For a long time now, Disney has given up on creating anything lasting and original and instead has left Pixar to deal with movie audiences while they exploit little girls. In that vein, they have purchased Marvel Comics for 4 billion dollars. Now: some may say that’s a good thing and that it will let both brands expand their markets. Let me assure you it is not.

Let’s say you like Marvel Comics. You like Wolverine, but you didn’t necessarily like the Wolverine movie. It was too watered down for you. Now what do you think is going to happen when Disney produces a Wolverine movie? Remember when Wolverine had Jubilee as a sidekick? It’ll be like that, but much worse. Jubilee will be played Hannah Montana, and they’ll let Hugh Jackman sing and dance like he did at the Oscars.

A  lot of Marvel’s characters are already as kid-friendly as they can get, with Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four. They’ll be made sappier still with crossovers involving Mickey and Goofy. Howard the Duck will meet Donald Duck.

If you think Disney is going to sit back and let Marvel do it’s own thing after their hugely successful string of movies, then you’re forgetting what Disney is. Do you remember when they took over Times Square and turned it into one big Disney Store? Do you remember what they did to ABC? Disney thought that shows like, “Rosanne,” and Ellen Degeneres’s sitcom were too edgy.

As for the Punisher? Gone. Marvel Zombies are now Marvel Babies. Marvel Max is now Marvel Minnies.

They’ll even mess around with Marvel’s history. Instead of the Green Goblin throwing Gwen Stacey off a bridge, she’ll now be thrown into a ball pit.

And you can forget about any future DC/Marvel crossovers.You think Disney is going to let Marvel work with a company owned by Warner Bros.? Hell no.

They’ll try to shut down the Spider-Man attraction in Universal Studios, and instead have guys in Spider-Man and Hulk costumes running around Disneyland with Captain Jack Sparrow and Cinderella. Dr.Doom will take over Cinderella’s Castle.

In summation, if you think Joe Quesada was bad for Marvel, Mickey will be worse.

In the past two nights I’ve watched Van Wilder: Freshman Year,

and Road Trip: Beer Pong,

two completely unnecessary sequels to movies that already have unnecessary sequels. It’s a widely accepted fact that once a movie franchise goes straight to DVD, then it’s over. Beyond being the third instalment in a college-based movie series, these two movies have a lot more in common.

First off: this guy. Nestor Aaron Absera . I’ve never heard of him either. Probably because his list of movie credits include nothing besides Van Wilder: Freshman Year and Road Trip: Beer Pong. In both movies he plays the pot-head buddy. The only difference is in Van Wilder, he’s a Rastafarian. So to recap: he’s only been in two movies and he’s already been type-cast.

Both movies are your typical college fare ala Animal House. Basically, it’s all about beer, pot, tits, and getting laid, with wacky hi-jinks throughout. These sequels are throw-backs to the originals. Basically, they just took the same scripts and changed the pranks.

In Van Wilder’s instance, the movie is about him trying to hook up with this other chick (who I think is from The Hills), only she’s in a relationship with a douchebag. Sound familiar? The twist is that it’s a ultra-conservative Christian military college, so he has to show everyone how to party. The most memorable moment? He get the bulldog with the big balls to lick peanut butter of the crusty old-dean’s crotch when his wife comes in. That’s a win. A disgusting win, but a win nevertheless. I think someone should tell Van Wilder that it’s not okay to be a Freshman.

Road Trip: Beer Pong is about a guy who already has a girl, a hot girl, but he wants to hook up with an even hotter French girl he used to know. So they go on a road trip. It’s impossible to sympathize with this guy, because you know he’s going to get laid either way. Along the way he makes all these pussy-whipped-phone calls to his girlfriend(s) to assure them he loves them, that he’s being a good-boy, etc. He also does this youtube video of him singing a song in the nude called, “In the Buff.” It’s a terrible song, but they do a live-show where the audience freaks out like it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen. Think: the shirtless saxophone solo in The Lost Boys.

It’s that gay. It’s the kind of song that The Naked Cowboy (TM) would do.

The rest of the movie is about (surprise, surprise): Beer Pong. This is probably the greatest movie made about Beer Pong. For those of you who don’t know: Beer Pong is like Ping-Pong without the ping, and with beer. They win the big match through some obscure rule of Beer Pong. Yes: Beer Pong has rules.

Best moment is probably when they’re all getting lapdances and the Indian guy gets a little too excited. Instead of jizzing in his pants, however, he pees them.

All in all, you can’t give these movies more than

2 1/2 out of 5 at most, and that’s if you’re grading them. I’m not. Why should I? I don’t get paid for this shit.

That’s what the feeling this town induces. I saw two people doing drugs right in front of my building, where I sometimes see kids playing. They’re sitting on top of the wooden boxes newspapers for delivery are deposited, staring down everyone who drives to the end of the cul-de-sac. There’s an entire woods behind them where they can fuck around as much as they want, but they’ve decided they’re going to be out in public. You can see them plain-as-day when you open the door. The extent of their subtlety is to crouch down behind the box to do whatever drug they’re doing. I’m sure they leave their paraphernalia where kids can find it. Classy.

Sometimes I think: hey, I know where they’re going to be, I know what they’re going to be doing when they get there. Remote detonator charges? But that would be a crime. An awesome crime worthy of the Joker, but a crime nevertheless.

Also pissing me off: the air quality. It like poison out there. It’s not L.A. bad, but considering Abbotsford’s slogan is, “City in the Country,” you’d think that I might be able to suck in some fresh air once in a while. Seriously, this is a cow town. It’s like soup. Hot, thick soup.

Also: some bitch made headlines here in Abby when she said some dude snuck in from her balcony and raped her. It was a lie, but it wasted valuable police time, and it made people close and lock their patio doors during a heat wave. Classy.

Plus: There’s a he-she wannabe living in our local prison who’s trying to get a sex-change, and complaining about all the abuse they’re getting in prison. Maybe you shouldn’t have beaten your room mate to death and then you wouldn’t be in this situation. The dude wants his dick snipped off using tax dollars so he can be in a women’s prison. Look: we all want to be a women’s prison. I’ve seen “Caged Heat.” Show time is fun time. Snipping your dick off isn’t the way to go. Also: fuck you, but not literally. Bubba will do that for you, you murderous piece of human excrement.

