now. I'll wait...

...

Done? Okay, NOW! Join me in a frightening tale of the highest level of fear-inducement...

Witches lived quite happily in the town of Salem for many, many years. And while they had warts and large, pointed noses and wore long, black dresses and tall, conical hats, the warts were actually very becoming with their features and they were always sure to wear pink and purple striped socks with their outfits for a bit of color.

Unfortunately, going by names like Warthazel and Broomhilda made them stand out terribly among the Salemites, who typically had more traditional names, like Mary and Cotton. So, while the witches just really wanted to live peaceful lives and go about their days of brewing potions and racing through the night on their brooms, the people of Salem had to go and be all annoying and oppressive about it.

You see, the people of Salem were ridiculous and extremely religious and had no senses of humor at all. Not even when Goodwife Brewster thought it would be funny to put farting powder in Samuel Putnam's evening tea, and especially not that time John Hubbard wrote "Kick me" on the backside of William Hawthorne's trousers and stood back and watched in amusement as everyone in town did as he asked.

So, while Warthazel and Broomhilda were just going about their business one night of mashing scorpions for a potion that would give everyone in Salem candy, the people of Salem decided to come to their hut with pitchforks and torches and set the witches on fire in a way that would guarantee them no candy ever again because that is just plain rude.

"Come out, witches! And submit thine selves for a roast on the stake," said Goodman Polpot.

"We are not at home," said Broomhilda, throwing her voice in a quite unconvincing manner.

"Yes, you are," said Goodwife Mussolini-Brown, unconvinced by the unconvincing voice.

"Okay," said Warthazel, and the two witches went outside to face their punishment for doing nothing at all.

"Ye stand accused of being witches," said Reverend Adolf Green. "How do ye plead?"

"Uh...guilty," said Broomhilda. "We told you we were witches when you 'colonized' this place."

"Yeah," said Warthazel. "How is this suddenly a problem? Didn't you guys like last year's crop of gumdrops?"

"No!" said Goody Mussolini-Brown. "We hated them! All of us preferred the licorice from the year before."

"Exactly!" said Reverend Green. "Now you both must get burned at the stake because we are displeased by this year's candy bounty."

As you can imagine, the witches found this entire process to be really stupid and annoying. So, they flew away on their brooms, as witches are wont to do. They eventually settled elsewhere and lived happily ever after.

Later, local Indians, tired of the stupid tactics of the stupid colonists, very politely asked them to leave. The colonists agreed after many hugs and smiles. And the colonists sailed back to England where they would live to this day if they weren't all dead. Everyone was quite happy, and the Indians had all the candy they ever wanted.

A Long List of Excuses for Why There Isn't a Post for Today

2009-10-15T07:04:00.007-04:00

1. My feet hurt. I wore new boots yesterday, and now my feet are covered with blisters. And since I type my posts with my feet and I don't want to get blister juice all over the keyboard, I am giving myself a day off.

2. I'm so loopy this week, I realized this morning that I forgot my dentist appointment yesterday. And the fear of impending gingivitis is making it hard to concentrate on writing funny things for you to laugh at.

3. Growing concern over the fact that I just ended that last excuse with a preposition.

4. We had no internet at work for most of the day. "Why does that matter?" my boss asks. "Oh, it doesn't," I respond. "Never mind."

5. I had a very important meeting to attend. They did not serve pie there, so I am still not sure why it was important.

6. I have "Bartleby, the Scrivener" disease. If you don't get this excuse, I advise you to go immediately from this blog to here and read up on some delightful American literature.

7. "But I don't like Melville," you quip.

8. "Fine, then," I retort. "Then go here and read up on that episode of SpongeBob where Plankton steals SpongeBob's brain and puts it in a robot who says, "I don't wanna," when Plankton gives him orders.

9. "I don't like SpongeBob either," you complain.

10. At this point, I hate you, for the record and wish you would go here instead.

11. "Well, that's not very nice," you say, as you spoon feed oatmeal to starving orphans.

12. "You deserved it," I respond.

13. "I don't like you," you say.

14. "I don't like you either," I say.

15. "Fine, I'm leaving," you exclaim dramatically.

16. "I can't let you do that," I say.

