The Terrible Accident

Have you ever borrowed some one else’s pants and then had a terrible accident in them? This happened to me recently with a pair of my father's pants. I was going out for the night a few weeks ago and all of the pants I had were either for work or really weren’t up to snuff for the night life, so, while he was out, I snatched his snazzy leather pair from the laundry hamper and trotted off thinking that I’d just wash and return them the next day. Like many things that seem like a good idea at the time, this thinking was to prove to be incorrect. You see, I'm a bit bigger than he is, and while I looked mouth-watering, his pants squeezed and pinched me like an ill-fitting boot. Even more unfortunately, the past time in which I was about to engage was none other than rumba dancing, that ass shaking, super splits, salsa-esque form of recreation that requires at least a modicum of comfort, stretch and flow in the clothing. Being that Spanish culture was the theme for the evening, we started out with burritos and beans at a local ristaurante washed down with copious amount of Tequila. The fare was delicious, but it would later prove to be disastrous. A bit later saw us at the Club del Marco where we hit the dance floor with the type of vengeance normally reserved for acts of hate and destruction. We shook and bent and slithered about madly, all the while, the juices of the liquor and beans building into an internal crescendo of whose revolting consequences I would soon be made horridly aware. Just as I bent a lovely senora over my knee and let her feel the heat of passion on my lips, before they could touch, the zipper on the pants failed and opened a chasm in my crotch, exposing the tighty whities beneath. Against the black leather it looked as though I had an enormous, milky eye between my legs, but this was for the barest instant as the button, which could no longer bear the strain, popped off like a champagne cork and struck the senora directly between her own legs. She screamed, turning away as a small spot of blood appeared right where her privates were. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, before I could take even the smallest step, I felt a rumbling that brought my pupils to pinpoints – they were baaack! Like a dam bursting forth with its sluice of water and chunks to consume all in its path, the beans did a reappearing act, showering out of the back of my pants, which were tight enough that the stream came out in an arc so wide and high it looked as though I had a glistening brown fan fluttering behind me. The shit literally hit the fan at this point, sending coffee colored rain into drinks and open, laughing mouths (soon to laugh no more). Burning with shame, and realizing I’d probably wounded the senora in such a way that she would never again know the pleasures of a normal orgasm, I ran from the club pushing aside the excrement dotted onlookers who’d gathered around the spectacle unfolding on the dance floor. Now, I hadn’t brought my car (we’d taken the bus – the senora was very environmentally conscious), so I was forced to wait for the next public conveyance with my crotch hanging asunder and smelling of a Frenchman. What happened on the bus is a blur, though I know there was quit a bit of pushing and shouting involved, and I think I was on the ceiling at one point, but eventually I made it back home. Deciding that if he couldn’t censure anyone for this crime if he didn’t know who had committed it, I simply hung the pants back up in the closet dripping as they were, thinking that he’d most likely blame my mother anyway. Now you’d think that that would be the end of the story but then you don’t know my father… Not too long after the “incident” my father came into the kitchen and loudly insisted that we all go out to dinner together. A few minutes later when we’d all assembled and were ready to depart, we saw my father coming down the stairs - wearing the stinking, encrusted pants as if nothing were amiss. As he descended he boasted about how much he loved these pants and that he wouldn’t think of going until we’d all tried them on and done a little dance in them, each in turn. I was horrified, as was my stunned family who stood with mouths agape, but perhaps to assuage myself of suspicion, I boldly stepped forward and shouted that if anyone were to be forced into such a situation, I would be the first to volunteer. Smiling maliciously with his green teeth and crossed eyes (yeah! Green teeth! Amazingly I’d never noticed just how ugly he was before) he slowly peeled the pants off with a crunching sound and handed them to me. They sat warm and heavy in my hands for what seemed like an eternity before I looked up. At this point, I noticed he wasn’t wearing any underwear. His fat piece had been rubbing up against the inside of the pants the entire time! Before anyone could react, I dropped them and in one smooth motion I’d learned at the local karate studio, darted forth and snatched his penis right from his body, balls and all. He looked at me with sickened amazement for a second before sliding to the floor as massive blood loss overtook him. Everything was deathly quiet, time didn’t seem to pass at all, no one moved or breathed, not even the clock ticked... Then my mother screamed, so I backhanded her.

