This past Christmas, my son received a Star Wars branded fishing pole from a relative. It was literally a small child-sized fishing pole with Darth Vader on the reel and R2D2 on a disk at the end of the line. It made no sense whatsoever. Even I, one who had never seen the trilogy before had a hunch that there was little to no fishing involved. Unless I was about to stumble upon a touching reconciliation-themed fishing trip between evil dark overlord and son, I’m pretty sure someone would have mentioned a desire to toss a line over the hull of the Millennium Falcon on their bucket list. But, as baffling as that toy is, I really dig it. The kids rarely pay attention to it, preferring instead the far more logical Spongebob fishing pole. That leaves me to absent-mindedly flick it across the room while sitting at the computer. I think it’s because the pole and I are a kindred spirit of sorts.

If you take the entire genre of science fiction out of the Nerd Equation, my geek pedigree is as pure and true as toothless and sickly British royalty. I was in the marching band (brass playas, holla), I was an organizer of the high school Renaissance Fair, I played weekly D&D games, and I followed Kevin Smith movie with a zeal that would rival the most pasty of virgins. Science fiction was just something I never got into. So ignorant I was of even the most basic of references, I sometimes felt like a branding mistake. No matter how thick my black-rimmed glasses were, my knowledge was as relevant as a Star Wars fishing pole.

This might soon change. I actually really dug The Empire Strikes Back. So much so that I had to stop myself from reaching for the next installment less this article be soiled by too much knowledge. But lets get the surprises out of the way first:

* I was expecting more action.

* I was expecting Billy Dee Williams to be an active rebel who turns out to be an Imperial spy.

* I was expecting Han’s “I know” to be a completely different tone.

* I was expecting Luke’s hand to stay off.

The Empire Strikes Back was about a thousand times better than A New Hope. Both the actors and the characters were more mature and more interesting to watch. Instead of a whiny teenager, Luke’s now a petulant young man and a cross between impatience and hubris. Which sounds unpleasant, but is actually refreshing in its realism. Darth Vader’s vulnerability is more apparent, but I’m not sure if they hinted at this in the first one since I was slightly drunk. And although Han and Leah’s Sam and Diane shtick was overplayed, annoying, and retardedly dialogued, it mercifully stopped when Billy Dee’s smoooooothness came into the picture. Smooth.

Plus, there was the added bonus of finally getting pathetically specific references!

"HNNNNNNNNNN"

"NRRRRRRRRRRRRR"

-words from a cartoon-

-words from Star Wars-

I know there’s more, but I’m working backwards here.

Oh, man and there’s so much more in store for me! Finally caring about Randall’s Death Star rant on Clerks! Finally getting about one quarter of the Craption submissions at Cracked! Not being made fun of by Derek over at the comic book store! (I hate him so much.) But I don’t see this turning into a faggathon in the way of dressing up at conventions and whatnot. I just think it was a very cool movie that I’ll probably watch again one day.

Now, on to Return of the Jedi!

——————————————————————-

AND NOW, THE SITE NEWS WITH MALCOLM

Finally, look for me to be posting some of the wacky shit I’ll be making as part of my school assignments. Technically everything I create while attending VFS is property of the school, but apparently they will very politely not sue me so long as I don’t sell it. So don’t nobody go giving me huge sums of money for the things I make, because that would be awful.

COME BACK TOMORROW AND MAYBE I’LL HAVE STOPPED TREATING TLG LIKE A GODDAMN LIVEJOURNAL.

Tomorrow will be my first day of classes in Vancouver Film School’s Game Design program. It’s an odd sensation – I feel as though I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, when it’s really only been the past few months. And yet the feeling is appropriate; this is my first real step in becoming what I really want to become.

Just a few months ago, I was desperately unhappy for reasons I am certain will fail to titillate: I was toiling unsuccessfully towards a seat in UBC’s Creative Writing faculty with little to no plan for my future (this very site actually began as a frankly cynical attempt to establish one more source I could site on my writing resumé.) I had been rejected by the faculty once before while a friend of mine got in (now that I have left UBC, I can say my goodbyes and wish both him and the faculty nothing but prosperity and success (which is writer-speak for “fuck them and their mothers too.”)) I was running low on money, I was about thirty-five pounds overweight, I was depressed to the point of mumbling philosophical ramblings to myself on long walks through the mist, and my sleep patterns could have at best been described as “erratic” and at worst as “insane.” I wasn’t so much in a downward spiral as I was in a full-on nosedive into a black hole.

Things are, um, better now.

For one thing, I’ve lost a ton of weight and have gained some nifty-looking muscles with which I have no clue what to do. I offer the following image of my right bicep as evidence (I actually didn’t just take this; it was taken several weeks ago as an accessory to a fairly convoluted Gaffe Station post telling Micheal to fuck himself sideways. It… it made sense at the time.)

And I’m going to a school where I’ll work towards something I want in courses I’m actually passionate about in a city full of life, color, and sound while surrounded by young people who want the same things I do (but who I’m also convinced don’t have ideas that are anywhere near as good as mine.) So there’s that.

I hope I don’t fuck this up. I know I’m essentially repeating what I said back when I started the site in October (not that most of you will remember that, what with the post where I said it having been deleted for several months,) but trust me – this time I’m serious. Not only because I doubt I’ll get a chance better than this, but also because it’s good to be happy again. It’s not pure happy, of course – it’s not the white-hot fanfare of trumpets on the front of your brain that is joy, and it’s not the electric whip-crack flavor of love – it’s just the dull, low-intensity contentment that comes from knowing that you’re doing the right things for once.

Sorry if this comes off as smug. It’s just good to talk about it.

Some actual site stuff for those of you that have remained conscious through my rambling: this program, incredible as it is, is also very intense and a ridiculous time commitment. I will be taking thirty hours of classes a week and doing an estimated thirty additional hours of homework. I have been doing my best to organize site affairs before classes start (such as the forums and the ads (which have earned me a whopping six cents so far,)) but content production and publishing has always been the major time-suck.

What I’m saying is that barring a mass attack of brain hemorrhages in my contributors that causes them to turn in their articles on time while neglecting family and work obligations, as well as a bout of divine intervention that puts approximately thirty more hours into the week… longer updates might come a little slow. To compensate for that, I’ll be attempting to do more of these shorter, bloggier thingies between the longer feature pieces. I don’t doubt that I’ll be short on inspiration.

This is normally where I might say something like “And if that isn’t good enough for you then fuck off because we do this for free,” but I don’t feel like saying that today. We do this for free because we love to do it, and we hope you enjoy the things we do. That’s the beginning and end. I want to write comedy because of gasping, gut-wrenching belly laughs. I want to make games because of unreserved, jaw-dropping joy. I want to do things I love because of love.

Today I am happy.

It may sound weird to some readers, but I haven’t listened to pop music since N*sync broke up. I shudder to think that there is a correlation there, but I digress.

"Music peaked with N*Sync" - TLG Contributor Jay Thomas

Don’t get me wrong, I still listen to the radio, but only for sports talk, because I’m a man. A man that loves sports and steak and boobies and any combination of those. But I prefer listening to uncensored, uninterrupted music on my mp3 player rather than going through the torture of local DJ’s and what I assume is shitty music. But that is really an unfair assessment. After all, how can I judge what I have not listened too? It is with that cavalier attitude that I resolved to listen to a few popular songs.

Boom, Boom, Pow – The Black-eyed Peas

"Fergie gives me boners" - TLG Mouthbreather Jay Thomas

I know what you’re thinking, but unfortunately this song (if it can be called that) is not an homage to the classic 1966 film, “Batman” starring Adam West and Burt Ward. The reason? A song about that movie would kick ass, while Boom Boom Pow eats ass.

