June 27, 2006

An Audience With Destiny: Palmreading Edition

Greetings, wayward traveler of this road to darkness we call…the county fair. Here in my stripey, beflapped tent, the powers of arcane wisdom and inexplicable mysticism whirl about, scarcely controllable. From this whirlwind of cryptic and inscrutable mutterings, I pluck the knowledge that you seek. Wonder no further about your imminent death, cheating spouse or vast future wealth. All shall be revealed; all you need do is stretch out your palm, and from its lashed and leathery face shall I read your very soul, for I am...Madame Destiny!

Twenty dollars. Thank you. Now, let us begin. Hold out your left hands, and I shall divine the secrets within. Yes, you first.

Ah, yes. I sense a great, unexpressed anger in you. If I could just..pry these..fingers. No? Okay, well, no need to yell. I recommend some relaxation, and possibly a dereddening treatment.

I sense you were recently in an accident. It...hurt, badly--No! No, not...badly...VERY badly. Is that correct? Do not answer me; I know that it is. The spirits are strong today.

There is a journey in your future. I sense a trucker. He has a beer gut, flannel shirt...his name begins with an "E." Eff--Ephram, perhaps. A blowjob is involved.

Pedophile. Yep, it's pretty strong. Yeah, yeah--the spirits are saying pedophile.

I sense that you're...kind of a jerk. You have interpersonal problems. Your friends don't like you much; they call you an asshole behind your back. Your lifeline is short, but pleasantly self-serving.

Alright, now you're just being ridiculous. Are you not taking this seriously? Are you not in awe of my awesome and dark supernatural powers? What the hell is that supposed to be, anyway? Get out of my tent, and take your retarded dog-weasel with you!

The spirits tell me you are very...pleasing, in bed. Pleasing, yet...surprising. I recommend thorough hand sanitation, and meeting me by the Tilt-a-Whirl at the end of my shift.

Your lifeline is short, your heartline utterly nonexistent. By all acounts your future should be one of grim and certain misery, and yet...yet, something tells me you will live long, and...something, I'm kind of fuzzing out. Process? Program? Hmm.

I sense a great unity here. Yes, years of bitter resentment and diffident oppression have been replaced by the overwhelming power of a hot, black-on-white handshake. I predict a future of more subtle racism and an ultimate jungle uprising that will mean the end of us all.

I see stalking in your future...possibly, nightstalking. Yes, I see you on a marsh somewhere, hungering for the flesh of the living and struggling to carry on a normal life in spite of your "condition." Palm reading's all bullshit though, so who knows.

June 26, 2006

Is It Me, Or Do Dictators Just Keep Getting Cuter?

Forget about the massacres, and the firebombings, and the tortures, and just look at these men:

Let’s face it—tyrannical dictators are absolutely adorable.

Take Castro. Can anyone look at that man and not see their grandfather? The bushy beard, the kind eyes, the fine musk of a hand-rolled cigar. I can just imagine chatting with him on a porch some afternoon while the smell of tobacco mingles with the scent of Mrs. Castro’s fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies wafting through a squeaky old screen door.

Okay, yes, the missile crisis. But come on—that was thirty years ago. And besides, it was the Russians, not little, brown, shriveled Fidel. Castro’s harmless now, like a raisinette. I hear he can only eat mushed-up banana and has to deliver communist propaganda via sign language. Isn’t that just the cutest? His little brown hand peeking out of a bundle of blankets, signing about the evils of capitalism?

Castro’s a baby doll; it was all Khrushchev. That reminds me, though: Khrushchev was cute as all hell too. Remember the little gap in his teeth? And the way he got all red and slammed his shoe when he didn’t get his way? Just like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

It’s okay, Nikita, shhh, it’s okay…who’s my big boy? Who is he? That’s right, you are! If only Kennedy had known how to handle things. Niki didn’t need a nuclear stand-off; he just needed some juice and a nap.

And Saddam. Fearsome when on the loose, but as soon as we got him behind bars…what’s that Saddam? More Cheetos? Okay, but finish your Ruffles first. And he’s got the orange powder in his beard and everything…ooh! I could just pinch him! Sure, he tortured and killed thousands of his own people, but look at him—he’s learned his lesson. Let’s get him a Fudgesicle.

It’s the beards, I think. No one can stay mad at a good beard. Perhaps it’s the wide-eyed child in all of us, marveling at the jolly white beard of Santa Clause. Or maybe it’s our yearning for a simpler time, when lumberjacks still roamed free. Whatever the cause, a full on Burl Ives just screams “Take me home and pet me!”