17. "What are you doing with that pickax, Bethany?" you ask.

18. "Oh, nothing," I whisper, in the manner of a serial killer.

19. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" you scream.

20. And that, my friends, is why there is no blog post today. I have PMS, and I just can't fucking handle it right now. Hugs!

Extremely Important Closed-Door Meeting Today (MANDATORY)

2009-10-14T07:09:00.002-04:00

[Day 1]

9:00 AM

Gentlemen, I would like to start this important business meeting with a hearty and very masculine harrumph. “Harrumph!” Now, to business.

First off, who brought cupcakes? Very good. Hand me a chocolate one. Thank you, Johnson. Well, well, well…is this a marzipan rendering of my hindquarters with you smooching them? You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Johnson. Congratulations, I just made you VP in Charge of Exclamatory Sentences, effective immediately.

10:00 AM

I have a shiny new quarter for the next executive who raises his hand and gives me the sales reports.

What do you mean we don’t have sales reports? How else are we going to find out what’s going on in the sales department?

What do you mean we don’t have a sales department? Isn’t there some kind of a sales department founding committee to take care of things like this? I can’t be expected to construct all of these popsicle stick houses and create a sales department, too.

Okay, then. For now, we’ll proceed to the monkey spanking reports. Who spanked a monkey this morning? Anyone? Well then, gentlemen, we need to work on spanking more monkeys more frequently. We’ll found a monkey spanking task force and pull the trigger on this thing. That will increase productivity as illustrated in this chart. See this blue line that goes up? That shows that our monkey spanking will increase steadily over the next year, if we...Wait! This is the inappropriate acts with a lawn ornament chart. Where is the monkey spanking chart? Oh, here it is under the gingerbread village. Are you all looking at the chart? All on the same page here? Good…

11:00 AM

Next order of business. Has anyone seen Mr. Jenkins? No? Get the Finding Jenkins task force on this immediately. I sent him out for licorice nips two hours ago…

12:30 PM

Okay, next on the agenda. This is an ordinary piece of paper. But watch! I fold here and here and here and voila! It’s a scale model of Wetherby’s appendix. Applaud!

Thank you! Thank you. And now a dramatic reading from our company handbook…
(Day 1 transcription truncated)

[Day 2]

9:00 AM

Thank you, Gentlemen, for coming to Day Two of our important business meeting. I’m wearing this false mustache because today is Bring Your Father to Work Day. And my father was killed in an unfortunate paper pushing accident and was unable to make it. I guess he was pushing some paper across his desk, got a paper cut, and it became infected. Several years later, he died. So I am here on his behalf. Who has jelly beans? I’m starving! I had no time for breakfast because I was digging up my father to steal his false mustache.

And now, to business. Let’s get out our cell phones and make some random calls to area businesses asking if they have Prince Albert in a can. Johnson! Put away that miniature replica of 15th century Venice and pay attention. We’ll have miniature replica show-and-tell after we make s’mores…

10:00 AM

Next order of business? Oh, I have an idea. LAYOFFS! Who should we fire? I’m going to fire the coffee maker and that chair for starters. Johnson, have them escorted from the building. Quit your sniveling, Wetherby. You can sit on Anderson’s lap for the duration of the meeting. Anderson! Make room on your lap for Wetherby…

11:30 AM

What’s next on the agenda. Nothing? Okay, let’s order lunch and charge it to the CEO’s Ultra Platinum Visa. It will make him very angry. Someone call my assistant in here to take our order. I think I’ll have a pot of soup with exactly 6.5 oyster crackers.

Assistant! Oh, good. You’re here. Order Baxter some fresh applesauce and ten raisin scones for Johnson. I’ll need you to spoon feed me when the food arrives. Get a few ketchup packets for yourself…

12:30 PM

Now, where was I? Ah yes, balloon animals. I want everyone's balloon animals on my desk first thing in the morning. Any questions? Good. Let's adjourn.

[end transcription]

Romantic Encounters on Other Planets

2009-10-13T07:08:00.001-04:00

Well, hello. I noticed you looking at me from across the launch platform. Was it my oversized cranium? It must have been. It's absolutely enormous. I have a big brain.