In the tradition of Bobby McFarren’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” most of the so-called music on the track actually comes from the band saying, “boom, boom, boom” like fucking Bam-Bam. The first verse is pretty painless, but then the silky smooth auto-tuned voice is transformed into some kind of ungodly shrieking and yelling from Fergie. There is a musical interlude involving more shouting of, “Boom! Boom!” followed by an inhuman voice saying something along the lines of, “Let the beast rise.” I thought maybe I was hearing things, before I realized that, in fact it was part of the arrangement. This is just terrible.

Lyric Of Note:

“I’m so three-thousand eight, you so two-thousand and late.”

What the fuck does that mean? Hypothesis: Fergie is actually a 3008 year old succubus that thrives on the misery of others.

So, the first song was a bust. Let’s see what this 3OH!3 is all about.

3OH!3 – Don’t Trust Me

"3Oh!3 give me double the boners that Fergie does" - TLG Ladyboy Enthusiast Jay Thomas

There is some good advice here in the form of, “Don’t trust a ho, don’t trust a ho, NEVER trust a ho.” (I could be mistaken but I’m pretty sure they lifted that line from a Bob Dylan song.) The song then takes a fairly dark turn when the femme-voiced guy starts talking about some girl who is drunk and bruised. This horrifying image is then paired with the lyric, “Shush girl, shut your lips, do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.” Taken at face value, this line informs the listener of Helen Keller’s main mode of communication (talking with her hips,) but I see a scenario of a womanizing, cheating, wife beating, alcoholic taking advantage of underage girls. For shame, 3Oh!3. For shame.

Lyric Of Note:

“Don’t trust a ho.”

This statement alone should be integrated into our education system. Millions would be saved.

3Oh!3 was more enjoyable than the Black Eyed Peas, but less enjoyable than getting a cavity filled so let’s continue onward and hopefully upward.

Lady Gaga – Poker Face

"Though I would not touch Lady Gaga with the dick of a dead man, I am entraced by her dog's come-hither gaze" TLG Pyronecrobestiality Expert Jay Thomas

There is an immense pressure building in my skull. OH SWEET LORD, MY EARS ARE BLEEDING!!!

Lyric Of Note:

I don’t know. The last thing I remember before blacking out was “Show him what I got.”

Pitbull – I Know You Want Me

"This full, luscious ass fills me only with distrust and rage" TLG Cocksucker Jay Thomas

I’m not going to lie; I was kind of hoping that this would sound like “I Want You To Want Me.” However, it proved to be a perfectly serviceable hip-hop/dance single, except for the fact that I could only understand like 8 words in the entire song. I realize that some of it is in Spanish, but a good 2/3 is just random words assembled in what appears to be a message derived from the nonsensical ramblings of someone who just suffered a brain injury. It’s clear from the lyrics that Mr. Bull knows that he is desired by an attractive lady, but everything else is up for debate. Lest you think that my white, suburban ears are casting some kind of prejudice on Pit, here are some lyrics:

Mami got an ass like a donkey
With a monkey
Look like King Kong, welcome to the crib
305, that’s what it is
With a woman down here
The shit don’t play games

What the fuck does that mean? Intrigued, I looked into Pitbull’s other songs to see if this was a one time anomaly. What I found was truly disturbing:

Mami, feel me let me see you touch your toes
or shake that thing and talk wit’ your ass

I may be in the minority here, but even if you are quite a prolific ass-talker (Jim Carrey,) it isn’t the kind of thing that would put me in a taxi straight to bonerville.

Lyric Of Note:

See above.

Even with the confusing lingo, I still liked Pitbull’s song. It was energetic and a little dirty (I think) which is what a club hit is supposed to be.

So what have I learned from my experience with current pop music? Based on the sampling I had, I can safely say that ¾ of all current pop music is absolutely terrible. But the other quarter is inspiring, disturbing, arousing, and disgusting simultaneously.

EDIT: The night I finished the draft for this article, I was wooing this cute girl at the club. Feeling like I should let her know how hip I was, I told her that she had a “talking donkey ass” and was quickly and mercilessly shot down and spat upon. In retrospect, Pitbull is a jackass and all pop music is terrible.

EDIT II: I realize that calling Pitbull a jackass may be misconstrued as a flirtatious gesture in some circles. Allow me to clarify. Fuck Pitbull.

EDIT III: Shit. “Fuck Pitbull.” I didn’t mean this literally. I meant to say that Pitbull is not a nice man and that I care nothing for him or his music.

EDITOR’S AFTERWORD: Those of you paying close attention to the picture captions may have noticed a slight discrepancy between them and the opinions Jay puts forward in the rest of the article. I know nothing about this. However, I do know that if I were the kind of person who insulted Canada every chance I got, I would not be very surprised if my Canadian editor altered one of my articles to make me seem like a deranged mental pervert.

Great article, Jay!

Malcolm: Sex! It’s fun, everyone wants it, and there are any number of ways to get it. But where can you go if you’re creepy, spastic, ugly, or just generally unfuckable? The Internet, of course! The Internet is choc-full of creeptastic homebodies hungering after a few sweaty minutes with the person of their choice; some of them are women, most of them are men, and they’re all downright terrifying!

Lucky for you, TLG is on the front line, keeping you safe from scary old men who want to fondle your parts by making ass-fun of the terrible personals they post. For every installment, two TLG contributors will make accounts on one of the many dating sites that populate this web of ours, be immediately inundated with moist fuck-mail, and reluctantly pick out several choice profiles to riff on.

In this inaugural installment of TLG’s newest feature, Michael and I will be examining Seeking Arrangement, a charmingly upscale little slice of webspace dedicated to connecting hot, lazy, young people with rich, horny old people in a process that is just this side of prostitution. In other words, it’s where sugar daddies come to find sugar babies, and that means some truly alarming personals. Let’s jump right into it!

“Muy intersante!  Verdad?”

Michael: Oh… oh man.

Michael: He’s almost 70.

Malcolm: The description of the type of arrangement he wants is what terrifies me the most.

Malcolm: “Satisfying.”

Malcolm: That could mean any number of gruesome things.

Michael: It could mean pumicing his feet for all these unassuming women know.

Malcolm: Or it could mean feasting thrice nightly on the blood of virgins pure.

Malcolm: He looks almost a little too proud of that boat, you know.

Malcolm: I am willing to bet all the cash in my wallet that it was carved from the bones of orphans.

Michael: “I will expect you to fuck the boat. Fucking the boat is a must.”

Michael: “And I will watch.”

Malcolm: “Fucking not of the boat will have consequences. The boat will ANGER.”

Malcolm: “The boat will fuck YOU.”

Michael: Was the boat made in Soviet Russia?

“Metal Guy”

Michael: This man describes himself as “metal.”

Malcolm: Well, “Through the Fire and the Flames” came on just as I clicked that link, so I think he might be onto something.

Michael: Somewhere, Dee Snyder feels a great disturbance in the force.

Malcolm: I wonder what “self-employed” means?

Malcolm: Does he live in the woods?

Malcolm: Michael, I think he lives in the woods.

Michael: Lives in the woods, fighting bears with the power of rock.

Malcolm: You know what, I think he might be a druid. The more I look at this picture, the more convinced I am of how awesome this guy is.

Malcolm: Look at that smirk. That is the smirk of a man who knows that at any given moment he could summon forth a Gargantuan Earth Elemental to smite his foes.

Michael: I can completely picture him wailing on his axe during a thunderstorm, somehow harnessing the awesome powers of nature as an amp.

Michael: Standing atop a mountain, buxom nymphs clambering at his feet.

Malcolm: His “Arrangement I am Seeking” section is a little vague. I bet he’s looking for a second party member to tank for him while he casts Harness Nature’s Rock IV.

Malcolm: Wicked long casting time on that.

