Category Archives: Uncategorized

God, Jesus-Ween and Satan

What’s worse than Trick Or Treating for Unicef?

How about handing out Bibles while wearing identical white T-shirts with the rest of your youth group?

Jesus-Ween, or Jesus-Win, is a contrived holiday which will attempt to reinvent Halloween into something more wholesome; or as my friend told me after looking at their Web site, something a little sadder than people who hand out pennies for Trick Or Treat.

In between singing lines like “And if the Devil Doesn’t Like it he can sit on a tack. Ouch!” with uniformity that the North Korean Army would envy and arguing whose mother gave out the sexiest purity ring, teens across the country are having a spiritual fall holiday without all the candy and toilet paper and casual drug use millions of other teens take part in every Oct. 31 without somehow summoning an elder god who drowns the planet in maggots he vomits from each of his 666 mouths.

I don’t want to make fun of these people. I don’t want to bitch about how their loyalty oaths promise to retake the holiday and turn it into World Evangelism Day. I don’t want to make fun of their website, which looks like Thomas Kinkaid threw up in my browser.

I want to shy away from forced outrage against a group of people who will never succeed in ruining Halloween for the normals. I’ve been following their Facebook updates for weeks and it’s heartwarming how they celebrate whenever there’s a news story about an elementary school in Kansas that disciplined a third grader for coming to class dressed like Ed Gein.

Halloween is going to be fine. While lesser holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and St. Patrick’s day are fatally flawed by church, interacting with your family and drunk fratboy assholes hooting at “The Boondock Saints,” Halloween retains it’s credibility. It’s the most fun you can possibly have while waiting for the natural world to rot and die for another winter marked by seasonal affective disorder, nosebleeds from forced air heating and cutting yourself with whatever’s handy as the sun goes down at four in the afternoon.

Halloween succeeds on its own merits: candy, booze, horror movies, the Great Pumpkin, urban legends about people force-feeding razor blades to children and people dressing as the walking corpse of whatever important person died that year. Its superiority is because this all happens organically. Cool is self-sustaining and it doesn’t need an evangelist.

But people need to appreciate where this all comes from. Halloween, deep in its roots, is protection. The holiday gives us a ritual with which we can interact with existential we’re-all-gonna-beat-dirt-in-the-ground drama that should be turning everyone into nihilistic serial killers. Without such release valves, society would have a tense Thanksgiving, a worse Christmas and the self-immolations would start at some point during the Super Bowl halftime show when the curtain rises to reveal one half of Smash Mouth eating the other half.

But taking the theatrics of Halloween too seriously, as Jesus-Ween would have us do, is also dangerous.

The Abyss. All of my fun ideas come from here.

Because believing in the Devil just makes it easier for Him to find you. The Abyss needs to be dealt with carefully, because It’s always looking for a foothold.

Like this:

A summer camp counselor is telling the children in her bunk a ghost story. Once upon a time, a little boy’s overbearing mother choked to death on a ham sandwich. He wasn’t around to call for help because he disobeyed his mother and was playing outside instead of doing his homework indoors like a good child. To this day, the mother’s vengeful ghost tortures her son by gagging loudly when he tries to play, when he’s making new friends and just as he’s ready to fall asleep every night. The campers, with rapt attention, are hooked on every word of the story.

But the counselor stops just before the end. She quits and flatly tells the campers she’s sorry, but the story didn’t actually happen to a cousin of her friend like she told them at the beginning. It was all made up crap, she says. She lets her campers know that there are no real ghosts, no actual monsters. In calm, paced tones, she tells the children that as they get older they’ll realize there is nothing hiding behind the basement furnace. Nothing is waiting until their back is turned to grab them around the ankle with a slender arm and drag them under the stairs.

The counselor says when the campers are older they’ll realize all the monsters they could ever handle were already inside them, in their parents’ heads and in the minds of every new person they meet.

So close.

Just like the monsters always wanted.

Enoying

every

single

bite

of you.

Nivek Ogre, a well-adjusted guy.

So much of the world is a disgusting hellhole, and that’s just the stuff that floats to the surface. An enormous demographic of people instructed by God to keep these things from happening are more concerned that “Disney’s Halloween Treat” is an initiation into a goat-worshiping, free-love LSD cult. If you contemplate it for too long you’re bound to reach the conclusion that we’re living in a universe which is indifferent to everything except its love affairs with Absolute Zero and entropy.  In the end, it would almost be pleasant to have a flesh-eating ghoul who cared enough to stalk you through your house at night.

You have to deal with this madness on your own terms or you’ll go psycho.

Horror is gift. Halloween is necessary. Gorging yourself on sixlets and candy apples and throwing up into a plastic Captain America mask is a human fucking right.

“The Barbarians Are Revolting!”

I'm Cecil the Bear Baiter and I'm madder than hell!

Don’t let anyone know I said this, but – seriously, guys – fuck bear baiting. I can’t believe it took a civil war and a foreign occupation to open my perspective enough to see new job opportunities beyond bear and dog fights. Spectacles like bear bating aren’t as exciting when there’s an actual war going on outside. It looks dull by comparison and there’s not much you can do to make it more exciting. It doesn’t matter how drunk you get the bears before the fight when rival groups of barbarian warlords are firing peasants out of 100-yard long crossbows at each other.

The war almost tore Pigsnot Marsh apart, ruining what would have been the pleasantest harvest and smallpox season on record. And it didn’t seem like the fight between King Longloins and his nobles was going to end. It was when the Northern Kingdom was at its weakest that the mysterious ships from the east started landing on our shores.