That’s the only reason Hitler is so hated. No beard. Just that little Charlie Chaplin thing, like someone smeared him with shoe polish. No one likes a mustache, Adolf. That was your first mistake. The whole jews thing was just more of the same.

Who else was ugly? Steve Buscemi is ugly, but he’s not a dictator. He is ugly though, right? Christ. He’s got those bug-eyes, like…like, I don’t know, a bug of some sort. Fargo was good. Did that win the Oscar? Buscemi’s great; I’m not saying anything against his acting. He just looks like a human body with a goldfish attached to its neck. Hey, I just realized, he’s got a mustache too! Weird, huh? Anyway…

Kim Jong-Il. You thought I forgot you, didn’t you? Look at you, all tiny and fetus-like. Who could hate a fetus? Besides Pro-Choicers, I mean. Seriously, he looks like a Pok√©mon. Or remember the Blue Meanie from The Yellow Submarine? I think he even wears the boots.

That little black tuft of hair on top is just icing on the cutie-pie. In all honesty, Kimmy should just quit the dictator gig and start marketing a line of bobble-heads and trading cards. He’d make a mint.

So, in conclusion: Fidel Castro’s cute as a button, Saddam Hussein’s even cuter, and Kim Jong-Il’s as cute as a harp seal riding a rainbow to baby-town. If tyrants keep getting cuter at this rate, expect the next President of Chile to be a teddy bear stuffed entirely with puppies. I can hardly wait.

June 23, 2006

How to Survive a Bear Attack, Part II

Surviving a Bear Encounter

The primary goal of any camper or hiker should be to avoid bear encounters altogether. Captivating in their natural beauty, Bears can often seem to be excellent subjects for photography. However their musk may lure one in, the surest way to avoid a Bear attack is to stay away from them altogether. Let them live their noble, solitary lives in peace: catching trout with their bare paws, fixing up old motorcycles, and growing magnificent handlebar mustaches.

If you do find yourself in a confrontation with an angry or amorous Bear, there are several survival techniques you can employ:

Play Dead

Tried and true, this technique involves rolling into a fetal position and remaining motionless on the ground. You therefore pose no threat to the bear, and your similarity to a human fetus will hopefully persuade the Bear that you are too young for him. Most Bears prefer the company of other Bears, or else “Twinks,” college-aged men so named because of the sweet, sweet, candy-like taste of their ejaculate, or “cream filling.” However, this technique may backfire, and the particularly persistent Bear has been known to have his mountainous way with the occasional unlucky hiker.

Rear Up

Trying to intimidate the Bear is not as insanely stupid as it may at first sound. Bears are simple creatures, and will avoid a fight if they perceive you to be their physical equal. Try to look like another Bear, by rearing up and opening your jacket in order to appear larger, as well as revealing a tangle of salt and pepper chest hair if possible. Bells and whistles can also frighten a Bear, although if you take bells with you on a hike, you’re basically gay already.


Bears love mace. Love it. Do not spray a Bear with mace unless you want him following you home and building a home in your spare room. Scientists have yet to understand the reasons why, but nothing gets a Bear hot like a big blast of Pepper Spray to the face.

Be a Woman

This is by far the most effective method of surviving an encounter with a Bear. Most Bears became Bears due to a crippling inability to deal with women on any sort of personal level, and as such they will generally react to them with disdain, indifference, or frightened confusion. Short of getting a surgical sex change, smearing yourself in menstrual blood is also very effective.

Carry a Gun

Guns are our birthright as Americans, and one of your best defenses against Bears, Deer, Geese, and Illegal Immigrants. A nice Ruger 44 Carbine or Remington 7400 Hunting Rifle will lend you the security in your masculinity you need to withstand the Siren’s call of the homosexual lifestyle. Surrogate penis anyone? And don’t worry about the danger: recent bumper sticker findings have proven that guns don’t, in fact, kill people.

Treatment Options for Common Injuries

Those who fall prey to Bears generally suffer from a wide range of ailments. Proper treatment is imperative if those victimized are to overcome their injuries and resume a normal life.

Mustache Burns

This is an umbrella term, describing burns of various sorts, received when an over-zealous and usually hirsute Bear nuzzles a human with too much fervor. Aloe application is recommended, as well as daily apple butter baths.