One of the best parts of the theatre-going experience is the trailers. Unfortunately, this comes after the regular ads for cell phones, Coke Zero and cars. Obviously, I’m not going to get up during the movie to run out and buy a fucking car, so why are you bothering me with this? Ever wonder why the auto industry is in trouble? Because they waste money on this shit. The cell phone commercials always make zero sense, especially the ones for Telus. They’ll show some cute animals on white backgrounds, and pretend they have something to do with their product. Please note that animals don’t use cell phones. People do. Loud, obnoxious people. As for the Coke Zero commercials: Coke Zero does not taste like Coke. Don’t fucking lie to me please. I have tastebuds. Also: why do the animated body parts have weird accents? Why are eyeballs French? Why do the Tongues sound like the two incompetent British guards from Pirates of the Carribean? Why does this disassembled human being have one eye and two tongues? Of course, there’s always someone in the audience who laughs too loud and too hard at this commercial. This will be the person who

Fortunately, at my last movie outing, they didn’t subject me to the movie trivia, or interviews with Canadian “celebrities.” This is nothing but pure filler and it benefits no one, especially the audience. Since I was watching “District 9,” a Restricted movie, I got to watch all the Restricted trailers they don’t show the kiddies. Their target audience was immediately apparent with these previews: dumb teenagers with short memory spans. “Sorority Row,” was nothing more than “I Know What You Did Last Summer,” with Sorority girls. Only, they’re not that hot. If you want hot, try Megan Fox in “Jennifer’s Body,” where she plays a hot slut who eats EMO kids. Think “Ginger Snaps.” This movie is straight-up porn, except there’s no actual porn in it, meaning there’s no point in seeing it. Then there was this messed up movie where Dewey Cox is a circus vampire. Any vampire movie at this point is completely pandering, especially an adaptation from a Tweeny novel. Then there was “Legion,” one of those movies where they’re holed up in a gas station diner trying to fend off an evil legion. You can change the location and the monsters and get any number of movies, like “Night of the Living Dead,” or that Stephen King one with the people in the grocery store surrounded by fog. They make the premise more ridiculous and redundant by having an angel trying to stop the Apocalypse because some pregnant ho’s knocked up with the Chosen one or some shit “End of Days” style, without the Governator.

The last one was the most promising. Another zombie-comedy (zombedy), called “Zombieland.” It’s got Woody from Cheers and shots of zombie girls in bikinis running in slow motion. Plus: young love. One of the disturbing things about this movie is that I immediately recognized Playland at the P.N.E. as one of the film locations. You want scary? Try going on a roller coaster that’s been featured in a dozen horror movies, like “Final Destination III.”

Nothing I saw was really that new or inspiring. They looked like the kind of straight-to-DVD movies you find by accident at Blockbuster, which was why it was so odd to see them before an original movie like “District 9.” It’s a movie with high-budget Peter-Jacksony special-effects, but over half of it is shot in this documentary-style shaky hand-cam like “Blair Witch.”

The weird thing about “District 9” is that it’s all a metaphor for a lot of racial persecution going on in the world today, so it has this message to it. On the other hand, it has these outrageous un-ironic racial stereotypes, like the African gangsters who sell guns, kill people with machetes and practice voodoo, and for a movie set in Johannesburg, they make up most of the black actors you see. The protagonist is white as well in a predominantly black culture. …

Kind of a mixed message.

I was dreaming, and for whatever reason, the world was over. It was just fucking done. Of course, as with any good Apocalypse, there were a few rag-tag stragglers left behind and they had all converged on this house. Even though it was a crack shack, it was powered by all this nuclear science mumbo jumbo, which involved these open pits of acid. Green acid, to be precise. It starts raining, though, and these pits start to flood. It starts moving through the house, so it becomes this classic video game scenario where I was running and jumping over pits of acid. I tried to get the other people of the house, but they’re just fucking idiots. Some of them were mutants too. Like 14%. One might have been Sabertooth too, I’m not sure. Anyway, their bright idea is to barricade themselves in, using furniture. You can see how this might not work. They’re using towels under the door like they’re trying to hide pot smoke. At one point, they’re holding a door shut with a cabinet as it buckles in from being dissolved, and they’re gone. I’m running through the acid now, and my feet are melting, and it hurts like a bitch. With each passing moment, there’s fewer places to run to. I think the dream ends with me being surrounded on all sides. Delightful.

They say no news is good news. Unfortunately, every time I open a paper, I read about another reason why I should move away from Abbotsford. Here’s the crap that’s been going on in my town:

During the Agrifair last week, some asshole left their baby and their two other children, both under four, in a locked car while he went to go and get drunk at the Beer Garden. Now: I know back in the day people use to do that shit all the time, while smoking their Laramines and listening to the Big Bopper. At some point, though, they would have thought to themselves, “Hey maybe I should roll down the window.” This wasn’t just a hot day, mind you. It was one of the hottest days on record. These kids nearly died. On the news they showed a stereotypical cop with a ‘stache trying to comfort this poor crying baby. Heartbreaking stuff. The asshole in question was a stereotypical piece of white trash leering at the camera while he was being led away in handcuffs. Of course he had on his Tapout shirt so every knew he was gangsta. Classy guy.

Then, in a unrelated story (possibly), someone found a bag of bloody clothes in a dumpster last night. Very bloody clothes. Suspicious stuff. Could be nothing. Could be something.

Now, just a few minutes ago, I was reading an article on MSN about Canada’s 10 Hardest Hit Job Markets. I’m clicking through it and I’m seeing a lot of towns in Ontario related to the collapse of the auto industry. What’s number 10 on the list? Abbotsford. My town. 9.0% jobless rate for July. Why?

No fucking clue, aside from the fact that every second person is either growing, using, or dealing, and I’m not just talking about the green stuff. We have no relation to the auto industry, or any of the other major markets that have recently collapsed. The only places I know of to go out of business are A&B Sound, Pet Cetera and Linen and Things, and it’s not like those people couldn’t find other work of that calibre. On the other hand, Abbotsford’s basically farm country. The only real businesses employing more than ten people are retail outlets and dinky little manufacturers. Not a lot of choice between them. A city that has the highest murder rate in Canada doesn’t exactly attract high-end business.

Hasbro recently re-released Generation I Optimus Prime as part of their 25th Anniversary for Transformers. By coincidence, I was recently looking at my Optimus Prime from when I was a kid. I forget the exact age I was when I first had it, but it’s been well over two decades. My girlfriend’s son Patrick received the “new” 25 Anniversary Optimus for his birthday. It’s basically an exact replica, although the colours are a little lighter, and there’s a few minor detail that were changed. For instance, the original has longer smokestacks sticking up from it’s shoulders. The problem with those is that they broke off easier. That’s one of my problems with the toy.

