4:2 Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition

4:2 Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition

We have so far talked about the company of death, and how they deal with the many gruesome chores that come with end of life on a daily basis. This section focuses on a small group in charge of handling oversight. Somewhere in between heaven and hell (Don’t get on me about geography, if you want that shit go read an atlas! See: Atlas Too (Coming soon if someone buys this…)) there lies an ocean. When Death Co. misses a soul, this is where it goes. Picture it sort of like the wake up scene from the matrix… Bodies are spewed out strange futuristic tubes into an ocean that looks unpleasant and slimy.

The people who work this area are different from traditional crab fishermen in two ways:

This is seaweed. Why is it pictured here?

1.  Instead of crabs there are smelly dead people swimming around the ocean, confused and pissed off about being dropped into smelly water.

2.  The crew of these ships is made up entirely by scumbags who have died at sea, and while this includes crab fishermen, it also includes such disenfranchised groups as drunken old pirates, and old, white, rapey, boat owners…

Now, as always, I know exactly what you’re thinking: “But good sir how does one fish for the dead in a sea that is purely fiction, and has no logical reason for being where it is?” Well the answer is of course with a massive magnetic hook. The magnetic aspect doesn’t really do much aside from pre-looting the corpses, but the giant hook does exactly what you think it would do, impaling bodies and such…

The ships, which appear mostly to be an amalgamation of various pirate ships, yachts, rubber duckies, and crabbing vessels sail these seas for eternity, as a form of penance for their crew(Similar to Davey Jones in the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but rather than being able to dice their years of servitude away, they can pay in fingers).

With the crew being made up entirely of scumbaggy ocean-farers, it is understandably quite a raucous bunch. For this reason this is the department with the highest number of complaints. Fortunately all of these are handed down to the pirate lord Steve Irwin, whom I might add is the only exception to the asshole rule.

Steve Irwin rules over these seas with a mighty stingray barb, keeping all of the rowdy crews in line, and is quite handy with his massive magnetic hook.

Through this process, decaying bodies are fished out of a stinking ocean of rot and decay, and then not so gently escorted into the afterlife. The lesson to be learned here is: Don’t die on a busy day…

Avian Companions and Mexican Food

Spring 2011: It is a sunny day, a breeze blows, and malice hangs in the air...

Our story begins with me eating lunch, minding my own business, and attempting to enjoy one of the beautiful days that are so rare in Bellingham. I had gone to the Mexican food stand that operated by the Viking Union. The burrito on my plate was enormous, delicious looking, and piping hot. All in all, the day looked promising.

As I pulled the plastic fork from its wrapping I spotted something moving very quickly moving off to my left. Out of nowhere a massive bird of prey(Seagull) swooped down right by my face and made it's perch opposite me. As he landed I saw evil in his eyes. He looked at me hungrily, but I knew well that I was not to be his prey. Lazily, his beady eyes drifted towards the lump of glorious perfection that was my burrito.

"No." I said to him in an attempt to convey confidence and dominance. In response he ruffled his feathers and picked under his wing with his beak. Thinking that he might have been about to pull a piece I ducked quickly beneath the table. When I rose back up to look, he was a foot closer to the burrito, and had taken a threatening posture: wings folded at the sides, large beady eyes locked on me, and beak slightly upturned.

"That is my burrito! You stay away!" The seagull was unaffected by my shouts, and so I decided to take a more tactical approach. I waved my hands around like a madman at the seagull and shooed him away. He flew away and it seemed that I would be able to eat my burrito in peace. Once again I could feel the warmth of the sun and the lust for the burrito rising inside of me.

Sadly, it was not to be. Only four bites later I looked up to find a familiar foe staring back at me. Steve (by this point I had named him) stared at me hungry as ever, and slowly inched towards the burrito. It was clear that force would do nothing to deter his clumsy advances. It was time to try advanced reasoning. Perhaps we could meet in the middle.

"How about I give you a bite, and then you go away?" Steve quorked a response that I did not understand, but took as consent to the agreement. If I could have translated it, I'm guessing it actually said: I will take all of the burrito and feast upon it over your corpse, filthy human. 

I threw a piece of the burrito to him, and he gulped it down, like some kind of animal. It was disgusting to watch, there was no savoring, only brute force, and none of the respect that a truly delicious burrito deserves. "That's all you get, now shoo!" He did not move, instead he pecked at the table, all the while quorking for more.

There was only one option. I took a deep breath and prepared to shotgun what was left (About half the burrito). For those not familiar with the concept of shotgunning it is where one eats all the food at once... As I shotgunned, Steve stared in horror, quorking and watching as his precious burrito disappeared into my gullet.

Thirty seconds later, it was over. The battle had been won, and Steve skulked off angrily to another table in search of food. The lesson here is never feed a seagull.... They're heartless bitches...

Chapter 4: Death and All Things Dying (4-4:1)

The following is yet another excerpt from my encyclopedia, and also the main focus of a short novel I will be writing in November. So enjoy or die?

4: Death

Death is an interesting concept, and is not discussed in great detail often enough. The traditional image of death is that of a lone rider on a pale horse coming to collect the souls of the living, but the truth is actually far more mundane. Death is overseen by a series of political organizations and various elderly deities.