Bruised Chin

Chins have been known to be bruised or even broken by the repeated bludgeoning of a Bear’s many-testicled and swollen scrotum. One victim of Bear abuse described the Bear’s genitals as “a hollow melon filled with buckshot.” There are no known treatments, but those close to the victim should offer emotional support and stifle laughter whenever possible.

Nipple Clamp Lacerations

Painful lacerations may occur when a Bear introduces a victim to the Sado-Masochistic world of light bondage. Chapped, chafed, and swollen nipples resulting from such encounters should be thoroughly iced and suckled, preferably by a bikini-clad college co-ed.

Leather Allergies

Particularly dangerous, leather allergies strike only one percent of those attacked by Bears. A general rash or swelling on the affected areas should be combated with scalding baths, leeches, and Exorcism.

Claw Marks

Often confused with Leather Allergies, these thinner, pinker areas of raised skin on the back, chest, or inner thigh represent the attempts of a Bear to literally “open you up and climb inside of you.” Whether this sentiment is romantic, or simply an attempt to reach the nutrient-rich liver, claw marks can be treated best with chicken soup and plenty of bed rest.

Anal Lesions

A more serious injury, anal lesions appear to be related to Bear interactions in some way. Their true nature, however, is a mystery, as those victims who have been found with the affliction invariably decline to comment on how they received it.


The most deadly of all Bear-related injuries, Homosexuality, if not contained, has been known to spread to all organs of the body. Symptoms of late-stage Homosexuality include political activism, an affinity for rainbows, the wearing of short shorts, compulsive child adoption, the undermining of the sanctity of Heterosexual marriage, and a dick that tastes like shit. There is no known cure, though several Christian groups have pioneered some promising techniques.

Hopefully, this informational guide will help you avoid injury due to a Bear confrontation. Remember: They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.

June 20, 2006

Guys Gone Wild: A Comparative Study for the Well-Versed Pornographist

Mantra Films, the makers of the fine and widely heralded Girls Gone Wild video series have begun the advertising and release of a series of tapes aimed at women and gay men who have yet to figure out how to use the internet properly. The videos and DVDs, creatively dubbed Guys Gone Wild, bear such subtitular gems as Heat Stroke, Dude, Where’s my Pants?, and Big Gaping Anus.

Copy writing aside, I assert that said tapes are a travesty both to pornography in general and the Girls Gone Wild series in particular. Now, now! Before you get your panties/evocatively distended boxer briefs in a bunch, hear me out. I assure you I have personally submitted to hours of grueling first-hand research on the topic of men baring it all, and I believe I am finally ready to release my findings.

Put in the simplest terms, guys do not GO WILD. This is a scientific fact, catalogued as early as the 19th century in Charles Darwin’s oft overlooked work, Origin of the He/Shes. At the very most, guys have been known to grunt or seethe menacingly during sex. More generally, they tend to maintain a strict silence policy that allows nothing more than heavy breathing, the whispering of pornographic phrases, and the occasional colorful description of a woman’s action, as in “It’s so hot how you’re #$@%ing my &!@%.”

In the Guys Gone Wild tapes, however, men are depicted as being so overcome with exhibitionist fervor that they bare their blowpops in the middle of a crowded (though admittedly drunk-swarmed) street. Yes, a girl may expose her beautiful and ripened breasts to the hungry public; it is joys like this that make life worth living! And to do so, she need only fling her shirtfront above her head in an act of wildness and debauchery so freeing, so liberating to the female spirit, that she momentarily forgets the stale draft of humiliation already gnawing at her soul. Oh, what beauty!

Truly, the nature of the act itself declares its very rightness! How else would one explain the unique method of shirt lifting seen almost universally in these cases? It is an action that serves a twofold purpose, as it both reveals the breasts and obscures the face, removing possible distraction. An act so graceful and elegant must be recognized as the work of God Himself! And yet, in contrast, what man would maintain a feeling of sexual liberation long enough to unbuckle his belt, unbutton his pants, unzip his fly, and fish around in his boxers in order to unveil his (by this time semi-flaccid) deathpole? I’m losing my bulging erection just typing about it!