We were being invaded.

The invaders store their important information in something called "books." Pigsnot Marshers store their important information by having our slain enemies' orphans recite it from memory. Oh, that reminds me: I need to pick up another copy of "Pig Farmer's Almanac." Mine drowned in the latrine last week.

The colonialists knocked over the government in a matter of days. They ran all our aristocrats out of the castles and replaced them with mayors selected by their own government. The mayors began reforming our way of life and, even though our high priests threatened otherwise, Almighty Crom did not seek vengeance by sneezing us from his holy nose and wiping us under his celestial kitchen table.

For a while we had a very different kind of leader. He got his seat in an election, he wasn’t chosen in a contest to see who could fling his wife the farthest. He governed with help from a cabinet of scholars. He could count. He didn’t own slaves and he didn’t think he could control the weather by the amount of rat bones in his beard.

His government implemented a lot of quality-of-life reforms: crop rotations, plumbing, roads… They even took down the old diving board at Mercury-and-Molten-Lava Lake.

Within three days, they negotiated a treaty with King Longloins and his thanes. Within a week, they ended the centuries-old custom of selling your daughter to the village brothel on her 14th birthday. Our open sores all healed over time and, ever since the new government told us they scared away the troll that steals smart children, our kids been able to read and write without fear.

Shame things had to end the way they did.

About six months ago Urk the Bloodletter’s prize sow gave birth to a piglet who oinks backwards.

That kind of evil omen could only mean one thing: the colonialists were enchanted demonic blood gnomes and had to be destroyed.

"Well, professor, I find your geocentric view of the solar system simplistic and, frankly, arrogant." "Hush, Francis, who's that at the door?" "Oh, it's the Barbarians who are going to kill us because we're a pair of wussy pussy sissy pants who read books. Durr Durr Durr."

They didn’t see it coming. They were like lambs before the slaughter. Before long you could hear the lamentations of their women. “The Barbarians! The Barbarians are revolting!” Their kingdom was turned to ash. We celebrated for two months, drunkenly burning libraries and hospitals. Everyone sold his 14-year-old daughter to the brothel and open, weeping sores are a now sign of patriotism.

The bottom dropped out of the orphan market after all of this, so I was out of a job again. It was then that I had the divine inspiration to run for a job in the provisional government, which will remain in power until Longloins perfects the follow through on his wife-throwing.

Yeehaw! Church is fun again! When the invaders left, all their silly copies of "The Crom Delusion" left with them. Nice try, bloodgnomes.

This is my chance to finally have a voice in Pigsnot governance, to have real power, to finally be able to afford one of those fancypants “spoons” I keep hearing about. Once I’m close enough to the Longloins administration, I’ll move into one of the largest palaces in the Northern Kingdom and I’ll have a whole barnful of wives.

This isn’t to say that I don’t have anything to offer the subjects here. I have incredible credentials. I’ve fathered fewer stillbirths than any other proud dad in the Northern Kingdom. I come from a respectable family. My granddad burned all the gypsy women he was pretty sure gave everyone in town the plague a few years ago.

But more than anything I have sound public policy platforms.

Ogre pillages are the single greatest outside threat facing the Northern Kingdom today. If I’m hired, after dipping my noble wick into my first allowance of fresh wives, I will eradicate the Ogre menace through a brilliant system of appeasement involving the excess orphans in my orphanarium and a vat of dippin’ sauce.

Following that, I will run out of town all of the cheating and unethical street vendors who sell rat meat – Yes, common rat meat – in the village meat markets. Every citizen will be able to rest easy knowing these vendors have been replaced by franchises of Farmer Cecil’s Grade-A Health Rats.

And, so help me Crom, Literacy shall die within our lifetimes!

I look forward to serving you, the fine people of Pigsnot Marsh, as your regional warlord and slave master!

Knock! Knock!

Well hello there, ma’am! Beautiful evening. Isn’t it? Gorgeous moon! Just Gorgeous. Well, yes, I guess it is a bit late… neighbors must be sound asleep by now.

Anyway, let me introduce myself. My name is Charlie Walker, but my friends call me Chuck. Anyhow, I was just taking a nice stroll around your lovely neighborhood and decided to stop by.

Well now, you got a nice house here, ma’m. Look at that parlor! You got your telephone and your combination phonograph radio and even state-of-the-art RCA television console. The wood paneling in this place is exquisite! Gee wiz! I bet with one of those singing fish on the wall, this place would look as classy as a German hunting lodge!

But do you ever feel you’re missing something? That you’re lacking that one-of-a-kind household item without which you question your lifestyle, your self-worth and your decision to not drive your children to the lake with a stomach full of Valium and release the emergency brake?

Well it just so happens that I represent a product that can fill that void.

That’s right, ma’m. I’m here to give you an opportunity to be one of the first women on your block to own a Certified, Genuine, Guaranteed 100% Authentic Rotting Corpse for the low, low price of just fifty dollars!

Whoa now! Looks like you shut that door right on my foot there, ma’m. Just hear me out, you wouldn’t want to shut old Chuck out in the cold night, would you? It’s dangerous out there, ya know. Hell, I wouldn’t even be able to call the cops. Phones lines are down. Didn’t anyone tell you?