Michael: Probably about as long as it takes to play the solo in Freebird.

Malcolm: “Freebird” is totally this guy’s druid name. Agamemnon Freebird of Elad’ras.

Malcolm: He describes himself as a “light smoker.”

Michael: He literally smokes light.

Malcolm: I think we need to move on, or one of us is going to marry this guy.

“Play with Daddy in His Paradise”

Malcolm: You know, on the one hand, I want to slap him heartily on the back and congratulate him for being so sure of what he wants at his stage of life.

Malcolm: On the other hand, Jesus.

Michael: I don’t know, I think he’s got this whole life thing figured out. Here we all are toiling away like chumps when we could be whisked away to this island paradise and live like goddesses. Er, sorry, I get a bit too caught up in my alter ego.

Malcolm: You have to admire his willingness to admit that he can’t get a boner. “Unsuccessful with all viagra-type medications.”

Michael: He finally found the cure men have been seeking all along: hot, bisexual women.

Malcolm: Is it odd that the thing I find most worrisome about this profile is that he used single apostrophes to form quotation marks?

Michael: Freakshow! What does he think he is, British?

Michael: Oh snap, he has a newsletter:

Michael: http://www.pepeshideaway.com/newsletter.php

Malcolm: Huh. That’s actually pretty well-designed. Way to web, creepy metrosexual seventy-year-old dude.

Michael: I’m beginning to think this might not even be a sexual thing.

Michael: This reminds me more of that Simpsons episode where Kang and Kodos whisk the Simpsons off to share with them the wonders of their culture. I believe Pepe is just trying to share that magic he feels everyday with a few nubile bisexuals chicks.

Malcolm: Didn’t Kang and Kodos also want to devour the Simpsons in that episode?

Malcolm: …ooooooooooh.

Michael: No, no, Lisa only thought they wanted to. It turned out they were on the level.

Michael: In the same way, you and I are skeptical of the joys Pepe wishes to share.

Michael: You think he may want to… devour us, metaphorically. But I think there might be more there.

Malcolm: He also has a six-foot-tall statue of what looks like a hippogriff, Michael.

Michael: So, he has a hippogriff. Big deal.

Michael: More and more I find myself pining for this island Xanadu, cursing my father for giving me that damned Y-chromosome.

Malcolm: Dammit, this is supposed to be a “look at these creepy old men” article, not another “Michael wishes he were born a woman” article!

Malcolm: I think we’d better move on before any more uncomfortable epiphanies are reached.

“Gentleman”

Michael: I would certainly say he’s an unforgettable character.

Malcolm: This is what Oompa-Loompas grow into.

Michael: Oompa-Loompa Doompaty-Doo
I have got another riddle for you
What do you get when you make lots of cash?
The ability to buy yourself ass

Malcolm: I know he looks like such a sweet, cherry-cheeked old soul, but make no mistake: he will cut your throat and step over your cooling husk.

Malcolm: As he says, “There’s plenty of time to sleep in the grave.”

Michael: That is essentially the only advice in his book, the rest is just eyebrow grooming tips.

Michael: Step 1. Disembowel your competition and place their head on a stake outside your skyscraper.

Michael: Step 2. I suggest using geri curl for that “interested yet in control” look.

Malcolm: I don’t know why this punk is expecting anyone to respond to his ad. I mean, he’s only got a SMALL library named after him in Oxford University. Pssh.

Michael: You know what they say about guys with small libraries.

Malcolm: They don’t not know too much?

Michael: Also that they are grotesquely wealthy, cherubic millionaires seeking protege/fuck buddies online.

Malcolm: And, presumably, somebody to hang out with their 15-year-old daughters.

Malcolm: That must be one well-adjusted kid.

Michael: “Misty, look! I bought you a friend online.”

Michael: “I’m also totally going to ream her later, hopefully this isn’t weird for you at all.”

Malcolm: “You can play with her just after I’m good and done dragging my moldering sack across her brow.”

Malcolm: I love how we went to the exact same place with that. There is no way this guy doesn’t tell his daughter all about his freaky sex habits.

Michael: It’s pretty well the logical conclusion.

Michael: Imagine that dinner table.

Malcolm: It’s probably shaped like a map of Earth, with a flag planted in every country where he’s banged a hooker.

Michael: “Honey, did daddy ever tell you about his trip to Thailand?”

Malcolm: gestures to thick clump of flags

Michael: “It was when I first discovered my taste for ladyboys.”

Malcolm: impish wink

Michael: “Daaaaad!” *rolls eyes*

“Iron hand in the velvet glove”

Michael: Here’s one I’m sure you already have, but he sent me an e-mail, so it’s important.

Malcolm: What did his e-mail say?

Michael: You me he didn’t e-mail you?

Michael: I feel special.

Michael: “I am intrigued by your profile. Would you consider a dominant man in his late 60′s that would spoil you when good and spank you when bad? If interested write back.

Michael: “Master Mike.”

Malcolm: Holy shit.

Malcolm: It says here he’s a consultant. Do you think he shows up to meetings wearing a leather corset and assless chaps?

Michael: “Gentlemen, the key to any effective corporation is the principle of ‘iron hand in the velvet glove’”

Michael: “If you would allow me to demonstrate.”

Malcolm: “If you don’t leverage your synergies in accordance with Cisco 4.1 while tonguing my dusty taint, I will leave you in the harness overnight.”

Michael: When I first saw his picture two thoughts occurred to me.

Malcolm: Do share.

Michael: Thought 1: What the hell are the white spots in his picture? JPG artifacts or lice?

Michael: Thought 2: Holy shit this guy looks like the minster from the Baptist church my family attended when I was young.

Michael: Which just makes this one a bit too uncomfortable for me.

Malcolm: Well, that, and the fact that he’s got the same name as you.

Malcolm: Hey, maybe this is you from the future!

Malcolm: You have to admit, a lot of it fits.

Michael: Well, I do get sexually excited when I electrocute a woman’s nipples.

Michael: I figured that was normal.

Malcolm: And I remember you frequently expressing your fondness for over-sized old man indoor-outdoor sunglasses.

Malcolm: You know, I’m feeling better now. At least we know that in the future time travel will be developed, and that you will steal the machine and use it to go back in time to score some submissive tail.

Michael: Good God, I’m having a very existential moment. I’ve seen the path in life I will inexiorbly follow.

Michael: I’ve seen this dark future of knife play and rubber hoses shoved up colons.

Michael: And I’m loving it.

Malcolm: This has been a good entry for everyone, then. Moving on.

“THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING”

Michael: Hey! It’s Pat!

Malcolm: Pat?

Michael: It was a Saturday Night Live skit about an adrogynous person and no one could figure out their gender.

Michael: It was turned into a movie.

Malcolm: Yes, but this is very obviously a clay golem in human shape. Duh.

Malcolm: Don’t bother using magic against him, by the way. They’re properly immune to that shit.

Michael:

Malcolm: Okay, I find myself slightly swayed.

Michael: Is he hanging out with Courtney Love in that second picture?

Malcolm: Is he? Is Courtney Love the horrible mockery of the human form that appears to be undergoing an agonizing melting process?

Michael: Yes. That’s Courtney Love.

Michael: He obviously already has a hideous, empty gold digging harpy in his life, why is he on this site?

Malcolm: I hear that if you leave Courtney Love out of the freezer for more than a week, she starts growing mold and smelling like wet leaves, so he probably needs someone for every other week.

Michael: So we’ve established his motivations. I think we should discuss how incredibly WACKY he is. I mean, look at what a fun guy he is, he’s sticking his tongue out! Will wonders never cease.

Malcolm: I also like how he used ALL CAPS in every possibly place where you could enter text.