Optimus is the most recognizable Transformer, as well as the “leader” of the Autobots. Also, he’s a bitchin’ truck. Because of these factors, every kid past-and-present wants him. Problem was: he’s quite breakable. It’s an issue that’s been addressed with more modern Transformers, who have been designed to have parts that will break off if enough force is applied, but these parts can snap back into place. With Ol’ School Optimus, if it breaks, it’s broken. I broke the hatch off his trailer within weeks of owning. Also, his legs are held steady by springs, which will loosen if used too many times. After that, he won’t be able to stand independently.

That’s just the first of it’s problems. Optimus has small parts that are easily lost. That doesn’t matter so much with most toys, but Optimus’s hands detach as part of his transformation. If you lose those, you have a handless Optimus. Not exactly the biggest threat to Megatron.

Thirdly, he has stickers. A lot of toys in the 80’s had stickers that had to be applied, possibly because they were too cheap to pay the Chinese slave labourers to do it properly. That means you have to put them on yourself. Tear one, or put one on a little crooked, and that great looking toy you had is now a piece of garbage. You’re going to see your inadequate handiwork every time you play with it. Plus it loses it’s collector’s value even further.

Another thing is: it’s confusing. Not so much in regards to the transforming, but the accessories. The trailer turns into a mobile command base. That’s fine, only it’s not an Optimus sized base. It’s designed for tiny little men. If you’re considering the scale of things, these supposed men would be too small to drive Optimus as a truck. If there were actual toys for these men, they would be about a cm tall. There’s no men, though, despite all evidence there should be. There’s even a cockpit hatch that opens to reveal a pilot’s seat. No pilot, though. Why would Optimus haul around this trailer command base for humans when there’s no humans on Cybertron? In fact, there’s no humans at all. Is he sentimental? Is it a Field of Dreams situation where he hopes having the trailer will bring the humans back?

Another thing: weird holes. Optimus has unusual orifices. The trailer has two holes in the sides. Plus Optimus’s body has holes in his headlights where his hands are supposed to fit, and another below his head on the roof of the truck.

I rebuilt an old puzzle of mine. Most of it was already assembled, so it only took an hour to get together.

It’s not so challenging as a puzzle, even with mostly identical white pieces, but it is mechanically challenging. You might notice some of the pieces aren’t properly together, even if they’re in their proper place. Forcing those pieces in place will dislodge other pieces. It’s like fighting a hydra. Don’t try moving it either, because it’ll fall apart like Lindsay Lohan on a bender. It makes cool sound effects with an electronic box located in the foot, and standing 17.5” tall it’s about half life-sized. Not quite as good as the real thing, but interesting nevertheless

While sitting through the trailers before Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, I was forced to endure a preview for G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra. Now: there was a lot they could have done with this movie. The source material, of course, are plastic action figures that haven’t been en vogue for twenty-years. Still, at it’s core, G.I. Joe is a about elite military agents battling terrorism. In a sense, that’s still what this movie is about, but the producers decided to throw in some crap about Accelerator Suits and metal-dissolving acid missiles.

I don’t feel like talking about that. I feel like talking about the possible redemption of M. Shaylan.. Shaoulin… Shama-lama-ding-dong Night I saw the trailer for The Last Aibender. It starts off like your stereotypical kung-fu flick with a kid practicing his moves surrounded by all these candles, and he’s blowing them out with the force of his blows. Typical stuff. Then it pans out to show the temple he’s in is being overrun by ninja dudes climbing up a cliff-side. A lot of dudes. Like, a lot of lot of dudes. Then it pans out more to show ships bringing in even more dudes by sea. Then more ships. And then more. Then some of the ships and firing flaming balls by catapult. Good stuff.

I was within a hair-breadth of purchasing Fallout 3 for my Xbox 360 today. What stopped me? The price tag. $64. Used.

That’s right: it costs more to buy Fallout 3 used than it does to buy a fresh copy. Amazon.ca lists it at $59.99 Canadian. Still pricey, considering how long it’s been on the market. The dollar value of a game usually degrades with age, to the extent that you can buy some titles for $10 less within three months of their release. I realize that games are a commodity, and it’s a supply and demand market, but when you’re charging someone above retail for a used product, that’s getting a bit out of hand. Some greasy teen’s probably had his hands all over your used disc of Fallout 3. He could have put his balls on it and you’d never know, except for the pube. You’re paying above the full amount for a raped disc.

It’s these kind of practices that make me wonder how game resellers are getting away without being called pawn shops. They’re paying you under $40 for something they’re going to turn around and sell for $64. Sometimes, you’re lucky to get $15. Technically, they’re not paying you shit. They’re giving you gift cards. If you never redeem your credit, it means they’re getting your games for free. There’s no limit to how many time they can resell you the same disc either. You might be the fourth person to own the game. In a way, you’re just renting it for the price of buying it. You’d think it’d be the perfect business model, but still these geniuses are losing money. Blockbuster is close to bankruptcy. Think about it: the cost of a game is about sixty dollars these days. They have to rent it six times to make their money back. That’s six weeks maximum for a popular title, and then they turn a profit. Plus, any late fees add to their coffers. If they manage to rent the same title once a week for a year, they’ve made five hundred and twenty dollars, four hundred and sixty dollars of that is profit. Then they can sell the title used for the cover price, and make back their sixty dollars. That means total profit. Still, they can’t balance their books. WTF?

One of the reason Fallout 3 is so popular on the resell market is because so few people are selling their copies. Downloadable content has made many people retain their copies. In fact, it’s one of the many things that’s intrigued me about the title. These days, a game’s got to have downloadable content. It’s just smart business. After all, if people aren’t going to keep your game, they’re going to sell it. Then people are going to buy those second-hand copies. That means more people aren’t buying original copies, and the game’s manufacturer’s doesn’t make money.

