But Wait! There's More!

Oh, my colleague! Isn't he a card? A hunched, odoriferous card with bean dip on it? Ha and ha!

But the joke's on him, of course, because I don't have any peers.

Let the Party Begin, Er, Renew!

Like a moth drawn to a flame, the Blog of Stupid has worked its magic and drawn me back into its moldy embrace. And it only took two years. Twenty-one months, to be exact, but who’s counting? Oh, that’s right--you are! There are no doubt legions of faithful fans who have not moved from their increasingly uncomfortable chairs for two longish years, staring at their computer screens and manically clicking the browser refresh button, the desk and surrounding floor piled high with pizza boxes and empty take-out bins. Their t-shirt fronts, stretched to the point of no return by their massive, quivering bellies, are covered with the dust of a thousand Pringles®. Although nauseated by this mental image, my heart is warmed as I imagine the croaks of joy that escape their parched throats and picture them attempting to stand and cheer. They are, of course, unable to do so, their asses having fused to the fake leather of their office chairs sometime last August.

I must interrupt the joy for just a moment, however, to make a confession. I have been unfaithful. Yes, it’s true. I have written for other blogs. One of which was for an excellent cause, however, namely turning the life of a co-author into a living hell. I started a blog devoted to mocking and belittling him. After several posts in this vein, however, I thought, “Why not bring this mockery to a larger audience, while at the same time reviving The Blog, possibly even returning it to its former glory?”

But then I thought, why waste the grand re-opening Blog post on such an unworthy subject? Would that not merely encourage the little wanker to further incompetent mischief? So I reached a compromise. I will, indeed, write a Blog post employing the lowest blows possible in hopes of crushing the spirits of *ick* him, but it will not be this one. It will be a small, insignificant post uploaded in the middle of the night so that only people of ill-repute will be likely to see it. In this way I will be sure to ruin his reputation among his peers. Haw.

The Moron Fills In (Part Deux)

His chest expanded, chin jutting, arms thrown back and his feet planted exactly three feet apart, the Moron stood astride both the Dude's Barbershop floor and the monumental responsibility housed within like a posable action figure left out in the sun.

The brunette was pointing out various barbery bits around the Dude's shop, but she was one of those soft-spoken girls, and the music in the place (played over a system that sounded like a public restroom full of $20 clock radios) was rather on the loud side.

"With the reliant bums in, sneak them in a mile and back-slap their bike with a worm trowel," he heard.

The Moron understood that she felt an obligation to explain everything, but wished she wouldn't bother. He was a professional. Professionals knew how to do things already. That's what made them professionals.

"Thank you very much, Abby. Which one of these recliners is mine?"

"Stephanie."

"No. Recliners."

"Stephanie!"

"Step on you? Why?"

She moved closer. "Steff-UH-nee. That's my name. Since you're filling in for Megan, you use her chair. Over here." Stephanie guided the Moron to a chair close to the shop's plate glass front window. Some dimwitted, surely unprofessional, putz had painted the text on it all backwards. It was a wonder this place got any business at all, poor souls. This seemed like a good time to buoy their spirits by showing them that he had come prepared for anything.

"I brought my own scissors," the Moron said, his tone deep and soothing, like a bottle of confident cough syrup that wanted the best for everybody. He tugged a pair of scissors from his back pocket. They had what the Moron considered to be very impressive fluorescent green handles, one of which was bigger and more elongated. This was part of their dark mystery, as the Moron had yet to discover what purpose this served, but he would have to do that research on his own time.

He had bigger problems to deal with right now.

"Oh, um. That won't be necessary. Megan left all of her supplies in her toolbox here, and..."

Stephanie's voice sounded like it was coming from deep inside an empty oil drum in the next room. The Moron was busy staring at his scissors. There was a problem with them. They had somehow developed a sort of sickle shape he couldn't remember them having before he left the house.

If one is to transport something in one's back pocket, it should be something that will not bend and take on the contours of one's buttocks, the Moron wrote on his pad of mental Post-It notes with a liquid-ink, rollerball thought-pen.