While death is no longer a single person, it is true that in the past he used to be. It is this man who owes me a great deal of money over a game of fighting boars from over two Christmases ago!  But I digress; he was a short man with more fingers than teeth, and a greasy crop of black hair that hung down to his waste. Really a disgusting man, and the last that I would ever want to see before dying.

Luckily for me and the rest of the population, we don’t have to deal with such nonsense anymore and there is an institution for carrying out such archaic rituals, including ferrying souls to the underworld (See Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition 4:2) and taking them from the bodies in the first place(See Death Co. 4:1).

 

4:1 Death Co.

Nowadays the concept of death has become too massive for one pale rider, or slightly chubby ambler to handle. The fact is that death has become a business, and with the world’s population skyrocketing, business has been booming.  It is these reasons that led to a restructuring of the traditional notion of death in the late 1940’s.

1947: Enter the Death Corporation. With the increasing population of the world, the burden of billions of corpses began to be too much for one man. In a meeting with the big man upstairs the previous death even threatened to quit, which would have mucked up the afterlife in a severe fashion. It was then that a brilliant idea was proposed.

The way it works is quite simple, when a lawyer or a business shark dies, they are given a choice. They are taken up to a sublevel of purgatory and are told they have two options: They can either be ripped apart by goat people in various horrifying ways (Usually decided as the result of an oversized game show wheel, acquired on a routine earth raid (See: The Goat Raiders, and Their Treasures)), or they can serve a term of one-thousand years working for the company.

The workers of Death Co. find themselves in one of three departments:

The Department of  Paperwork: tedious little buggers, they make sure every aspect of a death goes exactly as it is supposed to, and then afterward file the mountains of paperwork that come afterward.  Usually we find dead bankers and stock brokers, who were otherwise dick-ish in life, and whose dickbaggery can serve a higher purpose in the afterlife.  

The Department of Acquisition: These are the glory hounds, or what we would traditionally think of as death. They work quickly and efficiently in collecting the souls of recently deceased humans, and also work in the orchestration of the individual deaths. Their methods are often brutal and unkind, but sanctioned by the department. Any unsanctioned killings, or “unnecessary brutality” is grounds for review, which almost always ends in termination, after which the perpetrator is ravaged by angry goat people…

The Department of Complaints: This is by far the worst of the three. It is strikingly similar to what we find in the mortal world at the DMV (See: The DMV 7:2). Here we find endless lines of the dead, waiting their turn to complain about how they have been taken before their time, and that they deserve another chance at life. The lines can often span thousands of years, and the dead remain in the state that they were when they left earth, leading to a stench that is far more overwhelming than any inner city gutter that I have ever encountered.  It is worth noting that this department has the highest dropout rate.

It is also worth noting that there have only been two successful cases in the department of complaints: The first being Freddy Mercury, who was later reincarnated as Susan Boyle, and the second of course was Heath Ledger, who of course now resides inside Mark Hamill’s left arm.

The Death Corporation has three basic rules:

1.       Dropouts will be dropped out. When a worker opts out of the program, the floor beneath them opens up and they are literally dropped out of the office and straight into the goat ridden inferno of hell. Another interesting fact is that as they fall they are berated by hundreds of aggravated cherubs.

2.       If you are found incompetent at a ruling, you will be ejected.  Similar to the first rule, only in this version, the offending party is shot out of a cannon into the mouth of a T-rex who is on fire. While I have never seen it myself, I have been told that the experience is quite breathtaking, and also incredibly painful.

3. Don’t stick yo’ nose where it don’ belon’ aigh’? This was written by a cantankerous old Cajun rule master, who had spent his life as a crocodile dentist (See: 8:1 Crocodile Dentistry). He died shortly after making the rule, and thus its true meaning has been subject to many different interpretations. While some take it to mean no sleeping with co-workers (Which is gross, because they are also dead…) others have taken it more seriously to mean: Don’t meddle with the human world. For more information see 4:3 You done stuck yo’ nose in da wron’ place!

With these rules and regulations in mind, we can now move on to the other more interesting aspects of death, and the workers who surround it. 

The Tale of Jon Junior

The Tale of Jon Junior

A Hell Beast (Courtesy of Wikipedia: Hobo Spiders)

It was near seven at night, the evening before I left for Japan. By all accounts it should have been a night for celebration, but then came a terrifying occurrence! Yes! It was so terrifying that the memory will haunt me for the rest of my days, and never again will I trust the sanctity that was bags from H&M. I am of course referring to the night we were joined by Jon Junior…

The night was warm, as summer nights often are, and a warm breeze drifted lazily through the open apartment door. My roommates and I played cards and jested with each other about various goings on. Earlier that day our fourth roommate Jon had moved out and left nothing but a medium sized paper H&M bag. After inspecting it to make certain that it contained no hidden treasure, we threw it on the ground, filing it for later recycling.

My cell rang, and so, very briefly I stepped outside.  The phone call lasted less than a minute, but in that time there was a scream bloodcurdling and piercing in nature. It was so loud that even the brazen woodland creatures that live on my porch ran the other way in terror. I did not know what to make of it, so tentatively I looked inside the apartment.