Thing is: the game disc for Fallout 3 is a piece of garbage. It was shipped broken. Meaning: if you play Fallout 3, you run the risk of bricking your system. It requires a download to resolve numerous performance issues. If you’re buying Fallout 3, used or otherwise, you’re essentially buying AIDS for your gaming system. You’re being charged $64 for a scratched up copy of a game that’ll rape your Xbox. As I said, there’s a patch available, but let’s say for whatever reason your system isn’t connected to the internet? You’re red-ringed. Plus, it’s pretty obvious the developers didn’t put all of the content available in the game. They kept most of it in reserve to release it as downloadable content, at extra cost. The original game takes about 15 hours to plow through. The downloadable content is what keeps it going. Without that, all you have is 1/4 of a game.

Meanwhile, you can buy the Special Edition of Fallout 3 new for $79, and get all the goodness that goes with it.

This is my logic at the store: I can buy the Special Edition for $13 more, but at that price, I might as well buy Guitar Hero: World Tour Complete Guitar Game for $99, but at that price I might as well buy the complete set for $199 or so, but at that price, I could buy groceries for the next three weeks. That’s why I didn’t end up buying anything.

And people wonder why there’s a Recession going on.

Final Fantasy XIII isn’t even out yet, and there’s already talk about Final Fantasy XIV. A thirteenth sequel is expected of course, as Square-Enix will keep pumping out these games until Mount Fuji finally buries all of Japan in lava. This game, however, is an unprecedented MMO sequel to Final Fantasy XI: Online.

If you’ve never played Final Fantasy XI: Online, try this little experiment: go out and wait for a ferry for five hours. Then get on. Sail someplace where no one speaks English, and people judge you based on your job and race. Try walking from town to town with wild animals chasing you the entire way. You should have no viable means of defending yourself from said animals, and if you’re killed, return to the town where you started.

FFXI is a terrible, terrible game. It can’t really be called a game, because it’s more like slow torture. Where other MMOs reward you for your accomplishments, FFXI punishes you for your failures.

Now they’re making a new game, instead of resolving all the glaring problems with the multi-platform original. Not much has been said about it so far, but one would think they’d learn from their past mistakes. Not so.

FFXI had five playable races. Each race had it’s own quests and attributes, so if you didn’t choose wisely starting out in the game, you were screwed for the next eighty levels or so. Racism was absolutely rampant in FFXI, albeit make-believe. It wasn’t just in the in-game dialogue, but also other players refusing to interact with certain races of certain job classifications. This made for fun times, especially since everything in the game must be done in groups of six to be successful. The races themselves were silly. There were dog-people; cat-people; obnoxious funny-talking little child-people; humans, but spelt “hume”; and elves, but spelt differently also to try and be clever. Here’s a picture:

That’s not from FFXI, that from FFXIV. They’re re-releasing them, because they’re so interesting… Seriously, WTF? You had the option of creating a whole new game, and to erase the mistakes of the old one, and you went and did this. Obviously, any fantasy game is going to have humans and elves, and cat-chicks are hot, but why bring back the other two? Why not add more, or replace what your have? The only people who ever played as the dog-people were douchebag loners, and the people playing as the kids were weird 30-year-olds with serious problems. What do either of these races have to do with Final Fantasy anyway? Throw in some moogles or marlborors. You think people wouldn’t want to play as a fifteen-foot tall carnivourous plant that spews poison out it’s mouth?