But just think of it, ma’m: The ab-so-lute luxury of the world’s finest corpses right in comfort of your own home! Don’t want to take my word for it? You don’t need to! Why not ask the trendsetters at Better Homes and Gardens, who called Rotting Corpses, “the must-have item for every modern woman?” Or the fine ladies at Redbook who called them, “the sexiest accessory to come out of third wave feminism?”

Hell, even those stuffy old fuddy duddies down at Consumer Reports who pooh-poohed that fine asbestos insulation you got in this house just couldn’t stop clowning around with theirs in time to write the article for their summer issue!

That’s right, my good lady. I’ve got a selection of the finest quality Rotting Corpses on this side the New Jersey landfill and I want you to buy one. You got your pick, cuz I got all kinds of corpses! Young, old, male, female…hell we even got some Italians (if that’s what you’re into). Harvested by experts, dug up by hand and aged in finest barns under the Oklahoma sun, these corpses are guaranteed to change the way you live!

What do they do you ask? What don’t they do more like it! Golly, there’s no end to the ways a Rotting Corpse will enhance your quality of life.

Need a conversation starter at the next bridge club meeting? Flop one of these babies right there across the card table! It’s sure to spark off hours of conversation! Kids acting up? Try our “Tough Love” model: It scowls and points an accusatory finger at your little ones while a hidden tape recorder plays the phrase “I’m going to drag you down here with me.” Those little devils will think twice before trying to sneak their veggies under the table to the dog at dinner time!

Your husband’s in the mood but you got one of your “headaches” again? Why risk a black eye in the morning when you can just turn out the lights and let a Rotting Corpse do the work for you?

But why keep your amazing new purchase inside when you can put it outdoors for the neighbors to envy? With the right accessories, your corpse will make a swell scarecrow, perfect for keeping dogs, cats, and those pesky neighborhood Catholics off your lawn!

I can see you’re skeptical, ma’am, but just follow me here. These aren’t just any old, run-of –the-mill, cut-rate, fly-by-night corpses. No, these doozies here can and will alter the course of your life.

Still not interested, huh? Well that’s okay, because these corpses aren’t just for any Tom, Dick, Harry or other commie-loving traitor. No sir! These puppies are a symbol of status.

Look, ma’m I…I don’t want to be a gossip, but I just thought you should know. I was down at Fred and Margaret Cunningham’s the other day, and well, they just bought two more! That’s right. They got one swinging in every room in the house!

And let me tell you, it isn’t Margaret’s whipped-salmon-casserole parfaits that keep the who’s who of the John Birch Society coming back to her potlucks.

But you still don’t want one? Really? You sure, ma’m? Because I’d sure feel bad about not letting in on this once-in-a-lifetime offer.

No? Okay…that’s just too bad. A shame, really. Say, is the man of the house home? No? Well when do ya think he’ll be back?

That’s a few good hours. Say… look at you….what are you? About a size six? About five-three? Yeah, yeah well I’ve been getting some orders for the shorter ones….yeah with the brown hair and the green eyes. They love green eyes….

No ma’m. Well sorry to barge into your house like this. I won’t be but about 30 minutes. It used to take less time… Jesus! Hold still you crazy dame!… but I bought the cheapest stuff from that crooked piano-wire salesman!

Rapture Science!

If you’re a follower of garbage news that has absolutely zero bearing on your  day-to-day life, you’re probably aware that the Rapture is scheduled tonight at about 6 p.m.

God enters His launch code. Jesus and God take out identical keys and turn them in separate locks simultaneously. A plastic cover over top of an angry, red button flips open. Jesus bites his upper lip and chokes back a sob. "This is what you get for 'Magic: The Gathering,'" God mutters, His index finger extending.

That news comes to us through 89-year-old pastor Harold Camping, a former civil engineer and a part-time impersonator of the grandpa in Texas Chainsaw Massacre. According to this article, Camping found three sacred numbers using Rapture Science, multiplied them together twice and mumble mumble the Rapture happens tonight.

Don’t ask us to explain it. We’re not one of his hundreds of potato-y followers who quit their jobs at the Gay-punching factory to spread the message about this crap. We don’t listen to much AM radio and, to be truthful, even Camping has fucked up this prediction before.

But we did take one semester of Rapture Science in college. It was a choice between that, Care Bear Physics, or Voodoo Home Economics and Rapture Science was the only one that didn’t meet at 8-o’clock in the freaking morning.

So we know what Camping is saying is the 100 percent real deal. This isn’t some tacky, bullshit, pandering shill being perpetrated on a bunch of gullible sourpuss assholes. This is authentic Rapture, God’s very own “I-told-you-so.” We’re hosed, guys.

In the few remaining hours Bob and I could spend repenting or calling our family members and telling them we love them, we’ve decided instead to share some of our Rapture expertise in an update. And yes, there’s a chance we could regret this post come Sunday, when we’re in Hell, staring into the demonic eyes of Leslie Nielsen as he rubs a suspicious, anvil-sized bulge in his pants; but we value you, our three readers, far more than our immortal souls. We don’t want you to be in the dark about Rapture Science once the actual Rapture starts going down. Besides, we know that if there’s one thing God hates more than a sinner, it’s someone who pusses out at the last second.

We wanted to thank you guys for reading our blog, for sharing in the experience of our final Garbage Duck update. Any moment now the skies will open and start raining molten bedbugs on us, but we will always love you.

Rapture Science

There is a finite amount of upward force applied to each of the select Christians who will float into Heaven tonight. That said, it will take approximately 2.5 Raptures to make Jerry Falwell ascend. Please note that this estimate is for the classic Falwell, not the current, more decompose-y model.