Michael: In that first picture he’s STANDING AROUND LOOKING AWKWARD WITH A DRINK IN HIS HAND ALSO SOME TACKY CHRISTMAS LITES ARE ATTACHED TO A PILLAR BEHIND HIM. Haha! I want to party with this wild and crazy guy.

Michael: I IMAGINE HE’S ALWAYS TALKING LIKE HIS WORDS ARE IN CAPS! GOSH GUYS THIS PARTY REALLY IS SWELL! I’M THE PARTY KING!

Michael: REALLY! I KNOW COURTNEY LOVE!

Malcolm: The other fields might’ve been dropping him subtle hints about his typography, but FUCK THAT SHIT. THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING IS BIG AND LOUD AND IF THE INTERNET CAN’T HANDLE THAT THEN HE’LL FEED IT TO COURTNEY LOVE.

Malcolm: Maybe we should move on. Courtney Love is starting to seriously unnerve me.

Michael: LOOK AT HER FEET! HAHA WACKY!

“Like No One You’ve Ever Met” (Picture split into two parts because… well, you’ll see.)

Malcolm: B-Ben? (Note to casual residents of the internet: you’re probably going to want to check out the videos we link to have any idea of who Mr. Metzger is.)

Michael: If not Ben Ryan Metzger, it’s his spiritual successor.

Malcolm: PLEASE BE SERIOUS ABOUT MEETING (atop the mountain where I have planted the flag with your name on it.)

Michael: Note the numbered list at the bottom where he explains that he’s the only genuine man on SA.

Michael: Admittedly, his list is incredibly accurate.

Malcolm: Wow. The other dudes were creepy, but this guy actually manages to be a cunt about it.

Malcolm: That’s practically zen.

Michael: Somehow Roissy in DC collided with Ben Ryan Metzger and the result…

Malcolm: An incredible cunt.

Malcolm: THE incredible cunt.

Michael: Faster than a speeding tractor tire rolling down a hill.

Malcolm: I don’t think it can be overstated: this dude is a massive cunt.

Malcolm: I mean, Jesus, look at his requirements.

Michael: So I can’t think of much more to say about this guy other than, man fuck this guy and his extreme cuntitude.

Malcolm: If Obama wants to fix your economy, he just needs to tax cunts.

Michael: And disband the disastrous Bush Tax Cunts.

Malcolm: Shut up, I’m serious. Fine someone a hundred thousand dollars every time they’re photographed on a jetski.

Malcolm: Add another fifty thousand for every time they use the word “natural” in online dating ads. BAM, GNP sorted out.

Malcolm: Hold up – that photo of him standing in front of Angkor Wat – does that look Photoshopped to you?

Michael: He definitely looks like he belongs somewhere else…

Malcolm: Hm…

Michael: Hm…

Malcolm: Well, that does it for this installment of Don’t Fear The Creeper! If you have any especially creepy dating sites that you’d like us to hit next time, don’t hesitate in leaving a comment or e-mail us your suggestion! ‘Bye for now!

I began attending bible camp during the summer at the earliest age possible, 8, and started working there at 13. My memories of camp at an early age are fuzzy at best and completely missing at worst. I’ve never been able to pay very much attention to my surroundings; often I was completely absorbed in doodling, flicking pieces of paper into the smelly kid’s hair or reading Song of Songs* and wondering what it was like to touch a boob. A girl boob.

Pictured: Girl boob, flourishing in its natural habitat.

All I recall from my first year is that I couldn’t remember my camp counselor’s face or name and often wound up in the wrong groups for activities, I vaguely remember getting hit in the face with a pillow and breaking my glasses, and I every so faintly recollect having a friend, “His name was Matt…or Mark…or something with an M,” I explained to my mom. She never could understand why I wanted to go back every year.

My third year at camp I got lost during a nature hike on a sheep farm.

I was severely out of shape at that age due to a vicious rooster my older brother kept that would attack me if I stepped outside. The days of my early youth were spent imprisoned in our home, staring longingly out the window at the sun-soaked planes of Nebraska while that vile creature strutted about freely, raping chickens and crowing victoriously.

That was tangential, but I think it’s important for you to know I was terrorized at a young age by cocks; it sort of sets the stage for the rest of my life.

Thus established, I was incredibly out of shape, and by midweek during my third year my leg muscles were soaked in lactic acid; every step was agony. I was not thrilled when they announced we were going to hike. “On a sheep farm,” the activities director said, grinning broadly and looking at us expectantly as if he had just announced the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were coming and they were bringing each of us our own personal Terminator. Our reaction was less than enthusiastic.

"Cowabunga, dude! We brought you pizza, our friendship, and robot! The robot beats up bullies with lasers."

The sheep farm was in a small grouping of bluffs, a rare change from the typical flatness that defines Nebraska. Our hike consisted of wandering through the bluffs, throwing pine cones at sheep and being told several times to “stick to the buddy system.” The “buddy” portion of my buddy system was my best friend at the time, Derek. He was a preacher’s son who somehow managed to out-dork even me. I think it was because he regularly used the phrase “Neato Frito” and said Crumb instead of Crap. Derek was; however, quite athletic and it didn’t take long for him to get sick of my hobbling pace, so towards the end of the hike, after all the other campers had already passed us, he told me he couldn’t stand going so slow and he jogged ahead. The counselors that were supposed to stay at the back of the line and shepherd campers forward also ran ahead of me, presumably to make sure the rest of the campers, now a good half-mile ahead of me, were behaving.

"Think we should go back an check on the gimpy one?" "Nah, the bears will look after him."

I was alone.

I continued staggering forward on the dusty, sheep-driven path. My legs ached, and I had made the mistake of bringing orange soda to drink instead of water. About a mile after the counselors had left me, I reached a point in which the path diverged, and unfortunately, much like the Robert Frost poem, I took the road less travelled by.

I realized my mistake after I walked another mile on the wrong path and ended up in a deep valley filled with sheep. Alright, I thought, so I’ll just climb up and out of the valley and hope the buses are there. I took a swig of my orange soda, girded my loins and I climbed the hell out of those bluffs. As I climbed, I imagined what waited at the top of that valley. I envisioned Derek, sobbing deeply, telling the activities director of his failures as a buddy, I could already see the counselors panicking and wishing they had been patient enough to trail behind that poor little boy with the achy legs, I imagined girl boobs, and what it would be like to touch them. I pressed on, emboldened by the prospect of one day touching a girl boob.

All great men, deep down, are driven by this desire.

Filled with the energy and determination which can only be supplied by crystal meth or boobs, I crested the hill, ready to fly into the arms of the nearest female counselor and blow a raspberry at Derek. Unfortunately, I reached the top just in time to see the final bus driving away.

They had fucking left me.

Still imbued with an unholy burst of energy, I ran after the bus as fast as my stubby 10-year-old legs could carry me. The bus driver, the consistently avuncular camp director Rick, spotted me just before turning onto the highway. The bus stopped suddenly and reversed, beeping comfortingly, as if to tell me I was safe as long as I wasn’t standing behind it. As the bus rolled to a stop next to me, a counselor jumped out of the side door yelling “Why didn’t you stay with your buddy!?” I simply shook my head, exhausted, and dragged my broken, dehydrated body onto a seat next to the smelly kid. I looked back at Derek, who was sitting next to a lithe, red-headed boy. “Why didn’t you tell them I was missing?” I asked.

Derek shrugged, “I didn’t really notice, I was hanging out with Lane.” He gestured to the ginger kid next to him.

Hey, Lane? Eat a dick, Lane.

I didn’t care; I got my revenge years later by touching girl boob before him, and when I got home later that week, I hit the rooster with a five gallon bucket, effectively asserting my dominance. By god, I was a man.

* Better known as Song of Solomon by those not raised Baptist. It is a book of poetry in The Bible concerning King Solomon boning his new wife, later this is used to paint an analogy about how much God loves Israel.