Dr. Blake was awakened by the beckoning call of his servant Hectar. His eyes opened immediately, but his body was slow to respond. He lay, fully clothed upon his fine sheets, his arms at his sides. Slowly, he raised his head. Sun poured in through the thin gaps in the curtains. The hour was uncertain and unwelcome. “What is it, Hectar?” he asked irritably.
“Sire, I was to inform you upon the arrival of your sister and niece,” Hectar reminded him.
It was sooner than he expected, given the weather and the travelling conditions. “Very well. Am I to greet them?”
“If you so desire, milord,” Hectar told him amicably. “Sir, might I inquire about the business with the town sheriff last night?” he added reluctantly.
“No, Hectar, there are a great many things you may not inquire about. That affair is one of them.” Stretching himself, Dr. Blake felt for his cane. He was not of the age where he required such a crutch, but it was comforting nevertheless. To him, it was his royal sceptre, and one of the few relics he accepted from his departed sea-faring father.
“Forgive me, sire,” Hectar apologized hastily. “I merely wished to inquire if you needed me to send for Culous and Wing,” he named the two favourite thugs in his generous employ.
“Later in the day, I shall require their particular services,” Dr. Blake mused. “For the moment, I require breakfast. Tell me, in you absent-mindedness, have you thought to care for our guests?”
“But of course, sire,” Hectar responded. “I would not forget to see after such gentlewomen as your own kin. They are quite comfortable, I believe. Your sister has retired to her quarters. As for your niece, she awaits you at the table. Shall I set your clothes?”
“No, these are fine for the moment, but I will require a fresh attire for after I‘ve eaten and bathed,” Dr. Blake looked at himself. He surmised he had scarcely two hours of sleep, and with good cause. Noting his fingers, he found them stained with blood. He rubbed them together until the stain blended in with his own flesh. “This niece of mine… How would you describe her?”
“Quite easy on the eyes, sire, if I do say so myself,” Hectar said with a wink.
“I would rather not think about what you consider attractive, dear Hectar,” Dr. Blake told him.
Not put off by his insults, Hectar continued, “Oh sir, I doubt you would find her disagreeable. She is pale, that is certain, but given the climate she’s accustomed to, I doubt it is a peculiarity.”
“Hmm… Well I suppose I shall have to see for myself,” Dr. Blake surmised. Grunting, he rose from bed. His joints ached, reminding him he was growing older. There was precious little time left in his life, and he was to use it wisely.
Dr. Blake made his way to the dining room, where he found food had already been set. There, at the end of the table, across from where he traditionally sat, was his guest. She was likely the fairest guest he had ever entertained at the burg since having it reconstructed. “Elizabeth?” he inquired.
“Uncle,” she said as she rose and gave a short curtsy.
“Never mind such gestures here,” he told her pleadingly. “I am quite informal. Let me get a look at you.” Drawing nearer, he reached out to embrace her with his arms. Elizabeth was of an age to marry, but still unclaimed. A marvel, considering her good looks and breeding. Either she was picky with her suitors, or else standards were slipping. She was pale as Hectar had mentioned, but he has not encountered such a snowy countenance, although the powder she wore could be thanked for that. She reminded him something of his own mother., but his memory of her was not as it was. Her dark hair was done up in a tight bun, with a few strands coming loose. No doubt the effects of her long journey. Her lips were impeccably small, and painted smaller still. Bags were visible through her think make-up under her eyes, The poor girl was even more tired than he, a less than a third of his age. “Ah, it is good to see family. This countryside is dark indeed. It affects my spirits. I hope your journey was not too troubling?”
“The weather was quite fierce,” she told him in a small voice. She was not diminutive, but her demeanour made her shrink below her height, “but our carriage driver managed the roads without much difficulty.”
“Then it was uneventful save for the weather?” he asked politely. “Please, sit, eat,” he offered, and made his way to his own seat. Hectar held out the chair for him, and he sat to eat. A plate of sausage and greens was revealed to him. He insisted upon his green with every meal.
“Yes, sir, save for one event,” she paused.
“Oh?” he prompted curiously.
“Yes, sir, we became stuck in the mud at one point, and I was worried we may have to continue of foot,” she explained as she picked up her knife as if it was a foreign object. “Our driver tried to free us, but to no avail, but then this imposing figure loomed out of the woods. At first I thought it was a bear, given our location, but no, it was a man all dressed in rags. I’ve never seen any creature so large. I daresay I would not come up to it’s chest., uncle. He gave our carriage one push, and we were on our way. Never spoke a word.”
“A humble spirit, to be sure,” Dr. Blake mused on it. He tried to picture what the man must look like.
“Have you heard of such a man, sir? It wasn’t too far from your burg,” she began to cut at her sausage without really looking at it.
“I’m not as familiar with the locals as I perhaps should be,” Dr. Blake admitted, “but I do believe they make mention of a certain character. He’s more of an imagining that anything else, mind you, but they say he’s a troll who watches over the woods. Not a friendly sort.”
“They make no mention of the Frankenstein Monster, then?” she asked.
Dr. Blake set his fork down. “And what would you know of the Frankenstein Monster, dear niece?” he asked her.
“Precious little, I imagine,” she confessed. “Save for what I read back home. They say he was a monster stitched together from dead men and brought to life with science, or sorcery. He looked rather like this man I just mentioned to you earlier, taller than belief, and strong as an ox.”
“Which is to say what?” Dr. Blake inquired without trying to reveal too much. “Did he looked stitched together? My word, for a gentlewoman like yourself to be speaking of such monsters. I suppose I have your mother to blame for that.”
“I saw what I saw, uncle,” she told him curtly. “A man covered in scars from wounds too terrible for any human to endure.”
“Just what are you driving at, dear?” Dr. Blake said carefully. “Was this the Frankenstein?”
“Isn’t he what brings us here? Were you not trying to fill the late doctor’s boots?” she asked him. Whatever meagreness he had gathered about her persona had vanished, and was replaced with something quite fierce.
“That’s an ugly rumour, to be certain,” he laughed it away.
“Come off of it, uncle,” his niece told him. “I’ve just met you, but I know you. You’re as mad as my own grandfather, your father. Only your obsession is with life after death, rather than the sea. You came here chasing the Frankenstein. I’m telling you I saw it.”
“So tell me more,” Dr. Blake insisted. “In detail. What did he look like?”
“As I said, he was covered in scars and burns, so you could not tell the colour of his skin. His clothes were much the same. He was built large, but built wrong. That very wrongness permeated his whole demeanour. He sounded every bit the monster, like something exhumed and ill pleased by it. More than that I cannot say,” she said.
“A brief description for such a supposedly large man,” Dr. Blake scoffed. “Did you not get a better look than that?”
“I did not, nor would you. Such a thing is not to be looked at for overly long,” she explained.
“You would be surprised by what I spend my hours looking at,” he smiled coldly at her. “For a man who offered you his help, you have much ill to say about it.”
“I’m telling you what I saw,” she insisted. “Do with it what you will. What I required, however, is for you to tend to my dear, departed father.”
The silence was long and laden. “So your mother told you,” he said at last.
“She did indeed. Did you expect her to find an adequate lie for why we were transporting my father’s earthly remains to a country he never visited, nor cared to?” she asked him.
“I make no promises,” Dr. Blake assured her. “My successes can scarcely be called that. If you want your father to live once more, I can give you that. If you want your father back as you knew him: this I cannot yet achieve. All I can promise is that I shall do my best, but not in haste.”
“Do more,” she told him. “Much more.”
“You,” Dr. Blake gestured his knife at her pointedly. “You, I like. Why has you mother hidden you from me for so long? Why is it only at this late hour that I am introduced to such a niece?”
“Perhaps it is because you trade in death,” she offered.
“But not despair,” he was quick to add. “Never despair. That is not my goal. Your talk of the Frankenstein warrants inspection. I shall have my men intervene, but I do believe that any bold action shall cause my undoing. I was visited last night by the sheriff, who himself had encountered my Frankenstein. Or one of them, at least. He will want to investigate further. All roads will lead him to me. I have taken care of many like him, but he will draw undue attention. I shall meet with the late Dr. Frankenstein’s fate if I am not careful.”
“Just what have you been able to accomplish?” she asked curiously.
“If you wish to see, I suggest you  forego the rest of your breakfast. You shan’t be wanting  it where you go,” he smiled.

I did some more writing today to get a feel for an idea I have. This is the result. The work, of course, is from a forthcoming novel entitled, “Frankenstein VS. the Zombies.”