For my thesis I used science to prove that being in the presence of divinity was like getting a hug from Ed O'Neill. C+

In 1930, a Rapture scientist created an algorithm based on the true name of God, which we can’t type here (for some reason, it makes computer processors transubstantiate). He applied that formula to the book of Exodus and discovered an 11th commandment! However, “Thou Shalt Not Fart In A Pancake Factory” was very poorly received at that year’s convention and the scientist’s career was ruined.

Those who have the bad habit of confusing the real Rapture with the Blondie song of the same name, just remember this: Debbie Harry’s rapping does not mean the world is ending outside your window. The sound of the earth being blasted with fiery rays of God’s vengeance is actually less disturbing. You can count on this, though, “The Tide Is  High” is definitely playing on repeat in Hell for eternity.

When you get to Heaven and meet Saint Paul, don’t ask him about his Letters to the Philippians. He’s not proud of his later work.

Long thought to be a beautiful sermon about ideal mercy, love, and compassion for humanity, the Beatitudes are actually coded schematics for a nuclear-powered pulse rifle. This actually explains why in non-canonical gospels Jesus exclaims, “Choke on this, imperialist scum,” and glasses Rome after the Sermon on the Mount.

Q). If God had a face what would it look like and would you want to see? A). Myron Cope and fuck no.

Will my pets join me in The Rapture? No. Since pets are incapable of prayer, your beloved animals will be forced to starve or burn in the sulfur fires of post-Rapture earth. And there’s no praying mantises allowed in Heaven because they fumigate up there every other Thursday.

We hope that clears up some questions you had about the End Times. It’s been real. If we have one regret, it’s that a handful of arrogant, self-absorbed, gay-bashing jerks will be snatched into paradise tonight, and not the billions of flawed, but otherwise good people here. Oh well. Be sure to mark your post-Rapture calendars for the pansexual-drug-fueled-no-questions-asked-outdoors-uninhibited-polyamorous-fuck fest at my place on the 23rd.

Stories for Naughty Children 2

Good Evening.

You know, when I walk the halls of my laboratory at night, listening to the noises my test subjects make as the light hits their eyes for the first time in days, I find myself wondering: Will History respect, or even note the contributions I made as a Doctor of Children’s Studies?

I must say, the thought disturbs me greatly some evenings. And when my assistants come back with a bag of fresh subjects from the Orphanarium, I can barely muster up the enthusiasm to tag them and fire at them with the vaccination cannon.

So despondent am I that one of the little monsters nearly escaped the other evening. He had nearly cleared the second fence by the time Manfred, the simpleton who cleans the cages for me, felled him with a single blow from one of the other test subjects who just happened to be handy at the moment. Disaster was averted, but I lost two test subjects and we’re running out of space in the fruit cellar.

Sometimes, I fear my career is falling apart.

But it’s when I can sit down and practice my craft, writing fear-inducing cautionary tales for evil youngsters, that I reconnect with my muse and feel better. Yes, even though the fools, the simpletons the BRAZEN JACKASSES at “Children Studies Quarterly” had the nerve to call my stories “unethical,” “abusive” and “narrative lobotomies,” I know I am doing the Lord’s work. I have a mandate from Him to purge naughty behavior from the teeming, hateful masses of the planet’s youth. I will purify the world with SCIENCE!

I’m pleased to say I’ve written one that turned Test Subject A46 into an albino. Try this one out on your treacherous little brat today! I call it:

Lipp: The Wasteful Boy who Turned Into a Greasy Splat

Copyright: Dr. Munchhausen's Adorable-est Funeral Portraits, 1898

There once was a boy named Lipp, who always was a-wasting his money on stupid things.

He would buy puzzles. He would buy toys. He would buy a piece of candy to go with his lunchtime gruel.

Such silly, frivolous things for a growing boy of 5 to have!

So wasteful was Lipp, he once pinched only two-thirds as hard as everyone else during Protestant Penny-Pinching Day.

Which made Martin Luther very cross.

But the worst thing, the absolute, most-awful very worst thing Lipp ever did was to spend his money on junk advertised in comic books.

“Lipp! Oh Lipp!” his poor Mother cried, bawling into her filthy hausfrau mop bucket. “If you keep spending our money on silly things we will get poor and die.”

But greedy Lipp didn’t pay attention, so busy was he using his new X-ray glasses to look under Martin Luther’s robes.

Lipp kept ordering things through comics and on the day he filled out an order form for sea monkey-flavored Hostess Fruit Pies, The Bank sent armed men with dogs to repossess Lipp’s home.

His mother was sent to the Hausfrau Boarding Academy, a filthy hovel of women with dirty aprons. There, she died of mecha-tuberculosis, underneath the Academy’s sad sausage tree.

Selfish Lipp did not care! He laughed at poor Mother. But – Oh!-  how he gasped when he looked into his comic and saw the most wonderful thing he could ever buy. It was the most wonderful thing he could ever buy…

A book that could teach children how to fly!

Silly Lipp filled out the order form and waited. And waited. And waited. He was standing by the mailbox on the day it arrived. It was the most wonderful thing he could ever buy. A book that taught children how to fly!

He opened the package and saw only a sad pamphlet inside.

And inside the pamphlet, only one line of advice: “Just jump off a building, you pussy.”

Stan Laughs As You Eternally Rot

Stupid Lipp took the book’s advice and climbed to the tippy top of the tallest building in Duisburg.