Dear Ignorant Cunt Who Ran Me Off The Road,

I hope this letter finds you well, as you were obviously too preoccupied with some personal problem to check your blind spot before merging into my lane. Elementary physics tells us that two objects cannot occupy the same space simultaneously. Obviously you don’t quite grasp this concept, as you attempted to disprove it with your mid-80s-model Tercel.

This blatant disregard for the core tenets of physics and basic spatial relationships should have come as no surprise to me, as you were somehow able to wedge your cellulite-addled girth into that poor compact car despite the fact that, to the naked eye, there should have been no way to force your way through the rusted red door. I have my own theories on how you were able to manipulate the enumerable rolls of lard, like those that hung so heavily from your bulldog-like jowls. These theories involve manipulation of cabin pressure by way of a large vacuum. Regardless of how you managed it, the feat remains impressive.

Even as I veered from the road and made my way onto the shoulder, I was able to take note of your Cheeto-stained fingers grasping a cellular phone. By the faraway look in your eyes, I assume that you were ordering a minimum of four large pizzas to stuff into your eagerly awaiting maw. I can only hope, for the good of humanity that you were on your way to a beauty salon, or in the somewhat likely event that you were a bear, a groomer, as the Caucasian afro-mullet combination, or “frollet” is rightfully frowned upon.

There are WAY more image search results for "bear driving a car" than you think there are.

As my car neared the concrete safety barrier, I noticed a rainbow of paints on your driver side. These streaks of paint (possibly the dried blood of pedestrians?) were displayed prominently as if your car were a decorated soldier returning from the front lines, only instead of fighting for your country, you’ve slammed into dozens of innocent people’s vehicles. Not nearly as noble a cause, I can assure you.

Your one working taillight illuminated a series of bumper stickers. Though I have never been formally introduced, as just the mere sight of you left a taste in my mouth I can only describe as bile-y, I know just what kind of person you are by the opinions stuck haphazardly to the back of your car. Stickers like:

A picture of the solar system with the caption, “14 planets.”

This little gem tells me that you probably listen to shows like Earth and Sky and then parrot what you hear to coworkers who absentmindedly refer to Pluto as a planet instead of a planetoid.

FUCK YOU $CEINCEtIST$

“Teach your kids science, not science fiction”

This bumper sticker tells the reader that you are an “intellectual” whose satisfaction comes only by telling people that their views are wrong unless they agree with you. Ironically, the opposite side of the trunk was home to a sticker that read, “COEXIST” spelled out using a variety of religious and cultural insignias. Perhaps this was some kind of commentary on the dichotomy of science and religion, or much more likely, you are fucking retarded.

FUCK YOU, 6Od

Finally, the classic: “My Kid Is An Honor Roll Student”

I wrote this one off as a prank, for the simple fact that only the most well-endowed man would be able to stab through the layers of mayonnaise-filled lard to impregnate you. And assuming that at one time you were thinner than a medium sized elephant, your face would still make any self-respecting heterosexual man’s dick as limp and soft as the most delicious pasta from Olive Garden.

FCUK U

In conclusion, I would like to say that I dislike you and everything that you stand for.

Die In A Fire,

Jay

Last week I introduced the Internet to some of the targets of a landscaping laborer’s mangling ministrations, and in this Saturday edition of LAWN TERROR I’ll be taking you through some of our equally clumsy and imprecise devices for getting the job done!

Well, apart from mulching plugs, the use of which essentially amounts to buttfucking your lawnmower without lube.

A WARNING: The sheer variety and lethality of the landscaper’s arsenal may stagger and befuddle the uninformed, but know this: Mother Nature would like nothing more than to see clean, hard-working human men and women such as yourselves forced out of their home and jobs by unhealthy floral elements. Lawn-care professionals need nothing less than the most up-to-date array of tools in order to stem the unending tide of leafy intrusions springing from Gaia’s viridian vagina.

CHAPTER TWO: YOUR WEAPONS

LAWNMOWERS

Ask any landscaper which machine he uses most often, he’ll invariably respond by saying “my lawnmower.” It is incredibly important that you flee the conversation at this point, because if you don’t then with his next breath the landscaper will begin listing all the things wrong with his piece-of-shit lawnmower. And believe me, there will be something wrong with it. No gas-powered lawnmower manufactured in the past fifty years has performed to its owner’s satisfaction; maybe it’s too heavy, maybe it doesn’t bag properly, or maybe it’s too slow. Maybe the tires are bare. Maybe it gets terrible gas mileage.

Or maybe it has a handle set-up that was designed by retards for aliens where, in order to keep the blade lowered while engaging the engine, you must crush your thumb between two steel handles every FUCKING time you mow some old motherfucker’s goddamn lawn.

Honda to Rest Of Planet: "Lick our taints."

Seriously, how do you fuck up a lawnmower handle this badly? Put the fucking blade control on TOP of the main bar and the fucking engine control on the BOTTOM of the main bar, and then nobody has to mangle their fucking hands trying to operate one of your shitty thousand-dollar-a-pop mowers-

Hey! Wait a minute! Where’s everybody going?

WEED TRIMMERS

Uneducated louts might tell you that weed trimmers are typically used for precision cutting in areas lawnmowers can’t reach, but they are lying. The true purpose of a weed trimmer is to launch pebbles into your co-workers’ faces at speeds approaching seventy miles an hour, and anyone who says differently has obviously never finished a workday with half a gravel pit embedded in one cheek.

SPREADERS

Fly spreaders (such as the one above) are actually pretty unobjectionable tools. You pour some powdery shit in the top, you push it, and then that same powdery shit comes flying out the bottom at high speed. There’s very little to fuck up.

Drop spreaders, on the other hand, have much more personality. See, you only use drop spreaders when the powdery shit you’re spreading is powdery shit that you very much don’t want to be breathing, such as iron phosphate (a common mosskiller.)

Cheeky little bastard.

Drop spreaders work fine in theory, at least until you’ve been using them for thirty seconds and some little piece of grit in the teeth makes it stop working. Intelligent landscapers will solve this problem by fiddling with the opening mechanism, eventually dislodging the grit. Unintelligent landscapers will thump the spreader against the ground several times, sending clouds of iron phosphate in the air like some sort of noxious fireworks display. Guess what kind of landscaper I am.

(It’s important to note that iron phosphate isn’t actually poisonous; believe me, if it were I wouldn’t be typing this right now. It basically dries out your skin something fierce and makes everything taste like nails for a while.)

AERATORS

Aerators are perhaps the best argument that landscaping is less about beautifying unkempt yards and more about fucking up Mother Nature no matter the cost. See, aerators drive large hollow spikes into the ground over and over, depositing the retrieved earth onto lawns in convenient little turd-shaped cylinders. If there were a weapon like that, it would be banned by international treaty in seconds.

There are also hand-powered aerators, like this one, for when your lawn has really pissed you off and you want to make it suffer.

What’s more, there are people who claim that aerating is good for lawns. That is how much people hate nature; when shown an implement that can stab a lawn hundreds and hundreds of times, these people will say “Yep. Musta had it coming.”

DE-THATCHERS

In the same way that insult typically follows injury, dethatching typically follows aerating. A dethatcher is basically a cylinder covered in long hooks that reach down and tear up all the dead moss and grass that accumulates on a lawn over the year, while also breaking up the little dirt dog-turds left behind by the aerator. To further illustrate that, imagine being stabbed a dozen times and then having someone wax your chest.