Dr. Ozymandias Blake stared blankly at the candle’s flame until he felt his eyes grow dry and tired. Then he merely blinked and continued his groundless observation of the constant flickering glow. He had reached an impasse in his studies which he sincerely doubted he could overcome. It was like a jigsaw with missing pieces. Without these he would be unable to continue, no matter how long he poured over the research of the late Dr. Frankenstein. The tattered documents lay scattered about the table before him. Some were illegible, no matter how closely he scrutinized the writing under different lights and with a magnifying glass. The ink had either been washed away by the rain, or else the page itself had been reduced to ash. Out of the original seven hundred page journal, only two hundred pages remained. It had taken him years, and a small fortune to collect what he had, and it was foolhardy to try and unveil more. There was nothing else to be had.
He noticed a blob of ink has dripped from his quill onto the journal he kept. It was a translation of the code Frankenstein had written his notes in. It was easy enough to decipher. It was English, written backwards. Being his native tongue, he had only to place a mirror up to the pages. It was enough to fool the illiterate villagers, who had torn apart the original script. They kept part, while giving the rest to their pastor to burn as the Devil’s work. A local book seller had realized he could turn the rest to his profit, and he had collected what he could from the townsfolk, who had similar ideas. He had made his money, for a time, but it cost him his life. Blake was not satisfied with his paltry assurances that he was being sold the complete collection. He employed a pair of ruffians to beat the whereabouts of the remaining pages from him, before silencing him forever. Now the book seller was on display in several specimen jars in his basement. The same went for the pastor. At least the pastor had been honest with him. Whatever had entered his hands he had cursed and burned. Dr. Blake spared him a similar fate, and put his remains to better use. He was collector of more than mere books. Twelve more pages were found amongst the villagers. They were more than ready to hand them over. He allowed them to live, if only to avoid drawing suspicion to himself. There were enough rumour floating around as it was, with a Englishman purchasing Burg Frankenstein a few kilometres south of the quiet village of Darmstadt. They were a superstitious lot without him giving them a valid reason to be suspicious.
That was why the disappearances were resolved without bringing undue attention. The book seller’s cart was found abandoned, and his horse and belongings were missing. He was assumed to have been robbed and murdered by bandits. The pastor was suspected of impregnating a lovely young prostitute and then murdering her in his shame before having to flee to avoid excommunication from the Church. In truth, it was Dr. Blake who had committed the fatal deed, but he intended to make amends for that.
Taking a pinch of sand, he sprinkled it carefully onto the page where he had spilt his ink before blowing it away. Unlike Dr. Frankenstein before him, he prided himself upon his penmanship. He used no cipher, but he used the Queen’s English. It was important to have everything in order before he could proceed. Once he completed his volume, he would combine it with the one that came before, the journal of Igor.
Many had laughed at Dr. Frankenstein when he proposed to reverse the effects of death itself., or at least those who did not decry him as a monster. When Dr. Blake came across his research , he took him seriously.  So seriously in fact, that he had proposed to fund his mad experiments. It was the ends Dr. Blake proposed that made Dr. Frankenstein refused to be part of the means, however, and no monies ever exchanged hand between the two. Dr. Blake had miscalculated the strength of Dr. Frankenstein’s character. It mattered not, because Igor, a hunchback rejected by all save Dr. Frankenstein himself,  had no such limitations. He would sell out his only friend by passing along notes made by the doctor by mail. In exchange, Dr. Blake promised the hunchback to reverse his deformity. An unlikelihood, if not an impossibility. He was gladden that the cretin had died terribly, so he would not have to Welsh on his promise.
Infuriatingly, however, Dr. Frankenstein kept most of his notes in a mental state. Despite a thick journal, he committed little to paper considering the scope of his ambition. Of these note, the diagrams were the most precious. Those, however, were the first chosen for the fire. Igor had sent him what he could, and in detail. Dr. Blake spent long hours editing the hideous scrawl that monster called writing. He had Dr. Frankenstein to thank for his literate state, and he thanked him with treachery. What he lacked in written skill, Igor made up with a  surprising artistic quality. Most precious of his possessions was a sketch of what he called, “The Monster.”
Dr. Blake had confirmed the accuracy of the drawing by matching the descriptions of the elderly villagers. They still remembered Dr. Frankenstein, and what they had done to him. Dr. Blake took more lessons from Dr. Frankenstein than what he left in his notes. He made certain that the villagers could not revolt in a similar fashion by employing his ruffians to quiet them when applicable. Nothing too direct. A bar fight here, a burglary there, a fire over there. Soon, they were quiet as church mice.
What troubled Dr. Blake at such a late hour was the holes left in his research. Pulling out his drawing of the Monster, he studied it carefully. Dr. Frankenstein had been successful in his endeavours. Instead of being hailed as a modern Prometheus, he was burned to death along with his creation. Nothing was left to be salvaged besides a few pieces of broken equipment and scorched documents.
Why was it then that rumours persisted of the Monster still roaming the countryside?
After all, once dead, what could kill the creature? Logically, he should expire like all other forms of life, as decay was the only constant in the universe, but he was not born of woman. He had been sewn together in a dank laboratory, and brought to life with lightning.
Which was where the research fell apart. If it was science, then science was repeatable. All of his experiments had been failures by his standards. Something else was happening, and he could not place it. If only he had the Monster, he could complete his research.
Sighing, to himself, Dr. Blake dipped his quill and tried to recall where he had left off.
That was when a knock came to his door.
“Enter!” was his immediate bellow. He had not patience to temper his mood for the servants.
“Sir?” a small voice called out through a crack in the door as it squeaked open. The hinge was rusty by intention. Dr. Blake needed to know the comings and going of those who wished audience with him without making it so obvious.
Dr. Blake waited briefly for more, but the servant took too long in his telling. “What is it?” he demanded, setting his quill down in it’s notch.
The servant, Hectar, made a surprised noise, then opened the door a little more, with a longer creak of the hinges. “Well sir, there’s a man to see you,” he explained.
“At this hour?” Dr. Blake thought to himself. He did not have to check his pocket watch to know it was after the midnight hour. “Who is it?”
“The sheriff, sir,” Hectar announced.
“Damnation,” Dr. Blake threw back his chair and picked up his cane. Hoisting it like a baton, he strode boldly towards the door. Hectar scarcely has enough time to scamper out of the way before Dr. Blake burst through. Blake was entering his later years, but he still cut and imposing figure. More threatening still were his eyes. His servant flatly refused to meet them.
Hectar scurried after him as Dr. Blake took broad strides down the hall towards the stairs. “He’s waiting for you at the door, sir. I didn’t know to let him in.”
“Of course let him in, he’s the bloody sheriff. You don’t leave him out in the cold. Where do you get your bloody manners from, boy?” he asked the servant, although they were of the same age. “No matter, go and make some tea for our guest.”