As I looked into the apartment, I felt my spider sense begin to tingle (Not like the Spiderman spider sense, but more of a proximity alarm for when there are spiders nearby. Can detect in up to a ten foot radius, for anything over the size of half an inch.) A cold chill ran down to the base of my spine, freezing me in place at the door.

Slowly I turned towards the direction of the cry and found my roommates in various states of battle readiness. Braden had taken a defensive position with his back against the pantry, moving away from Loren who was vigorously shaking a bag around in the air, who was also backed away from Ciara who was pointing and shouting incoherently.

It happened in a fog, slow motion as I watched a large brown lump fall from the bag and to the floor. I instantly recognized the little, furry foe for what it was and took up the traditional defensive stance of my people. Like a cat that had been stuffed with lightning I jumped to the highest point in the kitchen (the island) and bellowed as best I could, so as to intimidate my opponent. The result was no doubt closer to a young child screaming for their mother, but the end result was undoubtedly the same.

The apartment quickly fell into chaos as the massive (Maybe an inch long) beast roamed around the kitchen, claiming it as his new domain. I watched int terror as the creature claimed its domain, sniffing here and there (do spiders sniff?), and intimidating the various pieces of furniture that had the unfortunate luck to be nearby.

“KILL IT!” I screamed at Loren.

“He’s just trying to be friendly.” Said Loren, kneeling to get a closer look at the foul creature.  Loren has always had a soft heart when it comes to beasts of the wild, something I may never come to understand, especially when it is in a life or death situation like the one we faced that night.

This of course was met with a wonderful slew of curse words from everyone else, and then came the statement: “Is that a hobo spider?!” After which came much googling and various image comparisons, eventually leading to the conclusion that it was indeed a hobo spider.

For those who do not know what a hobo spider is, allow me to explain briefly. Hobo spiders, while rare, can be an extremely dangerous foe. Their venom is essentially like a roulette wheel, you might get pain, or you might get extreme pain, leading to the eventual necrosis of the affected area without treatment… A very painful end to be sure, one that can end in the severing of limbs, and other bodily harm.

So not only were we dealing with one of the foulest creatures on earth, we were dealing with one that could literally cause your skin to rot off and eventually end in all sorts of nasty dismemberment and other such macabre things.

In any case we held a brief meeting of the Roommate Council, and after much deliberation (Shouting) we decided that it was not in our best interest to go to war with the spider, instead that we should find a peaceful way to return him to the outside world. My method of choice would have been death by fire, but I was outvoted as I live in a house of Vegan Surrender Monkeys.

A plot was devised, in which we would capture the arachnid with a series of high stakes maneuvers, involving prowess with kitchenware that we did not possess. While there was much shouting and swiping, the end result was Jon Junior scuttling his way under the fridge, where he could no longer be reached. I don’t doubt that he sits there plotting his revenge every day now, waiting for the time when my foot gets to close, and he bites me to death.

To this day, we wonder about his whereabouts, but he has never been seen again…

The Curious Case of the Apartment Monster in the Night

While not acutally a chupacabra,
the chihuahua is the closest known relative

chu·pa·ca·bra
CHo͞opəˈkäbrə/
Noun1. an animal said to exist in parts of Latin America, where it supposedly attacks animals, esp. goats.

The following story is so fresh that I can hardly speak of it without my hear beginning to pound. It was a dark and stormy night(It was a clear night with no wind.), lightning crashed and thunder boomed (it didn't.)  Everyone in the apartment had gone to bed, and there was nothing to keep me company but the occasional creak of the aging floorboards.

Rather than exercising common sense I was staying up late and reading the walking dead by flashlight. Inevitably this led to several instances where I would jump out of my skin at a passing car, or a creaking board, thinking that the zombie apocalypse had begun. While this may seem uncommon, I can assure you it is a regular occurrence for me, and it has done nothing to stop me from late night reading…

Everything was fairly calm, until the unthinkable happened. The cone of silence enveloping the apartment shattered; there came a growl from the hallway. For once, this is all true. From somewhere inside the apartment I heard a fairly large growl that sounded as if it had come from a small to mid-sized animal. In the past I had never been one to fear the chupacapra, but at that moment I found myself wishing I had a goat to sacrifice to the hallway monster.

I froze in bed, trying not to make a sound, lest the beast hear me and come searching. Trying to be as quietly as possible I pulled my phone out of my dresser and sent out a quick text. It read: “ARE YOU GUYS MAKING F*&^ing GROWLING NOISES?!”  It may seem strange, but this happened before, and would not have been all that out of character.

As I waited for a return to my message, I spent the minutes convincing myself that I hadn’t heard anything and that I was only being crazy. You can’t possibly have heard growling… What kind of animal would come into the apartment and then growl angrily?! Does that even make any sense?! The answer to all of these was of course, no, it did not make sense, and the entire idea was illogical. Slowly I managed to bring my racing heart down to a normal level and settle back into bed.