Only a paid actor would do so, and it would have to be a particularly resilient one at that. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the so-called “candid shots” are actually done in front of a greenscreen with the aid of fluffers, body-doubles, and multiple takes! And as Thomas Jefferson would have said were he alive today, “if our pornography be without integrity, then what hope be there for our country?” If I am mistaken, if these Guys Gone Wild truly are, as the website proclaims, “the hottest young college hunks ready and willing to show off their hard bodies and much, much more,” then I shudder to think of the exploitation of our nation’s young men who, unlike their female counterparts, have had no experience with being made meaningless sexual objects. I say, let women, who are best fit to bear the burden of objectification and sexism, do so! And let our young men get back to what they do best: winning wars and nailing whores!

My proposed solution to the problem presented by Mantra Films’ *Guys Gone Wild* series is quite simply this: Girls of America, you must go wilder than ever before. I call on every woman of 18-22 years of age and under 120 lbs. (Asians preferred) to go absolutely batshit looney. Stride proudly through America’s malls, braless, bead-strewn, and vaginally shorn. Drop trow at the least provocation. Did the guy on line in front of you at the Radio Shack offer you a piece of gum? Blow him, for God’s sake, right then and there! Did the pizza man’s “you have a nice evening” sound just a little too friendly? Call up the sewing circle and prepare to gangbang him into the infirmary. What I call forth is an ocean of tight, well-groomed pudenda, a never-ending field of perky breasts, a nation-wide inebriation of the feminine youth!

Only through this, the baring of every succulent breast from sea to shining sea, can we, by comparison, lessen the wildness in our young men and hopefully run the *Guys Gone Wild* film line out of business. Towards the same end, I call on every Specious.com reader to begin an immediate and total boycott of the Guys Gone Wild films and the Guys Gone Wild website. Anyone purchasing Guys Gone Wild tapes deserves to be dragged into the street and shot for their perversion of America’s pornographic and late night television commercial landscapes.

An obvious exception must be made, of course, in the case of researchers like myself. My purchasing of Guys Gone Wild 9: Mixed Nutz and recent subscription to the “circle jerk” inner webring of guysgonewild.com are necessary evils that, I assure you, have left me nothing but exhausted, sore-wristed, and pleasantly drained.

June 14, 2006

Channel 101 Attempts 1 and 2: Indestructible Hitler and The Science Factory

Any internet-savvy person who doesn't know about Channel 101 is doing themselves a large disservice. As far as paradigm-shifting multi-coastal underground continuous audience-dictated recurring episodic webfilm competitions go, it's the tops. Anyone who thinks they are awesome is welcome to submit. I therefore qualify. As such, me and my friends have begun to make some "pilots" to "submit" and later have "rejected." These are the first two, and I'll keep this site updated as we send more video volleys at the impenetrable wall that is viewability.

Indestructible Hitler

The Science Factory

Randy Hitler: Salesman of the Century

Let me tell you all a tale. A tale of a salesman so incredible, his very presence has caused untold numbers of consumers to literally rip their pants off in an effort to give him their wallets as quickly as possible. A man so ingratiating, so wholesomely lovable that he once bartered an unidentifiable lump of composite metals for Power of Attorney over an eighty-four year old grandmother of eight whom he had never even met. This, ladies and gentleman, is my story.

Some call me by my name: Randy “Adolph” Hitler (a name I took voluntarily, in the hopes of impeding my own runaway success). Those in the door-to-door sales trade call me simply, “he who must not be named.” You, friend, can call me Randy. I’m here to do the jobs no one else can, to move the merchandise that no other salesman can move.

Be warned: if you’re reading these words, it’s already too late for you. Prepare to buy, and gladly, whatever it is I care to sell. It may tingle uncomfortably; don’t panic. That’s a completely normal reaction for first-timers. Just look deep into my eyes, feel the enveloping comfort of the world’s friendliest handshake, and get ready to drool in wonder over the item or items that you will soon believe are capable of changing your life forever.


If you’re looking for some top-of-the-line tail, you’ve come to the right place. I only carry the most luscious lady parts, the most vaunted venus mons, the most hallowed honeypots. My stock of refurbished and once-used vaginas are guaranteed like new. Each pickle-smuggler undergoes a 114-point inspection by a licensed vagina professor, and not a one leaves my lot without my personal “thumbs up.” Best of all, because these cocksocks are lovingly handcrafted by Nairobe sweatshop workers, I am able to offer them at bargain bin prices. I’m telling you, this baby’s got all the best features: a self-lubrication system, labial aerodynamics, even a hole where you can put your penis. I mean, listen to that baby queef. That is the sound of quality. Naturally, the undercoating is an extra surcharge, but I’m telling you, after a couple weeks out in the rain and heat…you’re going to want that undercoating. What will it take to get you into this vagina today?