HAND TOOLS

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a picture of a double-bladed axe that isn't from World of Warcraft or that isn't covered in fakey dwarven runes or some shit? FUCKING NERDS

Apart from wimpy little weeding implements, hand tools are fucking boss. I dare you to prune a blackberry bush down to nothing with a pair of lopping shears, chop down a cherry tree with a hacksaw, or even just dig a bigass hole with a spade without feeling like a big tough man afterward. Granted, you’ll likely be a big tough man with severe muscle fatigue covered in various cuts and bruises, but if you wanted to live a painless life free of open wounds you shouldn’t have become a lawncare professional, jerkass.

Tune in next time for the third and final installment of LAWNTERROR: CHAPTER 3: TROUBLESHOOTING.

(Alternative Title: SECOND-BEST AT WHAT HE DOES)

What can we say about Wolverine that hasn’t been poorly spelled in all-caps before? He’s Marvel’s most bankable mutant and currently appears in about every third comic Marvel publishes. They have even taken to specifically labeling comics which don’t have Wolverine on them. Yes, seriously.

Use these to recognize the increasingly-rare Wolverine-free Marvel titles!

In the comics Wolverine seems aware of his best-selling status, missing no opportunity to talk down to his teammates and trash-talk his enemies, generally glowering at everything and wishing he could fuck a dead woman. This would all-be par for the course in comics but, dammit, he’s just so cocky about it, as are his fans. Well I say we take Wolverine at his word and see whether he really is the best there is at what he does.

What exactly is it that Wolverine does, you ask? Let’s check his stats:

KILLING

Want context? Purchase "The Dark Phoenix Saga" trade paperback and hold on to your balls.

One thing that always drew fans to Wolverine was how lethal he was. Banshee would yell at you, Cyclops would look at you, Professor X would make you think bad thoughts, but Wolverine… he will stab you. As time went on this aspect of Wolverine’s character was played up more heavily as fans couldn’t seem to get enough of Wolverine losing his shit and killing a room full of dudes. One of the things that catapulted Wolverine to fan-favorite status was him cutting up an entire building of dudes after getting left for dead in the sewers.

GRADE: B-

Apart from cannon-fodder henchmen, Wolverine really hasn’t killed as many people as you would think. Of those he has killed many of them really had it a long time coming, so the whole “loose cannon” angle just doesn’t work. He probably would have scored higher if not for the fact that he has failed to kill so many of his arch enemies when killing people is his whole deal (see below.)

HEAD OF THE CLASS: TOMMY MONAGHAN

I could have said “The Punisher” because both of them have pretty impressive body counts but A) the Punisher didn’t really start killing a lot of guys for a long time (since he was a Spider-Man character and mostly hung around threateningly) and B) Tommy Monaghan killed a shitload of guys in way fewer issues than the Punisher ever did. Still, both characters held mainstream titles and killed way more people than Wolverine ever did. For those unfamiliar with him, Tommy Monaghan starred in DC comics’ Hitman by future Punisher scribe Garth Ennis and his book was pretty righteously funny in its own right, which earns him some extra credit.

ADAMANTIUM

HRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNGH

Wolverine’s bones are coated with an alloy called adamantium, an ultra-dense material that is virtually indestructible once it solidifies. This means two things: he can withstand an astounding amount of punishment and his claws can cut through damn near anything. This does make for some cool moments and lets him go toe to toe with people like the Hulk or giant robots. (If you’ve ever seen the X-Men fight Sentinels you know that the whole team is over in one panel attacking one’s foot while Wolverine cuts off like four of their heads in the rest of the page.) For years the exact process and origin behind Wolverine’s adamantium was unknown since its creation was a state-protected secret.

GRADE: C

Wolverine’s adamantium is great and all, but he could withstand massive punishment without it (see below,) so it’s not strictly necessary. It’s also a bad idea to have a metal skeleton when the supervillain you fight every goddamn Tuesday has magnetic powers. Magneto finally wised up after 20 years of Wolverine’s bullshit and extracted the adamantium from his skeleton in the form of little sperms.

"Okay, I'll be the first to admit that I didn't really think this AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH"

It was at that point that it was revealed that Wolverine didn’t even need adamantium claws since he’d had big bone claws the whole time which could still cut through the side of a bus. (Kids! This is not how science works; no matter how sharp I carve a stick of butter it is not going to slice through a piece of construction paper.)

Moreover, the mystery and uniqueness of adamantium was a bit dulled by the fact that over time everybody got themselves some adamantium, even Wolverine’s old enemy Sabretooth. Bullseye has an adamantium spine. Doctor Octopus had some adamantium arms. Doctor Doom made some adamantium armor. Marvel’s mafia families have adamanium robot bodyguards. Wolverine’s vengeful ex and even his bastard son got their hands on some adamantium. I think even Gambit had an adamantium stick now. Gambit. Jesus.

HEAD OF THE CLASS: ULTRON

The very first Ultron resembled the Fruit Fucker from Penny Arcade but it wouldn’t be long before he upgraded and the Avengers had to deal with an entire killer robot made of adamantium who also shot face lasers and had an army of lesser robots. It bears repeating that he shoots death lasers out of his face. The height of Ultron’s being-awesomeness was when he built a metric shitload of copies of himself out of adamantium and basically marched across the entire fakey country of Slorenia and burned it to the ground. Oh, he also sort of took over space a little. Eat a dick, Wolverine.

SUPER POWERS

"Hey guys, I found some bullets."

Wolverine’s super powers include a super-fast healing ability and heightened senses. That means that writers can have him do all the bad-ass action hero stuff in the world and have an excuse for it. How did he know that ninja was right behind him? Oh, right, super-smelling. Did he just jump out of a plane without a parachute? Oh, right, regeneration. If you watched the X-Men cartoon in the 90’s you know that the infected Wolverine with the Legacy Virus (a flimsy analogue for AIDS,) and cured it with his hyper-immune system’s antibodies. They never tried that in the comics though because none of your damn business, that’s why!

GRADE: C-

Wolverine’s regeneration isn’t as common in comics as, say, super-strength or wearing nothing but panties and calling it a battle suit but he’s neither unique or the first in making regeneration his whole deal. The whole point of the Spider-Man villain the Lizard was that his origin had him regenerating a whole god-damned arm before he even got turned into Crocodile Dundee’s arch nemesis. Not only that but Wolverine’s first opponents — the Hulk and Wendigo — also have healing factors, as does his arch-enemy Sabretooth. And Wolverine’s other enemies, Bloodscream and Cyber and Omega Red. Deadpool has a synthetic healing factor based off of Wolverine’s. The fucking Green Goblin has a healing factor, as does Doomsday (the guy who killed Superman a little,) and a random ass cop in the pages of Flash. Oh, and the cheerleader. Even Hawkman has a healing factor these days. You’re as cool as Hawkman, Wolverine.

As for the super-duper senses: A) that’s Daredevil’s whole deal, B) half the people listed above also have that, C) Superman owns them all.

HEAD OF THE CLASS: LOBO

Lobo (the version of Lobo that caught on, at least,) was an indictment of the over-the-top gruffness and violence that defined characters like Wolverine and the Punisher. He was so over-the-top, in fact, that people fell unironically in love with him and supported him in a whole series. Lobo has super-senses as well, not that he needs them. His healing abilities are so powerful that he can re-grow a body after his head has been severed. If completely disintegrated, a new Lobo will still regenerate out of a drop of blood. Add to that the fact that he’s effectively immortal since both Heaven and Hell have literally kicked him out, and Wolverine looks like a pussy boy in comparison (though to be fair, Clint Eastwood riding a grizzly bear looks pretty sissy next to Lobo.)

BEING A DANGEROUS LONER

If there’s one thing that fans associate with Wolverine above all else it’s the attitude of the dangerous loner. Why does Jean fall for the pint-sized furball? Girls love a troubled bad-boy. If there’s something to be done Wolverine is ready to do it himself and the hell with all your regulations, Lieutenant! When a naked man is chasing a woman through an alley with a butcher knife and a hard-on, I figure he isn’t out collecting for the Red Cross, Bub! SNIKT!