I was about to fall asleep when a buzz came from the top of my dresser.  My blood turned to ice and I felt woozy. Carefully, I picked up the phone and opened the message. It read: “No, we heard it too!” The entire room spun. It had become very clear that we were indeed dealing with a terrifying beast that had managed to somehow infiltrate the apartment. While it wasn’t exactly Fort Nox, we locked the doors most of the time, and it was hard to imagine a way in which an animal larger than a mouse could have got in.

I had to act fast. Using my mad ninja skills, I jumped from the bed and ran to the wall where I have a small machete mounted. I removed it from its scabbard and called my roommate. The voice that answered was bleary, and far too calm for the events at hand.

“Meet me in the hallway in three seconds.”

“No way man, I’m not going out there!”

“I’m not going out there alone! F&*$ that!”

“Here talk to Ciara” He handed the phone to my other roommate, and I was met with more reluctance.

“I’m in bed, I’m not coming out into the hallway.” Desperate for any sort of camaraderie, I called out to the wall separating me from my other roommate Braden. I yelled twice and received no response other than laughing from Ciara on the other side of the phone.

“Fine, I’m going out there. Get ready guys!” I stood next to my door, tensed, machete in hand, ready to take down the chupacapra that was most likely waiting outside to eat me. “ONE, TWO, THREE!” I burst through the door making stabbing motions at the air, just in case the beast had decided to charge me, or had heard my plan to attack it. You can never be too sure that the creature you are fighting hasn’t gained sentience and understood your method of attack. I’ve seen deep blue sea; it did not go well for them. On that side note, please God, never genetically engineer super-intelligent sharks…

As I went from door to door, kicking them open (They were all slightly ajar, so they didn’t break), I continued yelling, and swiping in large arcs at nothing. It was terrifying, but it was also the closest I have ever been to real life Mortal Kombat, which was pretty sweet.

A Hill People Pickaxe

Emboldened by my bravery roommate Loren stepped out of his room. He was armed with a pickaxe that for some reason he kept in his room. Also it is worth mentioning that this pickaxe is very sharp on one side, and looks like it is more a tool hill-people use for killing unsuspecting tourists, rather than something a mountain climber or a miner would use. Even if there is a monster in my apartment, the pickaxe might need to be higher on the worry priority list.

Now with safety in numbers, we began to check inside the other rooms which had previously been far too dark and scary to go in alone.  While we were looking we were joined by my other roommate Braden, who had no doubt been woken by the shouting and door kicking…

As we searched several theories were formed as to what the monster might have been. I of course was still championing the idea that it was some sort of aggravated raccoon filled with bloodlust or a super-intelligent half shark, half chupacapra, but my roommates were more practical. For instance: Loren had seen a rat running around outside the apartment earlier that day, and thought that it might have stowed away in a couch that we were “airing out” that day… It’s college ok? We air out couches to make them less gross.

Another idea was that it could have been the water heater making gurgling noises, but I wasn’t having any of it. After a search around the apartment and the porch we came to the conclusion that if it had been an animal, it was now long gone, or scared half to death. I was not appeased by this conclusion, and so Braden had the idea of setting a sort of trap for it.

We laid out sunflower seeds on a plate in the middle of the hallway on a plate in a perfect circle. The idea being that if any of them were disturbed then there was indeed an animal in the apartment, and that we would go hunting again. I also made both of them swear that if the noise happened again, we would meet in the hallway in three seconds, weapons in hand.

With that, we all went to sleep, the others no doubt peacefully, me with the machete next to the bed, and an ear out for scary creatures….

The next morning the seeds were undisturbed, but I still maintain that somewhere within our walls the apartment chupacapra lies in wait for when we let our guard down…

A Tale of Pugs and Unicorns

This is the reason I'm not allowed to write children's bedtime stories anymore....

15:2 Of Pugs and Unicorns

A ferocious pug hunting

There once was a land constructed entirely from the sweet tears of candy corn giants. It was in this land that two races, one of puppies, and the other of unicorns lived. These two mighty beasts lived separately  but for the most part equally. With the puppies preferring to take long walks in the fields, and the unicorns(being bros) spent most of their time building Twenty –Four Hour Finesses and Jamba Juices.

Yes it was a peaceful nation, filled with the blissful sounds of pugs grumbling and yapping, while the unicorns filled the air with grunts of manliness as they bench-pressed each other. The geography of the island on which they lived, while improbable, served their purposes quite well. They inhabited an island, perfectly symmetrical, with a small divot right down the middle, so as to delineate where the two groups lived.

One day a unicorn named Chad found himself in a quandary during the annual bicep flexing contest. Somewhere between shotgunning a large orange smoothie with all the proteins and curling other unicorns he found himself wondering about their neighbors to the north. Being of a curious nature he asked one of his other bros about them.

“Yo bro.” He said kindly to one of his fellow muscular equines.

“Sup Bro?” The other muscular equine replied.

“What’s the deal with all those fluffy cute things on the other side of that hill thing?” He asked with a level of curiosity not often seen by the general unicorn population, as most of their questions usually fall into: “Which proteins make the best muscle?” and “Do you even lift?”.

“I don’t know bro. Want to go do some more muscular curls instead of questioning the mysterious nature of the world?”