It was this kind of throughness that made him who he was, so it was not surprising that when inspiration struck, the Moron did not duck but took it right on the chin. These scissors are not broken. They're enhanced!

"They're contoured to follow the curvature of the skull!" he bleated, flourishing them like an infomercial huckster. "Bang. Productivity increased by ten to sixty-four percent right off the bat. Where are your Snickers?" He flexed the scissors mightily and one of the handles fell off.

"All the stuff you'll need is right here in this box," she said, patting a steel Craftsman toolbox.

Snickers, the Moron thought. In a toolbox. How grand. I must search for them. He cracked his knuckles in anticipation. There were few things in the world that the Moron enjoyed more than a good rummage. The big red toolbox, with its multitude of drawers and cake-like layered design was ripe for rummaging. His fingers twitched and he began to vibrate and drool.

"I've gotta run to the bank and get some change for the cash drawer. If you have any questions, just ask Hailey."

"Mm hmm."

The Moron waited for the door to close behind Stephanie before he scanned the toolbox for weaknesses. Perhaps one of those little drawers in front. A bit of spastics, and he'd be right in. He twisted his right hand into a claw, and coiled his arm like an arthritic cobra that could only bend at the elbow. Suddenly, his hand darted out and hooked a drawer open. A confetti cloud of clipper parts burst from the drawer and rained down all around him, disappearing forever under chairs and sinks.

"Hee hee," the Moron chuckled. "Parts."

A chime sounded. The Moron was deeply mistrustful of chimes, so he immediately put his rummaging on the back burner to investigate. The chimes were located above the entrance to the shop, and as he swung to recon that area, he noticed the door closing.

He heard footsteps.

The Moron followed their sound to the man making them. The man was talking to the girl (probably this "Hailey" character he'd heard so much about) behind the low desk with the LCD screen on it. Now he was writing something on a clipboard.

Hailey looked up from her LCD. "Your first client!" she said.


...to be continued!

The Moron Fills In

The Moron slammed his shiny red sports car into third gear and planted his foot. The engine screamed, the car's chassis tilted slightly under the influence of the torque, a rush of air blew his hair back, and the Chevrolet Cavalier behind him blew its horn. He glanced up from the tachometer.

The light was green. The Moron quickly shifted into first gear and let out the clutch. He turned the fan down and watched the Cavalier shrink in his rear-view mirror. A sweaty little frog of jealousy reached out from its dank cave and fondled his heart as he wished aloud for perhaps the hundredth time that he had bought a Cavalier instead. They were so cool, and the rusty ones looked even classier. Like a distinguished gentleman graying at the temples.

He wanted one sooo bad. Preferably in a nice shade of mauve with whitewall tires and a big ironing board spoiler and a really loud fart cannon exhaust and those blue halogen headlights, and...

Whoops. That was the street he needed. He was going to be very slightly late now. Normally this would not bother him, but today was special. Today he would not be rocking the socks off his own job, but filling in for his girlfriend at the barber's shop. As he spun the car into a tire-smoking U-turn, his vision blurred and the windshield full of angry motorists turned wavy, then dissolved altogether as the flashback chimes sounded, and he was once again standing in his boxer shorts in his kitchen.

"You're going to need that sock's mate if you're going to work for me today, candypants," his girlfriend was saying.

"Grappling hook!" the Moron said for no reason, and looked down at his feet. They were indeed only 50% socked. "Periwinkle!" he added.

"Be that as it may, you're going to have to be dressed for this job. I don't know what your dress code is like at The Company, but it's quite strict over at the shop." She ducked back into the bathroom to remove the scaffolding and finish the work on her hair.

The Moron allowed the arm holding his mug to relax. Coffee dribbled onto the floor as he prepared a professional office-person statement about The Company's regulations regarding employee wardrobe.

"I wear whatever I want!" he hooted. "I'm a professional, and as such I am permitted to garb myself as I see fit. I even wore a bowtie one day, but it fell into the document shredder." He crossed his arms and dumped the remaining coffee over his left shoulder.

"...regulars who expect me to remember their last cut. It's in this bag here. I really appreciate you doing this for me, hon," his girlfriend continued.

Evidently she had been explaining something important while he was defining his territory.