Some Land Somewhere

Pack up your belongings and children, and step on the gas! This limited time only offer is perfect for the family that is looking for a chance to build their own home and aren’t frightened by the occasional bout of malaria, West Nile Virus, or backwoods serial killer. Imagine yourself as a brave pioneer on the edge of civilization, carving out a homestead from the wilderness, wresting security for you and your family from the succulent teat of Mother Nature. Your home could be the nipple of that teat, but only if you act now. Abandon the drab life you now know, and purchase one of these luxurious parcels of land, nestled in the scenic Ozark mountain range. Lewis and Clark themselves called this land “habitable” during their venture across the great USA. Come prove them right!

A Copy of The Crying Game, Like New Except That The Last Half Got Taped Over With Old Simpsons Episodes and Part of a Friend’s Baby’s Bris, and The First Half Has Some Tint and Tracking Problems

By now, I think we can all be certain that everyone in the world knows what happens at the end of The Crying Game. The woman’s a man, the Nazis come, the bomb goes off, blah blah blah. Why suffer through the same movie again and again when you can revel in the antics of Bart and Lisa Simpson? Who knows what crazy scheme these tykes will come up with next! A hotdog eating contest? A haberdashery? A trip to a foreign nation? Find out with this tape, and get a free glimpse into the secretive Jewish world of infant genital mutilation thrown into the bargain!

Randy’s All-Purpose Nondescript Object

Perhaps this object was discovered deep within the tombs of a Mayan king, still being clutched by the skeletal hand of a mummified high priest. Or, perhaps I stumbled upon it while cleaning out my closet to make room for some skis I misguidedly bought even though I’m overweight and hate the winter. Which is it? No one knows. Live the mystery! Live the heart-pounding excitement! This nondescript object has some…what looks like straw, maybe…wrapped around it, and it’s got mass and depth, making it ideal for holding down stacks of paper or bludgeoning a man in the head with. It’s even got a hole where you can put your penis. That’s right, no home should be without Randy’s All-Purpose Sex Rock/paperweigt/talisman of unbelievable power. Nab yours today and you can be the first on your block to unlock its terrifying secrets, or, alternately, its staggering mundanity!

The Very Air You Breathe

If you breathe, you are stealing air. There’s no other way to put it. You are stealing, and if I met you on the street I would call you a thief and rip your lungs from your chest with a claw hammer, and no one would blame me. But here’s the bright side: you don’t have to be a filthy, grubby, degenerate any longer! I bet you’re doing it right now. Inhaling, exhaling, oxygenating your blood cells, all without paying a single dime for the privilege. Well, for a limited time only, that’s all we’re asking: one…thin…dime. Someone, somewhere, works hard to provide the oxygen you need, and if you’ll send me a dime, I’m willing to promise you that I’ll get that money to whoever is doing it. I’ll even guarantee, for LIFE, that you, personally, will have an unlimited supply of oxygen from which to draw. So make sure you and everyone you know who breathes air sends me a dime a piece, or else you’re all bastards who deserve to die gasping in the middle of a sun-parched wasteland.

A Non-Fatal Arterial Blockage

You like to be popular, right? You like to feel as if you’re complying with social norms, right? You don’t like being pointed and stared at, do you? Let’s face facts: these days, an American not afflicted with an obesity-related disease is rarely welcome at cocktail parties, all-you-can-eat buffets, or emergency care clinics. If you’re tired of being the only one without a triple-bypass surgery story, you have two options. You can go through all the hassle and headache of eating your way into the hospital, OR…you can sit back, relax, and let our crack team of surgeons implant this impressive, but ultimately non-fatal blockage into the major artery of your choice. Surprise and delight your friends by collapsing during a movie! Smile inwardly from your hospital bed as you hear them murmur “but he seemed so healthy!” Come join the rest of America, and stop being left out in the bitter cold of longevity and nutrition.

A World’s Greatest Grandpa Mug of Cherry Cider

This mug, and only this mug, determines the relative superiority of Grandpas the world over. Technically you’re just buying the cider, but feel free to imagine yourself to be world’s greatest grandpa for the entire duration of your drink. In fact, I encourage it. And if you’ve yet to have grandchildren; not to worry. Some can be provided for you at a nominal hourly rate.