Saddened by his compatriot's lack of interest and curiosity Chad responded: “No bro, I think I’m going over that hill.”

“Alright bro! Ima go do some mad curls and dead-lift that mountain!” He said, stalking off, biceps chafing together with every step.

Chad sipped down the last of his mega-protein-shake and walked over the hill. As he came to the top of the hill he was greeted by a fuzzy little pug in a sweater vest. 

“Greetings Unicorn Chad, we have foreseen your coming, and wish to romp!”

“Who are you bro?” The highly intelligent pug regarded him with a sense of pity.

“It matters not who I am Chad, but only that we romp together. The prophecy has long foretold our romp, and the other puglets will be sorely disappointed if we do not romp this day.”

Clearly confused by his language, Chad stood, dumbfounded, chewing some grass he had found.  “What?”

“Follow me, for I am Balthazar, speaker of the puppies, and lord of the puglets.” And so, against his bro-like nature, Chad followed Balthazar and together they went to a field of buttercups, where there was a grumble of pugs frolicking.

“Come join us Chad!” Said the puglets ever so creepily, but with no malicious intent.

Early Portrait of the Pug Ruler Balthazar (Left) and an
unknown puglet (Right)

“Alright!” Said Chad, clearly moved by the immobilizing cuteness of a face that looks as though it has been squished in a waffle iron. Together they romped for hours. Chad would curl the tiny pugs, and then the tiny pugs would snort at Chad. It was a cavalcade of cuteness. All the while Balthazar watched from a throne of butterscotch, contemplating.

“Today is a good day for romping, so romp Chad, romp among those you have shunned, romp among those who your people have spurned and ignored, taste of our innocence, and bask in the wrath that is the rise of the pugs!”

Suddenly the romp drew to a halt and Chad saw that a group of dark clouds had begun to gather above Balthazar's head. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the withered lines of the smushed puglet faces, giving them a ferocious appearance that Chad would have previously thought to be impossible. 

"What's going on bro?!" Chad said, nervously curling a handful of puglets. 

"You're people have left us to lie in the shadows of the gumdrop mountains long enough Chad. We yearn for greater fields, more grass, industry, profit, and new lands to settle. Unfortunately for you, that means the extermination and enslavement of your people. It's nothing personal, but it's all for the greater good."

Chad looked at Balthazar with a blank face as the gears in his mind turned, attempting to discover the meaning of the word 'exterminate'. "You can't exgerminate us! Why are you so mad bro?"

"While your attempts to assert fraternity with me seem relentless, I can assure you that they will do nothing to save your people. Puglets, bind his biceps!" Out of the rushes popped a grumble of puglets, armed with gold chains and aviator sunglasses. 

"Don't tase me bro!" The puglets rolled their eyes and tied the chains around Chad's massive arms. When he was bound, the puglets put him on a sled and pulled him to the top of the gumdrop mountain, where a massive thunderhead had formed. 

Down in the valley unicorns ran in fear of the dark apparition, not understanding how weather works. Shouts of: "What is it bro?!", "Bro!", and "No bro! Not like this!" could be heard echoing off of the valley walls.

Chad watched in horror as Balthazar ascended the hill, with a giant metal object in hand. "Do you know what this is Chad?!"

"Um... A death ray?"

"No you imbecile! Wait, yes, yes it is a death ray. I will use it to melt all of the unicorns into sparkle jelly which we will use to butter our toast! Those who survive will build massive monuments to our greatness, and serve us in our doghouses! We will rule this land! Come Pu

glets, the time has come!"

"Nooooooooo!" Chad said in his best impersonation of the re-released Return of the Jedi final battle, which of course was his favorite version... dick.

Fortunately for Chad and the entire unicorn population pugs have never been known for their prowess in technology. They lack opposable thumbs, and thus tend to make many mistakes in the construction of complex items. As Balthazar pulled the trigger a massive orb of light enveloped the island and sunk it into the sea. 

A pug attempting to use technology...

Luckily for the pugs and unicorns, they were instantly teleported to the far corners of the world. The pugs were sent through time to feudal China, where they served as royal lapdogs, advising warlords to the end of their days. The unicorns were transmorgified and sent through time to December 5th, 1776 where they formed the Phi Beta Kappa Society, more commonly known as the first true fraternity...

As for Balthazar, he was transported to 1997 where he starred in the movie Men In Black as Tommy Lee Jones.

The VMAs: A Bear's Pearl Harbor?

The following is yet another section from the ever growing chapter on bears in my great encyclopedia of knowledge...

Bears: 2:6 Miley Cyrus, The Impostor

While many humans have tried to embrace the bear culture, for most it has ended in ruin and dismemberment. On the outside it may seem as though bears live a  fairly simple life of catching fish, snorting river dust, and pestering hunters, but the depth of these activities is seldom understood. Notable examples of those who have tried but failed to embrace bear culture are: Grizzly Man, Zac Galifanakis and most recently, Miley Cyrus...

As this was a recent incident the bear community has not issued a statement on the matter, but I can assure you that once they have deliberated(See: 2:7 The Council Of Bears) their retribution will be swift and brutal. The bears are not a people known for mercy, and after last night I wouldn't expect the pop genre to last a week (most record labels are run at the top by bears).

