Riding Red in the Hood

So, dudes, I’m, like, walkin’ through this freakin’ forest. Ya’ know, with lots o’ trees and crap like that. It’s kind of a dangerous joint, kinda like rainforest meets ghetto and I’m feelin’ a little nervous ‘bout bein’ alone an’ vulnerable. Whoa, like, hold the friggin’ phone, people. I just used a totally ragin’ word. Didja hear it? I said…uh…. Well, anyway, there I was mindin’ my own schnozz, when this huge bugaboo, like a wolfy kind o’ creature, comes borglin’ out of an alleyway and stands in front o’ me wid this totally creepy look on his mug.

“Gimme your money or I’ll chew off your arm,” he says ta’ me. I decided he was feelin’ hostile.

“Like, shove it, you freak o’ nature,” I says. “The asylum closes at midnight.” I could tell he’s ticked off ‘bout that and he starts snarlin’ and makin’ these weird guttural (there I go again, like, whoa!) noises in his throat.

“Gimme your money or I’ll chew off your arm,” he says again. This time he says it a bit louder and the growlin’ gets deeper down in his throat.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” I says. “Ain’t comfy.”

He, like, glares at me and, I ain’t makin’ this up, blushes. “You keep my delicates outta this,” he says, and stomps his foot. “Gimme your money or…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I says. “You’ll chew off my arm. Look, wouldn’t ya rather have this basket o’ goodies I’m carryin’? Maybe follow me home and eat my grandma?”

The wolf looks interested. “Grandmother?”

“Yeah, ya’ know,” I says. “Old lady, white hair, glasses, kindly, great cook, plump…”

“Plump?” The wolf’s eyes light up. He’s diggin’ this.

“Totally,” I says. “I wouldn’t lie ta’ yous.”

The wolf licks his chops and it occurs ta’ me that maybe I shouldn’t o’ given him that kinda information. But, it’s totally late for worryin’, so I lead the wolf ta’ granny’s pad and knock on the door. She opens the door and acts all happy ta’ see me and even invites in the wolf. Because the old bat ain’t wearin’ her glasses, she thinks it’s a new friend o’ mine.

Soon she learns her mistake, when she puts on her specs and sees this slobberin’ wolf gazin’ at her wid a look o’ hunger.

“Whoa, dude,” she says, “those are some kinda ears ya’ got there. Meanin’ no disrespect.”

“None taken,” says the wolf. “I just keep ‘em around so I’se can hear ya’ better.”

“Well, then ya’ got big eyes, too,” says granny.

“The better ta' see ya’ with,” says the wolf.

“Huge fangs, there,” says granny.

The wolf gives out a big howl and rubs his tum. “I’m gonna, like, so eat you up!” he says.

Well, granny gives a shriek and tries ta’ make it out the door, but the wolf snags her by the apron and drags her back. I turn around so I can’t see dis part, but I can tell by the belches that granny must’a been good eatin’.

‘Bout this time, the door flies open and a woodsman stands there wid an axe.

“Unhand the old broad,” he says, showin’ no class whatsoever.

The wolf belches again and smiles kinda smug. “Ain’t gonna do it,” he says. “I done ate her and that’s that, ya’ has-been.”

This remark makes da’ woodsman ticked off an’ he whacks the wolf with his axe, cuts him clean open, he does. Granny spills out on the floor, filthy, but none the worse for wear, and throws herself on the woodsman.

“I want ya,” she says, “like, right now!”

I don’t wanna see the rest o’ this, so I heads outside and goes home, takin’ the basket o’ goodies wid me. Granny’s got treats of her own.

Please, Forgive Me!

Anonymous is dead. And I have killed him. Yes, friends, I am coming out of the closet. No, not that, Pickle Weasel! My name is Anonymous. And I can’t spell. Come to think of it, I can’t punctuate or capitalize, either. Also, I have a problem accepting the fact that everything in the world is not evil. I need help.

Yes, friends, I must confess that for the past few weeks or so, I have been haunting the Blog pretending to be someone I am not. Or, perhaps more accurately, pretending not to be who I am. I am Anonymous. I feel badly about this deception.

Wait! No, I don’t! It was fun and I’d do it again. Hehehehee! Seriously, though, I hope you blogging buddies won’t hold this little joke against me. I got the idea from the very first Anonymous post (which was not me) and decided it would be fun to continue the little game.

It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. I had to change my entire writing style, misspell key words, and keep my own comments sufficiently apart so as not to incriminate myself with identical timestamps. I then responded to myself and acted amused at the righteous ravings. And amused I was.