Dr. Blake could only imagine what the sheriff wanted with him, but he doubted it would bode well. No matter, he had no evidence of any wrong doing. It would be best to play along with whatever requests the man had to make before deciding his next move. At best, he would learn that one of his strong arms had found himself in a cell and was requesting his assistance for bail. If that were the case, let him rot in there. He had other matters to attend to besides playing nursemaid for a brainless thug.
Before placing his hand on the pull, Dr. Blake composed himself. Taking a deep breath, he threw the door open and bid the man a hearty German, “Welcome! What brings you here at this late hour?”
The sheriff was younger than one would expect, and hid this behind a bristly moustache that covered half his face. He ignored Dr. Blake for the moment as he strode in, observing the hall in full before returning his gaze to the doctor himself. “What took so long?” he asked.
“Blame it on my servant,” Dr. Blake insisted. “Good help is hard to find, as I’m sure you know. Is there anything I can help you with?” Dr. Blake briefly recalled that he was a doctor, and as such often called upon to assist with medical emergencies. He would set about these tasks with due diligence, as he was a professional. Few in the village called upon him, however, such was their distrust.
The sheriff considered the question, which admittedly had been offered in haste. “Yes, I do believe there is. Shall we talk?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Blake waved him on and shut out the cold. “This way,” he bade as he led him further into the hall to a sitting room. “Excuse the setting. I’m still waiting on a shipment of my furnishing from England,” he confessed as he offered the man a seat before placing himself in his own favourite chair for that room. A low fire was being kept to drive away the cold of the late fall.
“I would not have noticed,” the sheriff took in the lush setting worthy of high nobility. Dr. Blake was of blood, after all, but was known more for his entitlements than his title. It afforded him the finer things in life, and he enjoyed them to their fullest. “Tell me, doctor, do you know why I am here?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Dr. Blake replied, “although given the timing of your arrival, I doubt that much good can be said of it. I was just about to retire.”
“Sorry to disturb you, then,” the sheriff said it with no trace of an apology. Dr. Blake scarcely knew the man and already he was beginning to despise him. “I shan’t be quick about my business, however. Tell me, good doctor, are you familiar with the legend of Frankenstein?”
“Hmm…?” Dr. Blake pressed his fingertips together and raised his brow. “I’m not certain what you’re referring to.”
“Let me put this another way,” the sheriff drummed his fingertips on his armrest. “You know the legend of Frankenstein. You would not have come to this castle without knowing it.”
“Yes, I am aware of it, if that’s what y6u’re driving at. I know practically everything there is to know about it. I’m a collector of curiosities, sir. What could be more curious than a modern legend such as this?” he held up his hands.
“We never used to see visitors around these parts,” the sheriff explained slowly. “Then thirteen odd years past, it began. I’ve seen what they’ve written about us in foreign papers. If you’re as you say you are, ‘a collector,’ then this must be your crowning jewel. The very castle in which is all occurred.”
“Of course,” Dr. Blake laughed. “What else would attract me here? Certainly not the weather. To be honest, this place makes me the envy of my fellow nobles. We pride ourselves on our eccentricities.”
“As did Caligula,” the sheriff smiled. “Do those eccentricities include the exhumation of the dead?”
Dr. Blake’s false smile faltered. “Whatever do you mean? I’m no criminal, sir. Merely a man with a keen interest in your local folk legends.”
“Well someone shares your passion, sir,” the sheriff told him. “Do you know a Mrs. Levine August?”
“The name rings no bells,” he shook his head.
“Well she was found dead this morning,” the sheriff replied.
Dr. Blake gave no reaction. “How awful.”
“Indeed,” the sheriff continued. “The thing is, she was also found dead two months prior to today as well. Someone dug her up. Her remains were found in the woods several miles East of the graveyard where she was supposedly buried. What do you think of that?”
“I think something ghastly is afoot, but I don’t understand what it would have to do with me? Perhaps it’s the work of some practical joker with a disturbed sense of humour.”
“Well if it is, I doubt that her family is laughing very much. You see, when I returned to the gravesite where she was supposed to have been buried, I found it undisturbed. So I had my men dig it up. There, we found a coffin, with nothing inside but rocks. Imagine that.”
Dr. Blake looked confused. “You’re saying someone replaced her body, and then left it in the woods? Why go to such effort only to discard the body in such a clumsy matter? Why indeed would they want the body at all?”
“Well, you should know that. You’re the one living in Frankenstein Castle,” he smiled.
“Sir, if you’re suggesting…”
“I’m not suggesting anything at this point. It only seems to me that it would take someone interested in Frankenstein’s legacy to do something so diabolical, no matter what their reasoning. You know…” he paused, “it occurs to me at this point that I omitted one minor detail. When we found the body, it wasn’t dressed in the same dress it was supposed to have been buried in. Someone had changed it’s clothes. They we all muddied, too, which is to be expected. It looked to me, though, like something a serving girl might wear. Odd, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite odd,” Dr. Blake swallowed hard. The sheriff was watching him too closely for comfort.
“And there were fresh marks on it. I would swear that if I hadn’t known better, the girl could be said to have died that very day. Quite strange indeed, but I prattle on,” the sheriff rose from his chair. “I only came to warn you that there’s a grave robber in the vicinity. I dare say you picked a bad time to move to this village. Perhaps you’d be better served by returning to England?” he suggested pointedly before making his way out the door.
Dr. Blake sat there for a long while. Eventually, a rattle of cups announced the arrival of Hectar with tea. “Sir, what became of our guest?” he asked.
In a rage, Dr. Blake used his cane to knock the tray out of the servant’s hands. The cups shattered on the carpet and the tea stained the ancestral tapestries on the wall. Slowly, he ascended the stairs back to his study, where he waited for three hours. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back down to the cellar. Guided only by the light of candle, he made his way behind the dusty racks of wine to a solitary hatch covered by straw. Brushing this aside, he pulled up the rope handle and went down the ladder into the cold, dark depths.
Here was his true home, among the remains of Dr. Frankenstein’s equipment. Lighting a torch by the side of the wall, he cast the light over the chamber.
Already, he could hear them. Their low groaning. He shuffled his way towards the cage, where his experiment were kept. Cold, dead eyes stared back at him as they shrank away from the light. He ignored them, for the time being, and went further in to his laboratory. His shelves of specimen jars were still in place. Nothing had been disturbed. Nor had his sterile tools been moved from their trays. Furrowing his brow, he continued his investigation.
It as the table where he found the source of his consternation. The straps that had restrained his current subject had been broken, and a vat used for collecting fluids had been knocked over beside it. The table now stood empty. Below the operating table was a pool of blood which would not dry. This was a result of the chemicals he used in his experiments. Yet, this had been unsettled. A footprint not his own was found stepping from the pool. It was small and feminine. It lead towards the shaft through which his subjects were drawn in. The hatch at the end was blown open, and he quickly shut it. Few would notice it, however, as it looked little more than a fox hole in the side of a hill to the untrained eye. He was careful about such appearances.
“Damnation,” he swore under his breath as he quickly returned. “Levine, you bitch.”
He began to worry. How dead was she when they found her?