No matter. He'd figure it out. The Moron tossed the empty coffee mug skillfully at the dishwasher, watched fondly as it bounced off the closed door and rolled across the linoleum, and stalked off to find pants. As he reached into the laundry basket, its contents blurred, became wavy, and suddenly he was back on the road, in his car, drooling on the gauge cluster.

These flashback sequences weren't strictly necessary, since the events encapsulated therein took place less than an hour ago, and they tended to be more trouble than they were worth. The Moron made a mental note to tell his doctor. He then made a physical note to get a doctor.

With the confidence of a born Office Professional, The Moron shoved open the glass doors of Dude's Barbershop, and propelled himself toward the row of chairs with a poot he hoped wouldn't linger.

"Relax, ladies! Your substitute barber has arrived!" he boomed.

Two young ladies standing behind a short desk with an LCD screen on it looked up. The brunette nudged the blonde.

"That guy's only got one sock on," she whispered.


..to be continued!

Paul the Crimefighter, Part II

Across the town of Berg, parents tucked their children into bed, pausing before kissing them goodnight to listen to the distant hooting. Then they smiled and turned off bedside lamps. They walked softly across bedrooms and closed doors gently, leaving their slumbering children in the care of kindly glowing nightlights and…Paul the Crimefighter.

Yet another inhabitant of Berg paused to hear the hooting. To this pair of ears the sound was not comforting, but rather tenebrous and forbidding. It grated on his nerves and caused him great angst. He twirled his grand mustache and paced the length of his tiny quarters.

“Why must I have such tiny quarters!” he growled. He halted for a moment and grunted. There was a soft foomp! and a cheese doodle appeared in his hand. He rubbed it between his fingers for a moment and then used the greasy cheese to oil his long, twirling, pencil-thin mustache. He popped the mangled, now cheeseless doodle into his mouth and chewed. His trademark facial hair sufficiently groomed, he resumed his pacing.

“I’ll tell you why I must have such tiny quarters,” he continued, wiping his hands on his sweater vest. “It’s because of that mindless baculum of an arch enemy! Oh, why must I have such a worthy foe?”

He walked to a bookshelf and removed a volume from his set of encyclopedias. Scanning the index, he found the entry he sought. He turned to the correct page and read the article for the hundredth time.

Crimefighter, Paul the

A mysterious proponent of justice. Date of birth unknown. First official acknowledgment on renowned website Stupid, Blog of on April 15, 2006. Known to have pygmy marmoset sidekick named Pthabbth. Neck is capable of producing cape, blue. Arch enemy to nefarious crime lord, Doodler, the Cheeze.

Although he wasn’t sure he completely understood the entry (the encyclopedia seemed to have become enamored with its own formal structure), the Cheeze Doodler was pleased to have been mentioned. But a mere mention was not good enough. No, he would not stop until he merited his own article. To do that, he would have to pull off the most evil act of his career, something that would make the entire world sit up and take notice.

He went back to pacing, his greasy, orange hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps the world was too big a prize for now. He would concentrate on only the Western Hemisphere. But why get greedy? North America would suffice. On the other hand, to provide a solid structure for his legacy, he needed to start small. He would focus on the United States, the Great Lakes region to be precise. Of course, they might be expecting him to strike at a large area. It might be wise to narrow his target. Detroit, for example…such a huge city.

The Cheeze Doodler stopped and chortled in nefarious glee. “Why spend money on air fare?” he wondered. “I can begin right here, in the little berg of Town, and…wait.” He checked his notes and then cleared his throat. “In the little town of Berg! I shall initiate such a crime, wave of, which has never before been seen!”

After the initial wave of euphoria passed, the Cheeze Doodler became thoughtful and used his index fingers to coil his mustache before letting them spring outward again with the force of a teamster’s whip.

“And yet even Berg is rife with possibilities,” he mused. He walked to a wall where he tacked up a map of Berg. “I shall point to a random street on the map and there precipitate my tsunami of crime.”

He closed his eyes and spun slowly in circles. Then he stopped and walked forward, one finger pointing out.

“I shall begin…there!”

…to be continued.