You ever see those late night ads that try to trick you into spending hard-earned money on fake commemorative coins that are totally unredeemable? Believe me, the lady at the Denny’s doesn’t take it well when you try to pay for you Ham Grand Slam with a shoebox full of 9/11 Quarters. Our coins, however, are entirely different. Commemorating the May 16, 1868 failure by the Senate to impeach President Andrew Johnson by a single vote, they are a stark reminder of the fragile nature of American liberty. Adorned with a liberty eagle on the reverse side, the mirrored coin is destined to become a centerpiece of your collection. Also ask about our commemorative coin starter sets, which include blank, quarter-sized hunks of metal and tiny, tiny, engraving tools.

Well, that’s all that’s on the roster this time, and I look forward to receiving your many purchase orders. To buy a product, simply stuff one manilla envelope with money, write “care of Randy Hitler” on it in big block letters, and drop it off with your local postman. Make sure to tell the postman what product you want, and to tell me so I can ship your order back to you. If this all fails, simply stand outside with your wallet raised above your head and shout “Randy Hitler!” repeatedly. I’ll be with you shortly.

An Ungodly Asshole Addresses a Group of People With Self-Esteem Problems

The speaker takes his place behind a podium and addresses the audience.

UNGODLY ASSHOLE: Let me tell you all what I see. I’m gazing out on an ocean of dumpy, depressed, sheepish faces. I’m looking at people who have lost the way, who have lost even the confidence required to have a simple chat with a co-worker over coffee, or ask a member of the opposite sex out on a date. I would punch each and every one of you in the face if I wasn’t so utterly repulsed by your mere presence.

Long pause.

UA: Any questions?

A woman raises her hand.

UA: Yes, you there. The ugly one.

The woman withdraws her hand.

WOMAN: I—I think you answered my question.

UA: Well, good then. The grating sound of your voice was beginning to drive me insane. Next?

A man raises his hand.

UA: No, I can already tell, you’re too stupid to have a question. Why is your hand raised? Are you struggling to hold in your own waste? Is that it? Are you so mentally handicapped that you can’t grasp the concept of modern plumbing? Can someone take this retard to the bathroom, please, so we can continue the meeting?

MAN: But I don’t have to—

Someone grabs the man and pulls him to the bathroom.

UA: Thank you sir. Or..Ma’am, is it? Your flat, saggy breasts and androgynous mode of dress are confusing the issue. If you’d be so kind as to get out of my sight…thank you. Any more questions?

Another man raises his hand.

UA: You seem adequate. What’s your question?

MAN #2: I have trouble approaching salesmen at department stores. Are there any techniques you could recommend to—

UA: Brushing your teeth once in a while, for starters. My God, it’s like someone just set an abortion clinic on fire. Do you understand the implication? Burning fetuses, sir. And I’m ten feet away from you, behind a podium no less. Sit down and shut your mouth. Okay, next?

No one raises a hand. The speaker glances at his watch.

UA: No one? You know, I don’t have to be here. This is a treat for you. I could be banging one of my hot girlfriends or teaching my son how to point at homeless people in the park. No? No questions? Doesn’t matter to me. I get paid either way. You guys want to sit in awkward silence for the rest of the meeting, that’s fine. Tell you what, I’ll just turn around and face the wall; that way I don’t have to look at you. Cool?

The man returns from the bathroom.

UA: Oh, hey, it’s retard! How’d your poop go, retard? Good? Good poop?

The man glares.

UA: Poop, sir. It’s a bodily function.

MAN: I know what it is. I told you, I didn’t have to go.

UA: A complete sentence, ladies and gentleman! That’s quite the accomplishment, sir, for someone such as yourself. By which I mean someone whose mental handicap renders him capable of only the most rudimentary thoughts and feelings, of course.

The man returns to his seat.

UA: Great, great. Well, I think this has gone really well. I’m going to head out…I’ve got a tee time with Dustin Diamond in forty minutes. Yes, that’s right, TV’s Screech. Okay, well, you all just keep sucking, and I’ll see you around.

The speaker gathers his things.

UA: They asked me to turn the lights off after the meeting, and seeing as I wouldn’t trust any of you to operate a cup, let alone a light switch, I’m going to go ahead and shut them off now. We’ll call it a visualization exercise: you can all reflect on the darkness, and how it mirrors the crushing judgement that others level against you on a daily basis. “Failure.” Almost rhymes with “Inevitable,” doesn’t it? Oh and say, if you guys want to cut yourselves or something, I just want to let you know it’s cool with me. See you next week!

2009 Those Aren't Muskets!