For those who live under rocks, in caves, or abide in other such metaphors, I will give a brief description of what occurred last night. The stage was dark, setting a grim tone for the atrocities about to be committed, as the lights came up a massive cyborg bear was revealed, flanked by his evil bear army, ready to strike at the poor, unsuspecting VMA audience! Just as the bears prepared their attack, the bear leader began to feel ill, and suddenly Miley Cyrus, like a scene from Alien, burst forth from the bear's chest and proceeded to twerk, twirl hair that did not exist, and make a mockery of anteaters everywhere(Sticking her tongue out, no doubt impersonating one of these regal creatures). But that, was only the beginning.

The show descended quickly into chaos. The rest of the bears turned around, to show that rather than being alive and well, they had been made into sick mockeries of themselves, being used like puppets by lesser humans! Their leader Miley, stepped down from the mighty bear's entrails and showcased her own gruesome attire. She had slain a poor bear pup, in hopes of wearing its skin as some sort of a fashionable coat. Unfortunately for her, it covered less than half of her body, leaving her nearly fully exposed to the audience.

As if this grotesque display of power over our noble oursine compatriots was not enough, Miley walked up behind a bear with a rather large hind-quarters and proceeded to spank it while she used her mind powers to make it twerk! Oh the bearmanity! All of this was of course accompanied by Miley making not-so-subtle pokes at the bear culture!

"Why Miley, Why?"-Famous Bear Philosopher
Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/granada_turnier/

She would whirl her hair around, imitating bears rising from the river after a long parley with groups of salmon, turning an ancient ritual into a not-so-exotic dance! She grabbed at a foam hand, straddling it, in a mockery of bears cleaning their private parts with the sacred dismembered hand of Park Ranger Rick. She even had the audacity to ask the audience how they were feeling as celebrities such as Drake, One Direction, and Rihanna turned away in what could have only been disgust and fear. I feel nothing but pity for those poor audience members, as the bears will show them no mercy.



To top it off, Miley ended her show by showing no honor by ripping the bear pelt off, leaving her in only skin colored underwear...

It was a night that shall live in infamy. While I do not know how the bears will react to this I can only guess that it will begin with a holy war against all of those in the VMA audience, and a special place in the hall of pretenders with Miley's name on it.

For those who didn't see the performance: http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1713017/miley-cyrus-robin-thicke-vma-twerk.jhtml

First video on the page

Voodoo Donuts: Catnip for Drum Circles?

The following tale comes from a time in which I was working as an intern in downtown Portland. Of course, like the rest of my life, this company was far from normal. Firstly hey had a John Hammond(Jurassic Park) mentality: “Spared no expense.”, and secondly that all employees were required on most days to wear a full suit and tie.  With these two ideas in mind we can begin our journey.

The sun beat down like the drummer of Metallica, threatening to rip open my face with its fiery beams of heat and death. On the mean(weird) streets of Portland I felt out of place in a three-piece-suit. My target was over seven blocks away, the sun was in the middle of the sky, and I had picked that day to wear black. It was going to be a journey of Lord of the Rings-like proportions.

The office had given me the mission of procuring $100 worth of doughnuts from Voodoo (Don’t know it? A. Where have you been? B. Here’s a link http://voodoodoughnut.com/index.php). When I say that they said buy $100 worth, I mean that they gave me a one-hundred dollar bill and said go…

Now, Portland may be one of the safer cities to do this sort of thing is, but it still isn’t the ideal place to be walking in a suit, with large amounts of cash, but as I mentioned earlier, I was an intern and did not question orders. I smiled and went.

As it turned out the journey there was not so taxing. While I did get some strange looks from the hipsters and beatniks wandering between coffee shops, I was not robbed or beaten senseless(Doesn’t really happen in Portland, but I think by this time we have established that I have some strange fears.) When I got to Voodoo Donuts, I found that as usual there was a sizable line outside.

The Voodoo Sign, With Filters and Things (#HipsterMuch?)

For those who are unfamiliar with Voodoo, no matter what time of day, there will always be a line. Sometimes it's fifteen minutes, other times it's two hours, but it's always there. With donuts ranging from: Captain crunch, bubblegum, cock and balls, etc, Voodoo has become one of the most popular sites to visit in Portland. On a regular basis there is a procession of confused businessmen and spunky travelers lined up around the block, just to get their hands on the magic inside those holes(Their slogan, kind of).

In any case I waited in the sweltering heat, feeling my suit ruining beneath the heavy black jacket I wore. While I’m sure taking the jacket off would have been a safe bet, it was my first year at the company, and I still believed that one of my bosses was lurking around every corner to check if I was following protocol.

As I reached the front of the line I was beckoned to the front counter by one of the kindly punk rockers working the register. Being the adult I am, buying a hundred dollars’ worth of donuts was just another mundane experience for me… Or I giggled like a three-year-old, slapped the hundred dollar bill on the counter and shouted: “I want this many!” Imagine it however you will, but I assure you it was much closer to the second.