Hopefully, you all found this as entertaining as I did and realize it was all in good fun. But now I grow weary of the charade and nothing ruins a good joke faster than carrying it past its expiration date, anyway.

Perhaps the real Anonymous, the one who first accosted Foo, will see this post and realize it is now their turn to take up the slack. Back into the saddle, O Genuine Anonymous! (I didn’t mean that sexually, by the way.)

Paul the CrimeFighter 2; The Old Man's Plan

If you missed my first installment of Paul the CrimeFigher, here it is!

The sedan’s four-cylinder engine cut out, and the driver’s door opened. A tall man with spectacles emerged, clutching a bulging briefcase. The man hefted this with unnatural ease. Pthabbth chewed suspiciously on his car’s windshield wiper.

“Hey…” said the man, pointing at Pthabbth.

“It’s okay, little guy,” Paul said to the marmoset, poking him in the tummy. “He’s on our side.” Paul turned to his guest.

“The Stupid Blogger! Nice to see ya!” he bellowed heroically, and saluted. The Stupid Blogger saluted back with his free hand. “Whatcha got in the case there? Files? Documents? Reports and surveillance on all manner of evildoers?”

“Pweep!” said Pthabbth.

“Liar!” Paul hooted at the marmoset. Pthabbth untied Paul’s shoe to indicate his distaste.

“Styrofoam peanuts,” said The Stupid Blogger. “I just keep it all stuffed like this so I look too busy to accept more work. Keeps me free to follow important leads without getting all bogged down with paperwork.” He shrugged.

“That’s brilliant!” enthused Paul. Startled, Pthabbth let loose a squeak and tried to climb into Paul’s sock.

The Stupid Blogger pulled a USB flash drive out from behind his ear. “It’s all on here, along with some little video clips of kittens falling off things.”

Paul’s mouth dropped open and Pthabbth chewed a hole in his sock and squirted out. He went bouncing across the parking lot toward the apartment building.

“Let’s follow Pthabbth. We’ll fire up my insanely powerful computer with the dual-core processor, the two whole gigabytes of RAM and fanless PCI-Express video card with the heatpipes. This will make the kittens very clear and fun to watch,” Paul said, walking toward the building and glowing with pride.

The Stupid Blogger shielded his eyes. “It’s kind of uncertain at the moment, but it looks like the Old Man’s up to his games again,” he said, matching Paul’s manly stride. His briefcase burst open, sending a mushroom cloud of Styrofoam peanuts into the troposphere.

Paul froze, his hand wavering an inch from the doorknob. “The… Old Man? Holy. Crap.”

Pthabbth, who had been patiently gnawing on the doorjamb, looked up and spit some wood shavings onto Paul’s shoes. “Bworp?” he suggested.

“That’s a good idea! We’ll go watch the kitten videos and then we’ll get in the CrimeWagon and go confront the Old Man! Bet he's got doughnuts."

“We could take my car,” said The Stupid Blogger. “It’s already warmed up.”

Paul stared at him blankly for three minutes, which his time at Crime School taught him was the precise amount of time to non-verbally state your opinion that someone’s idea was worthless. The Stupid Blogger looked up from his wristwatch.

“Three minutes,” he muttered. “Okay. Why not?”

“The CrimeWagon’s got experience, and it’s capable of throwing a cloud of rust into the air in order to facilitate escape from villains. Can your car do that? You got rust?”

“Nope!” said The Stupid Blogger, with too much pride.

“Tweep, ffffffpptth!” said Pthabbth.

The Stupid Blogger looked abashed. “Good point, lil’ guy,” he said, and patted Pthabbth on the head. “Oxidation is indeed one of the most heroic forms of chemical change, due to its power to turn even the strongest of steel girders to dust and its protective effect on the surface of aluminum and copper. Quite true.”

Paul nodded at his knee where Pthabbth was clinging, keyed into the building and moved in, squeezy light drawn.

The three of them crowded into Paul’s lair and Paul inserted the USB flash drive. “You know,” he began, searching for the mouse on his cluttered desk, “lair is just another term for bedroom.”

“I don’t believe that’s true,” said the Stupid Blogger. He moved a pile of clean socks off a chair and sat down. “You can Google it if you don’t believe me,” he added, seeing Paul’s glaze-eyed skeptical look.