The Invisible Threat

You must remember that there are ghosts around us all the time, watching us while we eat, while we sleep, while we drive in our autos – all the time. What they want varies from ghost to ghost. Some are just curious and want to see what’s up. Others want us to consume endless amounts of refined sugar (it has been estimated that ghosts comprise the leading cause of the obesity epidemic in this country), and yet others want us to do myriad things like spend too much money, waste electricity, pass gas in someone’s face, make glib remarks and speed. They are a powerful force indeed. Oscar Wilde once said “I can resist anything but temptation”, a brilliant recipe for dispelling the powers of ghosts (actually it is a little known fact that he was one of the greatest ghost fighters of his day and the inspriation for the film "ghostbusters"). Have you ever noticed that people tend to have many bad habits when they are young, and then “chill out” as they get older? Why is this? It’s because they are following the simplest rule of trickery – by giving in to the ideas and temptations ghosts are putting in their heads, the ghosts lose interest and leave the person alone, thus freeing the intellect from their depredations. People “lose interest” with time not because they are tired of an action, but because the ghost making them perform that action has. It’s simple math:

People – Ghosts = What ever you’d want to do if ghosts weren’t bugging you all the time

Now, you may say: “but what if I’m doing something and it’s not a ghost, but me who wants to do it”? I’d answer something like this: “That sounds suspiciously like ‘creepy ghost talk’ to me. Listen, put down your bong and your Ouija board and face the facts. Ghosts will be an invisible part of our lives until proper legislation is passed. Get involved. Call your senator. Your representative. Ask them what they are doing to protect you and your family from the influences of spooky ghosts.” Just try this simple action. I think you may be surprised by the results!

Paid for by the Council for a Ghost Free America

Inescapable Truth

One may ask that with that ails this world, why would someone intentionally go out and add yet another seemingly depressing site to an already bloated media, crammed with degenerate sex and endless commercial lures? Because my dear friends, I have taken it upon myself to become an agent of truth. We believe what an insidious higher social and political order wishes for us to believe. We base our identities on mutable principles and shifting philosophies. And, much like the frail human body that cannot exist in the brutal reaches of space, nor can the human mind exist outside of necessary ideological constructs. We suck eagerly at the teat of lies keeping us comfortable and safe, we suck at them until the tit turns purple and prunes, unable to keep up with the pace of our ravenous appetites. This rapacious engorgement has led to an inevitable decline in the quality and believability of certain common lies as well as the decreasing potency of the mass opiate known as “Hollywood”, allowing pieces of the sinister understructure to poke through. People have always had a fascination with the idea of being controlled in such a way that we don’t even know we are being so led. Many brave and hardy souls have lain the ultimate sacrifice on the altar of truth in search of the source of this fascination, but every time they have produced something of merit, they are either conveniently “disappeared” or are slain in highly suspicious “accidents”. A good example of this is the movie “They Live”. Did you know that this was no science fiction romp but a true story? That’s right. The proof is in the construction of the film.

Consider: Why is it that parts of the movie are out of synch or seem disjointed? The movie was not shot as an entertainment piece, but as a documentary, with many sequences actually consisting of stock footage. Why are there so many scenes of Roddy Piper where he doesn’t even seem to be trying to act? Again, this movie was a documentary filled in with later studio-shot footage to fill in any gaps and paint a more complete picture as a vehicle of truth. Roddy didn’t seem to act because what he was going through was real! Every moment of terror, every realization that something was amiss was being captured with a live camera. Do you think someone would let their car window get smashed? I don’t think so. That guy was pissed, and that was a real fight. Oh come on, I’ve seen Roddy Piper in other movies, how could he do that if this one was real? And what about the director and crew? No, you “come on”, jerk. Every film Mr. Piper starred in was completed before T.L. aired. Ask yourself, do you see him in any films or shows anymore? No way. He’s already been recycled into breakfast cereal. As for the crew, according to the police report, they were all found in a mutilated state. One detective was quoted as saying “it looked as though they were turned inside out”. Apparently no autopsy was performed because the coroner’s truck was mistakenly rerouted to a pepperoni factory and they were never seen again. Unless you think there was a runaway thresher on the loose that night (highly unlikely), the culprits are fairly obvious. So much for your point of view.

When I found this information out, I slept with a crucifix for weeks. Then I remembered aliens aren’t afraid of crucifixes, except for those ones that shoot acid. But then, I suppose everyone would be afraid of an acid-shooting crucifix…