The clerk was clearly very enthusiastic about creating over five boxes of assorted doughnuts, but still managed one of the longest and angst filled sighs that I have ever heard. I feel it is necessary to mention that I have never received treatment like this since, and most of the Voodoo employees rock! Ten minutes later I found myself looking like a balancing act in a sugar laden circus.

Balancing my five boxes of donuts, I walked precariously back into the afternoon heat. Somehow, the boxes did nothing to mitigate the heat, or make my journey any easier. Instead of the sweet smell of bacon maple propelling me to victory, it instead attracted my first obstacle. As I was walking past another Portland favorite, Stumptown Coffee, I found myself being swarmed by a group of homeless people (About three).

“Hey Little Wall Street.” Referring I’m assuming to my cropped hair, and suit/tie. “Got any donuts in there to spare for a couple of hungry dudes?” More of them were leaving the makeshift drum circle that had formed on the sidewalk and approaching me. I should have remembered the golden rule that we all learned from Jurassic park, but instead I responded to the man…

“I’m sorry man, these are for the office. Not even my money.” Completely ignoring the raptors coming in from the sides.  He looked at me like a hungry lioness looks at an injured zebra (Kids close your eyes.) As I looked at him I began to hear the pitter-patter of little drum sticks, rolling upon my boxes of deliciousness. The members of the drum circle had grown into a procession around ‘Little Wall Street’ as I was getting stuck at a crosswalk.

Soon I was being heckled by no less than five of them! “Come on man, they aren’t going to notice if one box falls off of the truck are they?”

“Come on man, I’m just an intern!” Somehow this didn’t elicit much sympathy from them…

“An intern in a suit like that? Highly doubt it man. You probably the CEO of that place, and just ain’t saying anything. Come on, give us some of your donuts!” The drumming on the donut boxes grew louder. To me it sounded  like the booming drums of war. I was terrified and it appeared as though the red hand would never transform into the little white walk man ever again. I was doomed to stay at this crosswalk forever, or at least until I had given away my donuts.

After what felt like an eternity, the light changed and I was allowed by the gods of public works to continue along my journey. As soon as I stepped into the street I was met by a host of curse words from the drum group, but I had stepped out of their area and so they chose not to follow. Unfortunately, they recognize me now if I go to get coffee in my suit…

The rest of the journey was fairly uneventful, until I came to the greatest challenge of them all. For context, the five donut boxes obscured everything but my peripheral vision, and took both hands to carry. I reached the door to my office. At the time I was working at a fairly secured building, and it required a keycard to get in… Which of course was in my back pocket, in the farthest possible position from where my hands were.

I’m sure it looked quite strange to everyone else, but I knew that if I got my back pocket close enough to the sensor it would let me in. To the outside world I’m sure it appeared as though I was scratching my butt on the side of a building…

Long story short, I got in the building, and didn’t have an embarrassing fall while attempting to open the door with my foot. Everyone got donuts, and no one was hurt, and I learned the very important lesson, that if you are buying more than two boxes of donuts, bring a friend…

My Feelings on Flying: Encyclopedia 1: 2-3

The following is yet another excerpt from an encyclopedia of sorts that I will be attempting to publish come the end of the summer. Your thoughts are appreciated, and may affect the final copy, so comment or something!

1:2 Takeoff

The plane had recently taxied on to the runway and was now waiting for clearance for takeoff, or as I liked to think; waiting for another plane to aimlessly wander into it and create a fiery explosion of death (This happened once). As much as these things are uncommon we must always prepare for the worst. This is the first piece of advice I will give regarding airplanes, and it will not be the last.

The second is that flight is an abominable concept that should be left to the birds. Until the age of fourteen I found the concept of flying incredibly intriguing, an illusion quickly shattered by the arrival of logic, along with hairs in odd places (Irrelevant). It was then that I realized the true danger in entrusting myself to a person who feels it necessary to wear brass buttons and ribbons on their hat(pilot). As much as I am myself a connoisseur of fine buttons, I do not feel that it makes me fit to fly a plane. 

I would be lying if I said the only source of my fear was the pilots. It's more the idea that I'm playing a giant game of sardines. Being shoved into a tin can with hundreds of other specimens for elongated periods of time just seems irrational and utterly repugnant. Flight is a bird-brained concept thought up by a pair of commie loving hippies lovingly known as the Wright Brothers. There’s a conspiracy there, I’m sure, but that is better saved for later.

In any case there was once a time when I was packed into one of these death traps with hundreds of other sheep awaiting my doom and it is that I intend to tell you about. By some miracle the plane made its way onto the take-off strip without some terrible accident taking place. If I believed in God this would have no doubt been chalked up to an act of hers.

While sitting on the runway a man with a calm and soothing voice came across the intercom assuring me that we would be taking off very soon. This came at an odd time as the flight attendants were also giving a safety demonstration. I’m sure he was meant to calm us down while the hell driven stewardesses told us of moronic plans to carry out if we found ourselves aboard a land bound fireball.

The brace positions, buckling seatbelts, leaning your chair forward, opening the emergency exit door, flotation devices, it’s all a crock of shit. Next piece of advice: If you find yourself aboard a crashing plane fuck protocol, start praying to your deity of choice and if there’s someone attractive near you, ask them to copulate, because there is no way you are fighting the angry beast that has decided to fall from the sky. What it will do is assure that you spend your last few minutes of life in an uncomfortable position smelling your own crotch.