He jumped. He Fell. And on his way down he could see Martin Luther, pointing, laughing and high-fiving Stan Lee, who gorged himself, sensuously, on a Hostess Fruit Pie.

Lipp hit the flagstones of Duisburg Square and turned into a splat, the ugliest splat in all of Germany.

Then the Duisburg Fire Department hosed Lipp down the sewer drain.

Excelsior!

The end.

Keep Our Military Manly!

To: President Barack H. Obama

From: Bruce Roberts, Military Ret.

I am writing to express my displeasure in your recent support of repealing the military’s policy regarding homosexuals, and must say I am revolted and insulted that you would bring such disgrace to our armed forces by letting these people serve at all.

Let me first say I am repulsed by the very idea that the homosexuals would be allowed serve alongside our brave men and women in uniform, and feel personally offended both as veteran and as God-fearing, red-blooded American patriot.

I fought in World War II and did not watch my good friends and fellow soldiers die horrible deaths overseas so that a bunch of mincing nancies could dilute and weaken our armed forces. My buddies who I watched storm the beaches of Normandy- striding gracefully out of the water, droplets falling like glistening diamonds from their, young, Adonis-like bodies- would roll in their graves if they saw what you have done to our military. I fought alongside those great men as they slogged to the shore- flimsy wet uniforms clinging to their tight, sculpted physiques – and I will not stand to see their memory shamed in such a way.

Allowing gays into our glorious military is not only immoral, but dangerous. If you are going to put your life in another man’s hands you need to trust them. How can our warriors feel safe and secure when they have to rely on these creepy deviants to protect them in battle? I remember late nights in the Arden Forest when I stood watch over my brothers in arms- seeing the soft moonlight reflect off their flaxen hair, making it glow a pale and radiant blue. I watched them sleep, the slight rise and fall of their washboard stomachs, their soft lips opening and closing as they mumbled sweet nothings in their sleep while the air smelled of pine trees and daffodils . I watched them all night long, sometimes for several weeks in a row. Hell, most of the time I didn’t even have sentry duty. I hate to think of what could have happened to them on those nights under watch of some filthy pervert.

I must tell you, Mr. President, that what you are doing is a disgrace to the memory of many brave men. Men like my friend and squad mate, Private Benny J. Horowitz. We were the best of pals as we fought across the European countryside. I remember those cold nights in the German Forest, as we shared a foxhole, huddled together naked to keep warm. We would share our hopes and dreams, and Horowitz would hold me with his big, rough, hands, and whisper in my ear. I’d feel his warm breath and the prickle of his stubbled chin on my earlobe.

“We’re gonna make it out of here, Bruce,” he said. “Me and you. We’re gonna make it.”

He died in my arms in outside the village of Lagersberg three weeks later. He would never live to return home the states. Our plans to move to Santa Fe and open a small Persian rug shop were dashed on that cold winter day, but his words gave me the strength to survive. Do you think a bunch of sissies would inspire such brotherhood and bravery? I think not.

In closing, I ask you keep these homosexuals out of the Army, and return our armed services to the good old days. Days when men were men and did manly things like shoot guns, mud wrestle, wear women’s clothes and put on Broadway reviews in the mess hall and engage in the long-held and sacred tradition of playing “naked ninja” with the drill sergeants late at night in the barracks.

Sincerely

Bruce Roberts, Patriot.

Marihuana: Buggerer of Youth!

"Either this wallpaper goes or I - excuse me. Either this wallpaper goes or the Irish do." - Finneus A. GarbageDuck, dying words.

Since our great-grandfathers founded this blog way back in 1910, GarbageDuck has been all about reaching out to the youth. We’re also all about the money, but that’s hard to come by in the Internet comedy writing business. My Pap-pap came up with the promotional idea of filming pie fights with X-10 spy cameras which he advertised, but those don’t always translate into banner ad clicks, no matter how many people viewed it at the arcade nickelodeons.

His other scheme to monetize the site was through fat, evil government contracts. His idea was to pen anti-Mexicandrug propaganda and circulate it to the impressionable youth through the malt shops of rural Ohio. Imagine our surprise last week when, due to a booking error, we found out one of his grant applications was approved some 60 years ago. So, in Pap’s beloved memory, we set down the piles of Confederate script he – for a good reason, we’re sure – requested in his application and present:

MARIHUANA: BUGGERER OF YOUTH!

In which our impressionable and virginal narrator Billy meets a slicke, smoothe talking drug dealer and smokes drugges to his ruine.


Haw! Haw! Well golly! I had such a good time reading Shakespeare and blacking out all the unchaste parts that I must be late for dinner! Mom will sure as shooting throw a fit if I miss another one of her famous Milk Toast Jamborees. Maybe that gentleman in the pinstripe suit and greasy mustache can tell me what time it is.

Say, sir? Could you tell me what time – Oh my! You’re that 40-year-old man who’s always throwing parties for teenagers at your apartment downtown. How the heck have you been? Sure, I guess I have a minute or two to chat with you, but I’m mighty thirsty. Where do you want to go?

The malt shop? Soda Pop? Haw! Haw! You know I can’t touch that stuff, Mister.

Hey now! Don’t get snippy just because I can’t poison my body. I know a real thrill when I see one. My friends Skip, Jasper, Mordecai and myself have had our share of heck-raising in this ‘burg. Shucks, I’ll never forget Mordecai’s pantomime of Eleanor Roosevelt trying on blue jeans, clodhoppers and a strap-on. Oh Brother! Those weenie roasts we hosted were something out of Satyricon. Hah! I hope we don’t go to Heck for that one! Anyway, Mother only smacked me across the face with the Bible twice after that and I think that was mostly because I wasn’t home by 7:30.