So I made it into the preview for the upcoming update for Xbox Live. You can’t honestly call it a Beta, because you’re not really testing anything. I’m curious as to why they’d make a preview available instead of launching the full event, as they allowed over 100,000 people in.

If you’re looking for change, you’re not going to find much of anything. They rearranged some of the sub-menus into different boxes, and added some more intuitive audio selection features that don’t really apply yet. There’s an option for WMA Pro, which only applies for audio files with Windows Media Centre. I use Windows Media Centre frequently, but on their end of things, WMA Pro doesn’t exist. It’s resolving a compatibility issue with a program that doesn’t exist yet, and considering how little Windows Media Centre gets update (I think it’s only been updated once since it’s launch), I doubt this will be a problem.

A lot of the changes are still rumours and hearsay, like downloading games onto your hard drive now takes up less space. I haven’t tried it for myself but it appears as if I’m using less disk space already.

There’s supposed to be a change with Netflix, but this is Canada, and for frustrating reasons we don’t get Netflix up here. I would gladly subscribe to this service, but instead I have to illegally download movies.

The big change is with the Avatar system, and by, “big,” I mean you now have the option of buying clothes and props for your Avatars. You can also unlock new items through game Achievements, but this hasn’t been implemented yet. You may ask who’d spend money on fake clothes for a fake person, and my answer would be, “You’re new to the 21st Century, aren’t you?” Have you honestly stopped and looked at the things people waste money on? Look at Second-Life. It’s a game completely revolving around the trade of real currency for fake items. What about WoW, where people spend fifteen hours of their lives just to get an item that will be marginally useful for the next two levels. If your let people buy that stuff instead of earning it, the entire U.S. economy would collapse (further) in days. People DO spend real money on these items, as there’s an underground black market inside of the game.

The clothing available right now revolves around three games: The Secret of Monkey Island, Fable II, and of course, Halo. Out of these three, only The Secret of Monkey Island has it right. You can buy costume pieces from the game, as well as hand-held accessories like giant Q-Tips and rubber chickens with a pully in the middle. As for Fable II and Halo, you can buy T-shirts you wouldn’t buy in real life. 99% of the clothing already available in the Avatar system looks like it came from the bargain bin at Zellers. These game-related clothes look just as bad. In the case of Halo: even worse. You’d think that for Halo they would have a Master Chief armour set available, but no. You should be able to trick out your Avatar the same way you can can trick out your Halo III multiplayer character. In fact: you should be able to use that as your Avatar. Screw all this cutesy kid’s stuff. Xbox isn’t a kid friendly system to begin with. Try finding a game for a kid seven and under. There’s about four. The other hundred titles are all graphic shooters. For props, instead of a BS rifle or a energy sword, you have a remote control Warthog… Why?

As for Fable II, they have the sole option for a costume piece is buying a Spire Guard shirt which bears little resemblance to the Spire Guard shit in the game itself. For a game that’s 80% dress-up, you’d think they’d have more options. I’ve spent hours in Fable II trying to find just the right outfit for my character. There’s some good choices, and there’s some very, very bad ones. The clothes they have in their Avatar system are all very bad.

There’s two independent clothing lines available as well. I can’t remember the name of the first, but it’s filled with old-man chic clothing. Respectable and attractive. Like something you’d wear in real life if you gave a damn about your appearance and had money to waste on clothes. You play Xbox, however, so you’re not in the category for people who’d wear this. It’s an interesting concept, though. Imagine if real retailers and designers put copies of their clothes into the Avatar system. It could help sales both ways. You could try out clothes on a virtual version of yourself before buying them in real life. These ideas are too sane for today’s market, however, so they will fail.

The second option is Steampunk. You can trick out your Avatar to look like he’s out of that terrible, terrible Wild, Wild West movie with Will Smith. Sadly, I did this. I bought a complete outfit of combat boots, breeches, shirt vest and gloves, cap with goggles, and mechanical glasses. I was quite pleased with the results. I wasn’t so pleased when I tried to play 1 vs. 100 to show off my new look and saw dead-pixels on my outfit. The look of the fabric changes as you go from game to game.

My suggestion for a new clothing line, considering the market Xbox caters to, is of course: Wigger. Go into Fiddy Cents’s wardrobe, take a picture, sell that to kids. They’ll steal their mom’s credit cards to buy it.

Recognizing a pro-wrestler from twenty years ago is a skill precious few posses. It helps that the wrestler in question is wearing a mullet and mutton chops. It’s not a combination one finds in nature, no matter how far South one travels. He’s one of those people you can’t help but identify. It’s like running into Mr.T. No one else dresses like Mr.T unless it’s Halloween, and in those cases they’re usually in blackface. It’s a testament to how unique some wrestlers look. Many of these performers are already 6’5” and weighing in at 350lbs. Then they decide to paint their faces gold, or carry around a python. It’s like putting up a neon sign pointing to a fire, or a hot chick getting a tattoo on her massive jugs. I’m just saying that if Hulk Hogan was in line in front of you at Starbucks, you’re going to know it’s him before you see the ‘stache.

The Honky-Tonk Man was never a major player, but everyone knew his shtick. He’d come out lookin’ like Elvis, and break a guitar over on someone’s head. People never used to break guitars before Honky-Tonk Man. He started that. In the wrestling ring, at least.

It wasn’t quite so surprising running into the Honky-Tonk Man, considering it was at a county fair. That’s typically where you’d expect to meet someone with the word, “Honky,” in their name. Did he have an aura around him? No. He’s not Rick James. He was about my height, however, leading me to believe I might be able to take him. Not necessarily in a fight, but perhaps in some form of non-athletic competition.

It was odd to think about how long he’d been in the “game.” The parallels between him and Mickey Rourke’s character,“The Ram” from The Wrestler, were considerable. The only difference is that Honky-Tonk could probably have won that Oscar. Plus Mickey could probably kick his ass. Honky-Tonk had the tan going on, but he wasn’t all ‘roided out. He was just a man with a job, signing autographs and wrestling in a little-known franchise.

Mostly, though, I was reminded about how my ex told me she had to see Honky-Tonk’s penis as he got changed. Once that image is placed in your head, you can’t get it out, even with a shotgun. You wonder if he’s got mutton chops around his balls, and thoughts equally as disturbing. I wanted to tell him, “Hey, I know a chick who saw your dick.”

To which he would probably reply, “Who, your mom?”

The truth is sadder by far.