“No, no no. I’m pretty sure… I mean, it’s where I lay down to sleep, and where all my laundry lays on the floor. I do my laying here, so it’s my lair. Make sense?” Paul heroically rebutted, scratching the permascruff on his chin thoughtfully. “Ah. Here’s the mouse.”

He pulled a wireless mouse out from under a pile of empty DVD cases, which promptly fell off the desk and caused Pthabbth to become agitated. His fur bushed out, and he ricocheted around the room until The Stupid Blogger tossed him a bag of Skittles he’d taken from his briefcase.

“Gweeeee!” squeaked an excited Pthabbth, and he set about jamming the candy into all the empty USB ports he could find.

They watched the kittens on Paul’s 20-inch widescreen LCD, and the video acceleration made them crisp and adorable. Paul beamed with pride so hard he fell off his chair, clutching his elbow.

Suddenly, the room went dark, except for the bluish glow cast by the LCD, and Paul’s speakers switched themselves on. First there was static, then a voice.

“Rotten little kids!” it said in a cracked growl. It sounded…old.

“Holy flaming Elmo!” Paul screamed. “It’s the Old Man! And he’s in my wonderful computer!” He reached for the USB drive, yanked it out and chewed it up.

“Hey!” said The Stupid Blogger. “That thing cost me fifty bucks!”

“And a lotta good it did you too, whelp,” said the voice from the speakers. “Although one can always hope there was something poisonous in it,” it added wryly.

Paul quickly donned his cape and set up a fan in front of himself. He pointed a heavily muscled finger at the monitor and said, in his deepest, hairiest voice, “Prepare to be defeated, Old Man! Hide behind my LCD if you will, but we will find you and crumble your plans to dust like so many month-old Christmas cookies! I'll have your doughnuts!"

“I hate you,” grumbled the Old Man, and the screen too went dark. The lights in the room flickered back on, and The Stupid Blogger turned off the fan.

“To the CrimeWagon!” Paul boomed.

“Lerp!” agreed Pthabbth.

...to be continued!

Scruffy Love 3; Diamond in the Scruff

In his secret underground lair deep inside the highest peak of the Malady Mountains, Thurgood Bastardson laughed quietly to himself. His laughter slithered around his cave like evil gerbils running in exercise wheels made of dishonesty.

This craggy expanse of rock and misery stretched the entire latitude of Rugged Outlaw County, and provided Thurgood with excellent cover from the prying eyes and dogooding ways of the local constabulary. This was fortunate, as he had a good mind to go out and make Buck miserable today. He whistled for his horse, waited nearly a minute, and then realized that his horse was aboveground, grazing in a field of the crappiest grass Thurgood could find. He slapped himself in his evil forehead and headed for the elevator.

The antagonist wrapped his long, evil fingers around a rope that ran the length of the shaft and began the laborious task of hauling the little car upward on its pulley system. He muttered to himself while he did this.

“That scalawag Studson thinks he’s sooo wonderful, with his quaint cabin in the mountains, his hairless chest festooned with heaving man-patties… his flock of giggling adolescents…”

This last one really got under Thurgood’s skin. The Flock. How many times had he longed for such a following! As a skilled banjo and accordion player, he had figured that the next inevitable step towards stud-god would be his own adoring harem.

But the accident in the mines with the foreman laughing at him, the slow and painful rehabilitation…and the discovery that his pickin’ hand was damaged beyond repair. The weight of this memory sat in Thurgood’s consiousness like a diseased yak with malice on its mind.

“Hello, yak,” he mumbled.

“Moo,” said the yak.

The elevator ground to a halt. Startled birds took flight as the door of the little green outhouse banged open, and Thurgood Bastardson stepped out to greet the day.

“Curse you Sun, and your hideous diurnal crawl!” he hollered into the vaulted blue expanse of the sky. “I shake my gnarled fist at thee!” He shook his fist and whistled for his horse. He waited nearly a minute, then realized his horse was tied to a bush on the other side of the rocks West of the elevator/outhouse. He slapped himself on the forehead and stomped angrily westward.

Thurgood tossed himself into the saddle, and spurred his mount. His dark hair trailed out behind him like the spiteful tail of an evil comet as he rode towards Buck Studson’s quaint little cabin. Oh, wouldn’t he be surprised, that woman-hogging putz! Bastardson let loose a cackle that covered the land like frost on the Devil’s brow.

Meanwhile…

“Buck. We are going to make something, you and I.” Cassidy’s voice, sultry and low, came sliding into the bedchamber like high-grade gear oil.