So I’m up for whatever hijinks you can throw at me, sir. If you want to round up three immigrants from the other side of the tracks, label them 1, 2, and 4 and set them loose inside the next Chamber of Commerce meeting, I’m your guy.

But I can’t do soda pop. Mother told me a story about a kid who drank too much soda – he grew hair all over his hands and turned into a Papist. I’m not about to mess with that stuff! It’s horrible for you. Unhealthy.

What’s that? Sure I’d love a cigarette. Like my Dr. Johnson says, “You have to make sure your T-zone doesn’t turn into a lower-case ‘T’, Billy.” Hah! Great guy, Dr. Johnson. He can trace his lineage back to Cotton Mather.

Well, here we go!

Golly…. Golly this cigarette tastes funny.

Goddamn. Goddamn I’m horny! I could fuck an Encyclopedia Britannica right now I feel so fucking horny. Hey! Hey! I have an idea! Let’s take that nifty Packard you bought with your drug dealing money down to the grade school to find ourselves some strange, eh?

No? What are you? Mormon?! Come on, man, I’m BORED.

Screw this kiddie shit, Mister. I know a guy who can get us some sherm. I feel dangerous! I feel like whistling and making off-color comments at a pregnant lady until she miscarries. You know, ALIVE! Like a… Like a communist!

Saaaaay! That’s an idea! Why don’t I call a bunch of my confused young friends over to your place, throw a bundle of this stuff in a fire and talk politics, huh? Stuff about the divide between the rich and poor, about how private property is a lie, about how church is a lie, about how money and the church and the money you give to the church is a lie. That sort of thing, you know?

Say, I think my buddy Weed Farmer Topher would have a blast with this stuff. He just got a summer internship with the State Department. Let’s call him up and start some shit! Hee! Hee! This is gonna be wild!

H.P. Lovecraft’s Hell-oween Punnies

I am a C! I am a C-H! I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N! And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T and I will L-I-V-E-E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y!

Hello, brothers and sisters! This is your old friend H.P. Lovecraft and have I got some good news for you!

You may remember from the last time we talked that I was going to kill myself because I was prideful and couldn’t stand the crushing poverty and my loveless marriage any longer. Yep, Ol’ H.P. was feeling pretty low back then.

But it was as I was laying on the floor, lolling in opiate ecstasy, that a realization came to me. I knew suicide was not going to save me. Friends, Jesus came to me in that moment and I was saved! Born again! I knew then what was wrong with my life. I had my wife drag me right out of that wine cellar and into the nearest church and I accepted God into my life. I was baptized right there and Rev. Randolph Carter said I was now a heavily armed member in the Army of God.

I survived my suicide attempt! And I’m here today to tell you that the old yarn about the footprints in the sand is true: “When I saw only one set of tentacle tracks, it was then that He carried me.”

I’m much happier today. I’m using my gifts as a writer to spread the message about our church’s love. Rev. Carter even said how impressed he was with the manifesto I carved in the door of the new Muslim community center in town. How about that?

Unfortunately, before I can continue doing the Lord’s work, there’s some business I have to take care of. Namely, my contract with Scholastic publishing that states I need to turn out another book of Halloween jokes.

Now, I want you to know that I don’t believe in Halloween anymore. I plan on spending Trick Or Treat this year handing out free VHS copies of this inspiring little tune. But a deal is a deal, and Rev. Carter said the royalties I make off the book can go to buying that compound in Montana he’s had his eye on.

Here’s just a few of the jokes you can read this fall in “H.P. Lovecraft’s 101 Hell-oween Punnies.”

Q. What do you get when you take the circumference of your jack-o-lantern and divide it by its diameter?

Booyah!

A.“Gods, Jacobson!  Those aren’t mountains at all. It’s a cityscape!” Our plane flew low over the arctic on our mission to witness to the last Un-Christified place on the planet. In the belly of our freight jet, crate after crate of tracts waited, depicting sinners flying from the loving arms of the angels into the pit of fire Jesus prepared for his lousier children. Our plan: dump these over the arctic wilderness and return to the Mississippi Synod for a leisurely afternoon of snake handling.

The expedition to that point had been a success. Jacobson successfully witnessed to several Esqimeaux and I took their head measurements for my seminary senior thesis on phrenology and the holy spirit.

But the dread city (which was probably built by Turks) filled our field of vision. And how can I describe it? It was all wrong! Our laws of geometry apparently did not apply to it’s cyclopean angular madness! Obtuse angles of buildings squatted hideously in ways the human mind could hardly comprehend. Suddenly, we had a feeling that Ezekiel probably had when God (NOT ELDER THINGS!!!!!) took him up into the sky on a chariot of fire and showed him creation. The plane turned this way and that, at one time appearing to be plummeting to the earth, at another flying toward the stars, at still another, time traveling sideways.

With the mad city in our view the physical properties of things changed, with me entering Jacobson’s body and with Jacobson entering mine.

I want to be clear here, we did this merely as a perversion of physics and not as a perversion of the body. Rev . Carter said God has a plan for gays and AIDS is just the beginning.

In our shared horror we prayed to Jesus to save us from the Non-Euclidean Hell that was playing out in front of us. When we looked up again, the dread city was gone. In its place the sun shone beautifully through the clouds. Our Earth’s geometry had returned to its proper place.