But don't get me wrong. I'm totally humble about it. And the fact that this space launch was completely my idea. We're going to see what's out there, you know, in the far reaches of the galaxy, pick up some specimens, dissect them, and then harvest their brains for study. I'm completely in charge of the whole operation. That's why I have the extra large laser cannon. So people will recognize that I'm the leader.

You're a very bountiful looking female. You're eyes are so big and black and empty, I can see my own reflection in them. And it is so beautiful. Tell me, have you laid your fall eggs yet? A sensuous creature like you should never be without a mate. And I was just noticing that your horlax is pulsating. Am I turning you on? I must be. I bet it isn't very often that a male of my caliber approaches you so casually. But I like to make the first move, unlike some other males. Confidence is so important, don't you think?

So, tell me about yourself. Me, I'm just an average Arluxian looking for love and adventure out there in the enormous galaxy. I love my life. I enjoy just kicking back on the weekends, hanging out with my boys, and you know, watching the Probe Bowl. But I'm a romantic guy. My last mate said that I was too nice sometimes and treated her too well. It didn't work out. She was really intimidated by my position with the Arlux Space Council.

Tell me, do you like Hovercruisers? I own one in silver. To match my skin tone. It can reach up to 400 hrps outside of the atmosphere. Would you like to go for a ride sometime? Grab a few frosty selemians and just let nature take its course? I'm not going to lie. I find you to be very attractive, and I think we definitely have some potential for a future together. What do you think? I've got a good job that I love. I can buy you anything your little herplank could ever desire. And I know how to treat a female of our species. Also, my most recent rectal sellix results came back clean. So, I'm good to go.

Don't say a word. I'm just going to commit my marnox number to your memory via brain scan. You give me a call sometime. Okay? See you later, beautiful.

Four No-Fail Ways to Lose Weight...And Keep It Off!

2009-10-12T10:36:00.001-04:00

So, you want to lose some weight? All you eat is raw spinach with carrot slivers covered with a dressing made of laxatives. You jog 10-15 miles every afternoon wearing 25-pound leg weights. You even take your Anabolic Fat Burner Meth Caplets every morning. But nothing is working! You are still over the triple-digit mark, and all of your thinner friends make fun of you for shopping in the women's department. Never fear! I have some great tips to help you lose weight. Permanently!

1. Never! Eat! Again! It's all so simple, I'm amazed I only thought of it just now as I was penning this wonderful and very informative blog post. Think about it! What do we really need? Lots of nutritious vitamins and water, right? So, if you simply take a vitamin supplement for breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a tall, frosty glass of H2O, the weight will simply melt away.

*Fashion tip: Once you drop 75-80 pounds, you'll definitely be able to fit back into those 6-9 month onesies from babyhood. Pair one of those with some thigh high boots and a cardigan for a daring fall look!

2. Chop off a limb! Think about it. You don't really need two arms. And one arm, on average, makes up 5-6% of the total body weight. So, if you weigh 105 pounds and remove one arm, factoring in the weight of the arm and blood loss, you will end up weighing between 98 and 99 pounds! No drastic diet necessary!

*Fashion tip: Two words. One glove!

3. Travel everywhere with several thousand helium balloons. Helium isn't only an unreactive, colorless, and odorless monoatomic gas, and the second most abundant element in the universe after hydrogen. It's also for making fat things weigh less! One balloon can lift around 14 grams of mass. So, if you weigh 100 pounds, grab around 3,000 balloons every morning, and you will weigh only about 92.7 pounds!

*Fashion tip: Watch out for low-flying aircraft!

4. Die! Yes, it's drastic. But think how thin you'll be as time and decomposition melts away all that disgusting fat. And just think, you'll never have to eat another flavorless steamed vegetable.

*Fashion tip: Write out funeral seating place cards beforehand and put those individuals who displeased you during your lifetime in the very back row!

After following one or more of these weightloss plans, you will absolutely see results! Without dieting!

***Disclaimer: This post was written in jest. Don't really do these things. They are dangerous and quite stupid.
****The photo featured at the top is the now-deceased tiniest waist world record holder, Ethel Granger, at 13 inches. Her waist must be totally smaller now that she's dead.
*****Have more dieting ideas? Post them in comments.