Buck looked up from the studly shotgun he held in his lap. It had gophers carved on the stock. “I’d hear more of this ‘something,’ my immaculately formed baked confection of desire,” he said with a wink.

“Oh, well, let me see here,” Cassidy purred. “It’ll be hot.”

“And?”

“Steamy.”

“Oh boy!” His shotgun clattered to the floor as he stood.

“And oh so sweet…” Cassidy all but moaned, tilting her head back and gazing up into Buck’s nostrils.

“Glory to all the gods that be!” he bellowed. “We’re going to make cupcakes!” He pumped his fist in the air.

“With…sprinkles.” Cassidy purred again. “Let me go slip into something more, um, appropriate,” she said, tracing Buck’s jawline with her little finger.

Buck watched her flounce away and went to put on his silk baking shorts.


…to be continued!

Attack of the Follicle

Well, blogsters, I must have entered a new stage in my life, because I seem to be growing an inordinate amount of nose hair. And not just any nose hair, either. These are large, economy-size nose hairs. They’re also sneaky and swift. I will go to bed at night, free of embarrassing nose-foliage, and will awaken the next morning with a cruise missile protruding from a nostril.

Occasionally, I will forget to remove the uninvited guest and venture out into the public, extra appendage still intact. Just the other day, I went to the airport in this condition and was stopped at security by a large, beefy woman wielding a taser.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “You’re going to have to check your cruise missile at the luggage counter.”

Not only have these nose hairs turned out to be inconvenient, but also down-right dangerous. I was driving last Saturday to pick up my wife from work. While bumbling down the road, I glanced in the rearview mirror and was appalled to see a mammoth hair bounding from my left nostril and cackling with glee. I began exploring the offending follicle, in an attempt to determine how painful it would be to pluck the little blighter, immediately afterwards washing my hands, of course.

As fate would have it (stupid fate), the intruder was firmly entrenched and it was obvious I’d need to bring the big guns to remove it. Just as I looked back at the road, I noticed a car pulling out in front of me.

“What an idiot!” I said. “Doesn’t he know that…”

Then I looked up at the light I was about to pass under and noticed it was red. Well, maybe a deep shade of orange. Anyway, I was obviously very late going through the light and it was only due to my finely honed athleticism and natural agility that I managed to avoid a very nasty collision. I was glad, mostly because it would have been very humiliating to explain the circumstances to the cops.

“Well, sir, I was examining a large nostril hair to see how firmly it was entrenched. Wanna see?”

These new horizons I have been experiencing are all very exciting and I just can’t wait to see what happens next. But whatever new challenges await me, at least I know I’ll be well-armed. Oh, and if any third world countries need a steady supply of cruise missiles...you know where to find me.

Happy Foo Year!

As resident FooDaddy on this here Blog, I'd like to take a moment to thank all you faithful time-wasters for your dedicated reading of our nonsense. As soon as I get the time, money, and spy satellite, I will visit and hug each and every one of you in person.

I played board games. I spilled cider on my lap. I smell like fireworks. It was a good Foo Year's Eve, time-wasters. And you know what the best part is? The header. It will now make a little more sense. There's history there now, and the link to the past it so boldly bears is truly in the past.

So to all of you who told me that it already was 2006, I say this: *cough* Um. No it's not. Haw.

To those who regularly Indulge in Stupidity by leaving us Comments, thank you for making yourselves known. Anonymous? I'd like to give you a shout-out in particular for making sure that all of us know just how evil we've been over the last few months of 2006. To honor you, I will now point out all the evils in this post, because I value you and your time, and would like to help you save some of it.

1. The graphic of a party hat is inappropriate because it suggests partying and all the drinking and swearing and toilet-papering and hip-movement that goes with it. It should be deleted immediately.
2. Hugging is the Devil's way of spreading germs. People, especially men and women, should remain at least three feet apart at all times, unless they're married, in which case they may decrease the distance to one and a half feet, but only if they're planning on having children.
3. Spilling anything on your lap, even if it's accidental, is lewd and should be punished by bullwhip. Your lap contains your reproductive organs, and they should never have attention called to them. Nor should they be talked to.
4. "Bugging" the "web" is a worldly and nasty thing to do. It should be avoided. Also, the word "bugging" is eerily similar to the word "buggery," which is slang for sodomy. This indicates horrible things, and should be changed to "Giving delightful sugared candies to" in the header.
5. Mocking people is bad.

In closing, I love you all. Keep that traffic flowing!