GRADE: F

Wolverine’s big break was as the irascibly surly guy on the All-New, All-Different X-Men, where it was revealed that he had previously been a part of Alpha Flight, prior to which he was a member of the Weapon X program and part of Canadian Special Forces (they’re the branch of the Canadian military who’re allowed to use the one tank, provided they pay for gas out of their own pockets.) Since then he’s been a member of the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, the Secret Defenders, X-Force… there’s really no group of idiots that Wolverine won’t hang around while complaining about being a grizzled loner. This is without even mentioning the fact that he apparently collects mutant jailbait sidekicks: first Sprite, then Jubilee, and now he’s got characters named Pixie and Armor under his hairy, surly wing. Yes, the names are getting slightly less terrible as time passes, but the bottom line is still that Wolverine is more or less the world’s angriest babysitter.

The funny thing is, he’s not even the best at being bad at being a grizzled loner, an honor which we all know belongs to Batman; never minding the Justice League, the Outsiders (his own super-team), and a seemingly never ending parade of Gotham vigilantes who operate under his watch… at this point there have been five different Robins.

"Can we make this fight quick? Robin 8 gets colicky if I don't read to him before beddy-byes."

HEAD OF THE CLASS: DEADPOOL

Wade Wilson’s affiliation with the Weapon X program was the last time he was a part of anything except for a passing camaraderie with professional super-villains and a shape-shifting ex-girlfriend. Sure, he tried to bang some jailbait member of X-Force and was occasionally pressed into service by an even badder villain here and there but always for a lark, always as a gag. The only people Deadpool regularly associated with were hostages. The closest thing he has to a friend is the murderous psychopath Bullseye, and even that relationship involves them trying to kill one another half the time. The only real way you can get Deadpool to hang out with you is to pay him lots of money, and even then he’ll probably spend the whole time insulting you and might set fire to the dog.

LOVE

Wolverine has banged a lot of chicks. Most of these chicks have been Asian, redheaded, super-heroes, super-villains, or some combination of the two. He’s been married a couple of times and even fathered a couple of children (one of them with a cave-woman. Yes, that’s true.) He even has a sort of “just friends” relationship with Daredevil’s main squeeze, Elektra, which may in fact be “friends with benefits.” Most famously, Wolverine has repeatedly acted as the third side of a romantic triangle with teammates Cyclops and Jean Grey. Even after the two were married Wolverine still kept at it and teases of the two kissing or having a relationship were constant. If you’ve read any straight X-Men fanfiction online it probably involved Jean and Logan fucking.

What? Don’t look at me like that, you bastards.

GRADE: D

First off, in Marvel’s Ultimate X-Men title Wolverine did finally nail Jean Grey… when she was jailbait. Neat, huh?

The other thing you have to realize is that a lot of the women Wolverine has been with over the years have sort of died or tried to kill him or both. This is because they usually get abused, thrown over, abandoned, killed, sent to hell… bad times, basically. One joined a terrorist group. One shoved giant metal spikes into her fingers and led an army of cyborgs. It takes a hell of a lot of scorn to drive a woman to that. If you think dealing with the hair he leaves on the soap is the worst thing about knocking boots with Wolverine, think again. Wolverine doesn’t protect his girlfriends for shit.

One of them even died from blowfish toxin poisoning, like Homer Simpson almost did that one time.

HEAD OF THE CLASS: TOM STRONG

Created by Alan Moore as a sort of Doc Savage-Captain Marvel pastiche, Tom Strong doesn’t look a day over 38 even at 108 years old, which means he got some seventy solid years of crazy sex with his wife, who kind of was a princess. Together they stopped robot people and alien invasions and total craziness and managed to raise a teenage daughter for sixty years. So, like a lot of Alan Moore comics, it runs on its own little put-put logic engine. If you buy that, though, Tom isn’t exactly a player or a cooze-hound but he does run a loving home in spite of absolute craziness and keeps his loved ones safe, at least. Plus he was raped by a Nazi superwoman in his sleep. I think we’ve all had dreams like that after watching Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS.

Then again, if we’re rating on a strict cooze-hound scale then Wolverine still loses out to a lot of characters, especially Jack Horner from DC’s Fables. Yes, the same Jack Horner who sat in a corner, jumped over candlesticks, and fought giants. In this comic he gets more pussy than some sort of Hugh Hefner-Wilt Chamberlain cyborg which makes up for nursery rhymes being the second lamest form of expression… right below Hallmark cards and right above Uwe Boll movies.

STYLE

Wolverine’s blue and yellow spandex isn’t entirely intimidating, and is hardly the best superhero costume out there. There are also more than a few people who thought it was a little gay. In fact Frank Quietly, artist of the Authority and JLA, has said almost that exact thing on more than one occasion.

GRADE: F

When Quietly got the job of redesigning the X-Men, he set out to make Wolverine look absolutely not gay at all. Not. Gay. At. All. So he designed this:

Whoa. Um. Geez.

HEAD OF THE CLASS: JUST ABOUT GODDAMNED EVERYBODY

Even the superheroes who look more than a little gay are still better designed than… this. Not to mention even his original costume has always been kind of arbitrary, like many of the X-Men. Then of course there’s his hair…

SMOKING

Anybody who grew up reading Marvel comics knows that Wolverine is rarely without a nice big stogie in his mouth. His healing powers mean that he never has to worry about cancer or, hell, probably even yellowing teeth.

GRADE: F

As per an official policy put in place by current Editor-In-Chief Joe Quesada, Wolverine can’t smoke. He can never smoke. Neither can Nick Fury or the Thing or anybody else who smokes… all people whose unique physiology makes smoking not a problem. But no superheroes can smoke. Because smoking is evil. Only supervillains can smoke. This is a rule.

HEAD OF THE CLASS: HELLBOY

Hellboy’s love of cigars has crossed from comics to film to even direct-to-DVD cartoons. Before a film was even a remote possibility, Hellboy had his own cigarette lighter. These days he has like eight. Wolverine, by comparison, appears on candy cigarette packages. Only they don’t call them candy cigarettes: they call them “candy sticks.”

If you want to see Daniel talk a lot more about comics, a good place to do this is over at his blog, the Comic Book Closet.

Even though producing and publishing top-grade internet comedy meets my financial needs in ways that most men can only dream of, sometimes I get a hankering for an honest day’s work amongst the little people. Or even nine hours of honest day’s work, five days a week, in the beating sunlight and blisteringly fresh Vancouver Island air.

Yes, I have recently found gainful employment with a local landscaping company. The Comox Valley (where I live,) houses many such businesses, as it also has the world’s largest population of retirees living in houses with yards that are far beyond their means to maintain. This means that basically anyone with a lawnmower, rake, and a truck to carry them around in can slap a phone number on a business card and have a hundred clients inside a week. I’m doing my best to avoid outright calling landscaping a conspiracy to take advantage of the elderly, but after two weeks on the job it’s pretty hard to see it any other way. In our defense, those octogenarians are totally asking for it.

"No, don't bother telling us your hourly rate, we'll just sign a cheque and leave it blank."

Sadly, a landscaper’s lot is not all hoodwinking the infirm. No matter how many codgers you bamboozle, eventually you will have to scape some land. But if you, like so many other amateur landscapers, balk at this daunting proposition, fear not! I have prepared several exhuastive glossaries of terms to help smooth your transition from Normal Human Being to Lawncare Professional.

CHAPTER ONE: YOUR OPPONENTS

THE LAWN – Your primary foe. A well-kept lawn is nothing so much as it is segregation in action: a patch of level, fertile ground has been strewn with good, wholesome grass seeds that are not to be sullied by association with impure, shiftless weeds (bushes and trees are allowable on a lawn so long as they keep to themselves, but we’ll get to them in a minute.)