“It just goes to prove,” Jacobson said, smiling slightly. “When you give Jesus pumpkins, he makes pumpkin pi.”

Q. Who helps chickens who are possessed by evil spirits?

A. Let me ask you something, friend: If you died today, do you know where you’d go? Would it be to someplace sunny and warm, with everyone you ever loved and every childhood pet you thought you’d never see again waiting to meet you?

Or would it be an infernally hot place where you are penetrated hourly by a cackling Leslie Nielsen with bat wings?

Eggsorcists.

Q. Why did the Demon eat a whole Shoe store?

A. Ragnar, Glutton of the Wastes, laughed horridly to himself on his throne built of skulls, heavy metal CD’s, Magic the Gathering Cards and textbooks from a public school. His six breasts swayed like pock-marked red moons as he gurgled in fell joy from the bounty he just consumed.

He picked his teeth with a lawyer from the ACLU as he ate sole… after sole… after sole…

___________________

Well, I hope you’re satisfied with that, because I have to go now. With my worldly contractual obligations fulfilled I have to go take care of my spiritual contract. You see, there’s an abortionarium that opened in Providence recently, and you-know-who (it’s Jesus) told me a certain doctor there needs to have his baby-killing soul aborted with the Lovecraft-family blunderbuss.

See you on the six o’clock news, everyone.

Happy Halloween.

Lost 1950’s Educational Film: The Bureau of Land Management

Swell Times Films
In Association with OligarCo! Presents


The Bureau Of Land Management: God’s Barren Bounty

“Oh my! Sorry, but I didn’t see you there, children. I’m a Dick In a Tie! I hope you’ve been learning a lot since the last time we talked!

“And I also want to say “Thanks” to all you great kids for filling out your OligarCo Swell Times Birthday Club Cards! All of us here at the ol’ shop are looking forward to celebrating your birthdays this year. And so are our fine pals at your friendly Draft Board, who, we forgot to mention, co-sponsored the Swell Times Birthday Club. Say ‘Hi!’ fellas!”

“See you soon, kids.”

“Anyway! Enough jawing on! It’s time for learning!”

“Siiiiigh….”

“Billy? Is that you, Billy!? Say, Billy, what’s got you down today, huh? Has Jack Kerouac been giving your classmates marihuana cigarettes again? It’s okay, Billy, we can just add that to his special file here…”

“No, it’s not that Mr. Dick, it’s just that – Well, my back yard’s all crumby and I have nowhere to play after school.”

“Well that’s not swell, Billy, but what could be so bad about it? Did your parents park the trailer next to the pet semetery again?!”

“No! Worse! I mean, I live in a pretty bad neighborhood and it’s real dangerous to go outside. Golly! Just look at it!”

“Cripes! Yikes! I like Ikes! Billy! That’s terrible! But I’ll tell you what let’s do: why don’t we let you play in America’s backyard today? Why don’t we visit the Bureau of Land Management!”

“You mean? You mean you’re taking me out to all of that barren wasteland in the desert the government doesn’t know what to do with? where all those missing cartel members were unearthed last year?! Swell!”

“That’s right, Billy! Follow me!” *PWISH!*

“This is it, the moon!”

“That’s no moon, Billy, that’s millions and millions of acres of New Mexico’s own freedom country – BLM Land!

“You see, The Bureau of Land Management, or the BLM, is responsible for taking care of literally MILLIONS of acres of land out west. The socialists back in Washtington, saw fit to give them a budget to do things like ‘patrol’ and make sure it ‘doesn’t catch on fire’ or become ‘infested with mutants’ but the spending on these lands amounts to a pittance, just pennies an acre. Its pitiful budget and its remote, hellish landscape make it the perfect utopia for freedom-loving Americans! And poisonous insects. Lots and lots of poisonous insects…”

“But what would anyone want to *do* out there?”

*Hoonnnk! Hooooonk!*

“What was that?”

“That schoolbus full of white guys? That’s the annual Ayn Rand fanclub outing to BLM land. They’re going  out here to celebrate her body of work by not paying taxes and raping children.”

“Golly! It seems like anything can happen out here!”

“That’s right, Billy, and most of what does go on out here can fill an AM radio conspiracy talk show for the next decade!

“You see, in the 1940s most of the state of New Mexico was like a giant petri dish for the federal goverment. New Mexico was the dumping grounds for all kinds of Cold War weapons programs. What, from nuclear bombs, to wasps that were made out of electricity to a fog that turns people gay – the BLM lands are literally teeming with the horrible failed experimentations of the military industrial complex.”

*clankclankclank*

“What was that?”

“That’s an example of what I was just talking about! Snugglebot! Let’s see what he’s up to.

“Snugglebot, what is your primary directive?”

*TO SNUGGLE!*

“That’s precious!”

“Eh, I wouldn’t get too close there. Snugglebot was actually designed to be airdropped into Russian villages and Snuggle all the children he saw.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Snugglebot, what is your primary subroutine?”

*cancercancercancercancercancercancercancer* Zzzzt!

“Best steer clear of that needle, Billy!”

“Yeesh, that was close!”

“No kidding, Billy! Yep, the government thought Snugglebot was actually a little too grim to unveil during an election year, so they scrapped the program. But thanks to the Bureau of Land Management he has literally the rest of his nuclear-powered battery life to fulfill his secondary directive – picking up all of the rocks on the eastern side of the BLM lands and making them a mirror image of the western side!”

*Clang! Clang! Clang!*

“Mister, Snugglebot’s trying to stick himself with the needle!”