It was again my curious luck that day to make it safely, if such a word can be used, into the air. Yes, the ground whipped away from me like a scorned lover and I found myself high above the clouds, soaring in what I could only imagine to be hell. The ground was nowhere in sight and all that I could see were the blinding rays of the hot sun, attempting to blind me, thus pulling control of my life further from me.

1:3 Airborne

The first thing to note about being thousands of feet in the air with nothing between you and certain death but an extremely fast tin can is that in flight beverages are a lie. I know people think that in flight beverages and that pitiful portion they call a snack are nice, but in reality it’s nothing but a not-so-clever rouse to placate you and once again blind you to the fact that you are in extreme danger.

You see, airline companies long ago realized that much like life, business and everything else, air travel is a fat crock of shit. Why would they invest then you ask? Because it was strange, it was a new way of travel that was otherwise untapped. It was marketable, exotic; they could put a shiny sticker on it and get people to pay them money for it. Much the same way that I was once convinced by a rather devious clown to take his place in the human cannon, but that is another story entirely.

With all this in mind the airline companies hired a “special” psychologist. This man was a snake, he was paid to be a snake, and he was damn good at it. His job was to take a product, analyze the different demographics for it and then subtly alter the way it was marketed to make people want to buy it more. Boy were the Eskimos mad about that one.

This psychologist spent months and millions of dollars worth of research money testing participants and various theories. He exposed patients to the most horrifying experiences they could possibly imagine and then during, tried to calm them down. What he found was that the ultimate pacifying technique was to offer them a free cold beverage and a small packet of nuts.

              

Thirty million dollars and several years later the airlines had what they wanted! They began to craft their massive birds and load them all with tiny containers of peanuts and cold beverages of the blandest variety. You see, something else the psychologist discovered was that the refreshments could not be too expensive, or the participants would feel as if they were being bribed and would become suspicious, thus making them more anxious.

One such example was a man named Dan. Dan was a family man, he had a wife and two bland, round children. They lived a plain life and were perfectly satisfied with it, For this reason Dan chose to participate in medical experimentation. This particular experiment involved him being strapped into a chair while a vicious bear roared at him from behind cage bars. While he was being roared at a white haired man would calmly offer him a cool beverage.

At first he accepted it, but then estimated the value to be too high and became suspicious. This in turn worried him more and caused him to sweat. The bear smelled the sweat and sensed his fears. In a moment of primal rage the bear broke through the bars and disemboweled Dan the family man. Thank god for informed consent forms. And for this reason the drinks on airplanes are of a medium price and are never too fancy.

Assuming that you do find yourself in a situation where you are seated aboard one of these metal death machines, I can offer you only one true piece of advice. Aside from not yelling "bomb" or other such inflammatory words (The TSA and homeland security are real sticklers), just down as many of the free beverages you can and ride out the sugar high until you are once again safely on the ground. 

10:1 Capybara Warfare

The capybara is a ruthless species without mercy or sense of honor. While the capybara is very clearly a regal creature, they also posses an acute sense of when they are losing a battle, and will do anything to assure their victory(Including self cannibalism... See: 8: What?!). This creature is responsible for some of the most gruesome battles to ever occur in the animal kingdom.

A capybara, surveying the battlefield.

Some might think the capybara to be a loose cannon, the truth is rather more simplistic. Though the capybara may have evolved a large brain from quantum mechanics and superb verbal reasoning skills; it has unfortunately still maintained a rather primal part of its genetic heritage.When anything, be it a butterfly or a bulldozer enters the capybara's territory an instinct to head-butt first, ask questions later takes hold. Suddenly the mysteries of the universe and solving world hunger are no more. Where logic lived, there becomes only bloodlust, and a white hot rage that may only be quenched by head-butting.

This instinct was developed long ago in the age of the dinosaurs, back when it was common for the capybara was forced to defend its homelands from the likes of Tyrannosaurus Rex and Diplodocus(See 11: Dinosaurs). Over millions of years small spine-like protrusions began to develop on the top of the skull, cleverly hidden by its silky fur. The capybara is able to flex it's head muscles and push these spikes forward with the equivalent pressure of a lions jaw(roughly 200,000,000 PSI).

In the water, it is often said that the capybara is slow and ungainly, making it easy prey for river and ocean dwelling predators. While this might have been the case in the early days of this species life, it is not anymore. In the early 1900s when the capybaras developed a system of currency (See 10:2 Capybara Economics), they began paying the apex predators of the water for protection.

Sharks and squids may have used to prey upon the capybara, but it is now common to see these mythical beasts being saddled by capybara, and ridden like toy ponies. This was found to be a great tactical advantage in The Great Mermaid war of 1920, in which nearly 13,000 capybaras lost their lives. This may seem like a high price to pay, but another mermaid has not been seen since, leading many scientists to believe they were completely wiped out.

With their ruthless traits, and passion for cranial battering, the capybara is adept at warfare, and ranks at one of the top predators in the animal kingdom…