Just look at that clean, pure, healthy lawn! I bet that lawn never commits any crimes or worships any heathen gods.

Besides being constantly mowed, lawns need the following actions to be performed with varying regularity in order to stay healthy:

- Weeding (once per week)

- Fertilizing and Liming (no more than once every two months)

- Moss control (once a season)

- Aerating and De-thatching (once a year)

- Pedicures and Manicures (whenever the lawn is feeling down)

- Pep Talks (for when the lawn’s self-confidence has been shaken by harsh language)

- Fervent Worship (once at sunrise, once at sunset)

- Blood Sacrifices (when you have incurred the lawn’s wrath or once every Winter Solstice, whichever comes first)

- Foreplay (whenever you feel your lawn needs a little “extra attention,” if you get my drift)

- Trimming (whenever you mow)

FLOWER BEDS

Sometimes, when there is little to no mowing to do at a client’s house (or when your boss is feeling like an asshole,) you will be tasked with cleaning up flower beds, a job for those seeking to contract arthritis in both their knees AND their hands but don’t feel like planning two separate activities.

Flower beds come in two distinct varieties:

- Regular Dirt Beds: the standard variation for people who like growing plants. Full of dirt, weeds, rocks, and flowers. Take the weeds and rocks, leave the dirt and flowers.

- Rock Beds: the variation for idiots who have no goddamn business owning a flower bed, or a house for that matter. Rock beds are made up of golfball-sized white stones spread thickly on top of black canvas, the theory being that this will make them easy to maintain. This theory is retarded, because weeds grow everywhere, and all these proud homeowners have accomplished is the installation of an ugly shitpile that can’t be weeded using tools costing several hundred dollars.

Oh, look! Someone put a big fucking pile of weed-infested rocks in the middle of your lawn! And you paid them to do it! Smooth thinking, dipshit.

TREES AND BUSHES

Despite their daunting size and menacing foliage, trees and bushes are nowhere near as dangerous as their vicious outward appearance might make them out to be. Possibly the greatest danger a tree faces to the careless landscaper is trepanating him as he blunders blindly into a low-hanging branch while mowing (which, admittedly, is fairly unpleasant.) Bushes are more docile than their taller cousins, though some of the more ornery species can cause unsuspecting lawncare professionals no end of grief by ensnaring them in their spiky tentacles.

On the whole, however, the relationship between a properly cautious landscaper and these noble flora is a healthy one. On the part of the landscaper, that is, because most of his interactions with trees and bushes involve him cutting parts off of them (or, in rare cases, removing them altogether, which means that he gets to use the really fun tools.)

You people seriously have no idea how great it is to just wail on a tree root with a pickaxe. It feels AMAZING.

However, I’m getting ahead of myself here – CHAPTER 2: YOUR WEAPONS will be published later this week, and will detail all those lovely implements that the modern age has blessed the humble lawncare professional with. See you then!

When I got the word from Malcolm that I had been accepted as one of The Last Gaffe’s new writers, I was pretty amped about the whole thing. That feeling lasted for a solid fifteen minutes, before it turned into an intense sense of dread at my complete dearth of ideas for what to write. I hadn’t really been doing a lot of writing the past few weeks, and while many writers would come out of such a stretch with a back-up of great ideas just waiting to pour out of them, I came out with fresh memories of how much more fun Resident Evil 5 is than writing.

It's not racist because the girl's black, you guys!

And so I found myself staring blankly at a word document that was, well, blank, trying my damnedest to come up with something that would be both funny and a good introduction to the Last Gaffe audience. Something that truly captured who I am. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a whole lot of time to come up with something good because I was also in the process of moving to a new house. And then, in the process of moving, genius struck.

In the form of idiocy.

Any schlep can move a bed from one house to another. It’s a terribly straightforward and simple task. Take the bed apart, put it in a vehicle, drive to a different place, put the bed together. That’s boring. What takes talent is finding a way to turn this simple construction project into an Odyssey of Homerian-proportions (and yes, I am talking about the Simpson variety.)

As luck would have it, I am world class in the field of Simple Task Fuck-Upery, and by following my simple guide, you too can find bed moving to be a baby-punchingly frustrating endeavor.

(NOTE: in keeping with the theme of ineptitude, I failed to take any pictures of my efforts. My six-year-old neighbor was kind of enough to illustrate some helpful diagrams with my guidance.)

Step 1: Disassembling Your Bed

This is the trickiest part of the entire operation. As you’ve already noticed, your bed’s entire construction consists of only eight of those new-fangled half-screw, half-bolt things.

Sixteen if, like me, your bed consists of two identical beds pushed together. You take those out and, just like that, you’ve got a disassembled bed.

It could be argued that this step is one that is damn-near idiot proof. So, how can we fix that? By misunderstanding what day your house is getting set up with all those fancy things like TV and internet that make a house habitable. By neglecting to figure these pieces of information out, you can buy yourselves two nights sleeping on a couch that’s two feet shorter than you are, while your beds sit in the back of a truck waiting to be moved.

Step 2: Moving the Bed

Now that your bed is safely packed to the very top of the covered truck bed without a meaningful reason to move it to your new crib, you’re ready to proceed to Step 2, and get your move on. For starters, you’re going to get a call to go hang out with your sister while her husband is at work. Since “work” for her husband entails training to beat up men far bigger than you, and you’re a strikingly attractive man that’s fond of his current facial arrangement, you’re going to want to oblige.

About halfway through the drive, you’re going to hear a thump from the back of the truck. A check in your rearview mirror will confirm that there is still a headboard and footboard resting atop the two sets of mattresses, and that everything is cool. Important: do not stop to think about that logic. It’s vitally important that you get all the way to your sister’s house before you realize that two sets of mattresses should have two headboards and two footboards.

Once you’re at your sister’s house, you’re now free to realize that you failed to lock the window on the bed cover, and that you are now short two fairly-important parts of your bed. Quickly hurry to retrace your steps, being sure to get a false sense of security when you find the first piece a mere quarter-mile from her house and in perfect condition. This will make it all the more painful of a kick in the man marbles when you come across the second piece, and learn that somebody was kind enough to run it over with their car, leading to some boards seeking their sovereignty.

Optional Aesthetic Step: Carefully study the footboard before hammering it back together to ensure that you reattach the pieces in the correct order to ensure no visible nails. Then go to sleep, do the hammering in the morning and accidentally reverse the steps.

Step 3: Reassembling the Bed

Here we are – the home stretch. With just a few more masterful touches, you’ll have finished off a truly terrible attempt at moving a bed. Assemble the first bed without any complications, and develop a smug feeling of adequacy as a result. Repeat the process on the second bed until you’re putting in the seventh screwbolt. That’s when you want to notice the footboard on the second bed is upside down compared to the first footboard.

Take apart the second bed, taking care to unscrew the boards on both sides of the bed, not just the side that needs to be turned around. Trust me, this makes loads of sense. Flip the footboard and put the bed back together. Congratulations, you have put your beds together. Slide the drawers under the bed and call it a day.

What’s that? Something doesn’t look right?

You know what? Fuck you. I think that’s a perfectly fine bed. What, like, you’re so fucking perfect? Newsflash buddy, you’re not exactly a 10 yourself (Unless you’re reading this and also a lady, in which case I didn’t mean it. You’re beautiful, and you should message me.)

Fine, we’re not done yet. This is about the time in the operation where you realize that it was the second bed you’d put together right, not the first, and that you’re an idiot. Take both beds apart, flip both endboards and screw it all back together and you’re finally done.

Congratulations, you can now enjoy your bed with the ladies, if you know what I mean.

Fuck you, kid.