“Let’s move on, Billy! How are you enjoying yourself so far?”

“Why is my hair falling out, Mister?”

“Oh! Psssh! That! I forgot to tell you. The deserts of New Mexico are a literal goldmine for naturally-occurring radioactive alloys! Neat, huh? We’re at the fun part of the trip now, Billy! Here, take, this official OligarCo Swell Times pickaxe and – Oh!- there are your new friends now. Have fun, Billy, I’m going to hop in this Jeep so I can catch my tee time with Richard Nixon and some of his Bohemian Grove buddies. Remember, the last one to mutate wins an official OligarCo model rocket set! Fill up those mine carts, kids! Have fun!”

“Uh. Mister?”

“Hey new kid, want some of my black widow hobo pie?”

“Not really, but I am kinda hungry. Okay.”

“Gimme your shoes.”

*Hoooonnnk! Hoonnnnk!*

“A is A! A is A! Child rape! Child rape!”



The Midnight Society: Minutes of Meeting Number ???

“Where the fuck were you, Betty Ann?”

“Food.”

“Better have been. What’d you bring us… more nutrias?”

“No. Just lichens tonight. I- I’m sorry, Gary.”

“You’re late for story time.”

“I know, Gary. It’s just that- It’s getting darker earlier this time of year and-“

“Yesss?”

“And cub scout troops aren’t coming by as often as they used to.”

“Nevermind. Throw another Webelos kerchief in the fire. I feel a story coming on.”

WHOOOOSH!

“Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story: THE TALE OF THE GO-GURT BRAINED BROAD WHO MADE US ALL STARVE TO DEATH BEFORE NICKELODEON HAD THE CHANCE TO COME BACK AND TAKE US HOME!”

“Don’t talk like that, Gary! Look… I know it’s been six winters now. I know that! But I  just know they’re coming back for us! Any day now, we’ll see those bright orange vans driving through all the miles and miles of the Pine Barrens… They’ll be coming for us, Gary. And there will be Mark Summers, and that rat faced kid from the camp show, and a guy in a foam Stimpy costume. And they’ll tell us, ‘We haven’t forgotten about you, Betty Ann and Gary! Come sleep in here, away from all the raccoons and the ticks!”

“Do you still love me, Betty Ann?”

“Gary, you know I do.”

“You don’t mind that I had that fling with Kiki?”

“Gary, we finished the last of her ages ago.”

“Do you think the cops will suspect anything when they come and find us?”

“What? That Tucker, Kiki and Sam have been replaced with boards of wood with their names written on them in brown crayon? Absolutely not! Oh hey! And speaking of being sneaky, what was that thing you were drawing in your Trapper Keeper earlier?”

“Heh. Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Come on! Show me! I’ll throw another merit badge in with your gruel tonight if you show me!”

“Haha. Okay. Here.”

“Ooh! He’s cute. What’s his name? Um. Cigar Man?”

“No! He’s Heat Man! He can control heat! He’s wearing a special suit that protects his body from reaching a violent equilibrium with the Earth’s atmosphere! Those dots are rivets so his enemies can’t knock it off!”

“Cute!”

“They’re never coming back for us, are they?”

“Stop being such a downer, Gary. Would you feel better if I told a story?”

“No.”

“Come on! Boil up a pine cone and relax for once. Ready? Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story: THE TALE OF THE TIME NO ONE TOOK SARDO’S MAGIC SHOP SERIOUSLY AND HE SOLD A KID SOMETHING THAT ENDED UP KILLING THEM!”

“What kind of thing? Cursed comic book? Wind up teeth? Entropy cube?”

“Um. Entropy cube.”

“Heard it.”

“Would you like to tell one?”

“Absolutely. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society…..

….. “And as I looked into the thing’s bloated, hamburger-like face hovering inches over my baby brother, I wondered ‘What if dying made you go insane?’ Insane enough to sneak into a crib every night, to a boy too young to talk, whose screams will never be understood as ‘Man! Man in my room!?’ So insane that your crackling face twists in something like glee as the boy starts to scream and you bite down and bite down and bite down and bite…”

“I think that’s enough story time for tonight, Gary.”

“Are you sure!? I-I have others! I thought of one about a kid who gets taken away by special garbage men his parents called or or! this other awesome one about a funeral portrait that whispers ‘Help me. I’m in Hell…‘ whenever the lights are turned off!”

“I have an idea, Gary.”

“What’s that?”

“Truth or Dare?”

“Um. Truth?”

“Isn’t it true that you threw a little diva fit when you heard the show was getting canceled?”

“I uh.”

“Or that you went all Lord of the Flies on the production company, stranding us all out here until necessity made us do unspeakable things to one another? To Frank? To Kiki? TO ME?!

“No, Betty Ann! No! That’s not true!”

“And that you’re sitting by yourself right now, in a scout kerchief loincloth babbling to yourself ….”

“No!”

“You don’t even have a fucking campfire anymore! You’re using one of those peripherals they sell to light up your Game Boy in the dark!”

“You lie! I’m the leader of this club and I’ve had…”

“Truth or Dare, Gary.”

“… dare…”

“Cut your tongue out.”

“W-what?”

“Cut. Your. Tongue! Out!”

“I’m so sorry, Betty Ann. I’m sorry for everything… Betty Ann, do you still love me?”

“Gary, you know I do…

“Now cut your tongue out.”

“I. I- AH! – I love you, Betty Araraaaghhhnnnnnn….”